...And I Feel Awful - A Tribute To R.E.M

I'm not lacking in perspective. I appreciate that there are much worse things going on in the world right now. But do you know why I listen to music? For the same reason as I read books or watch films and plays and television. I'm of the C.S. Lewis persuasion: It makes me feel less alone.
   
Yes, like everyone for whom music plays a greater role than merely being part of a lifestyle, music for me is often a coping mechanism. When times are hard (and times are often hard), music makes me feel as though life's worth living.

And, as is the case for all obsessives who harbour a desperate love for music, inevitably there will be groups and artists upon whom I feel I can depend. They'll always be there for me, and they'll always make me feel better.

In short, in losing R.E.M, it's no exaggeration to say that I've now one less reason to be happy; one less reason to get out of bed in the morning.

But how can they be dead when we still have the music? Yeah yeah. Their discography has the potential to keep me occupied to the grave. But there's a real sense of knowing here, and that knowing is crushing. It's the knowing that never again will there be the anticipation and thrill of the new. The knowing that never again will there ever be any opportunity to see them live – to actually share physical space with them – to see them play those treasured songs right there, no more than a hundred metres before me.

The worst thing, though, is that we're now living in the time where cynicism and cowardly anonymity reigns. So far, absolutely every bit of coverage that this devastating news has received has done nothing to satisfy my grief.

And yes, it is grief. How can the sudden loss of something which means so much to you – something on which you thought you would always be able to rely – ever inspire anything other than grief?

But no. Even those that purport to care have been almost gleefully damning. It seems that, some years ago, notes were circulated amongst those who I hate so, so much to the tune that R.E.M just aren't worth caring about. They no longer contribute anything of relevance and anybody who professes a love is just deluded. Obviously. So, clearly it's about time that they split. We're better off without them.

Like hell we are, and like hell did that master baiter mean no malice.

How anybody can speak of a stretch of albums as R.E.M's post 1995 work in anything but glowing terms is beyond me. Just from the very top of my head, on those albums can be found The WakeUp Bomb; Leave; Be Mine; So Fast So Numb; Electrolite; Hope; Walk Unafraid; Airport Man; At My Most Beautiful; All The Way To Reno; Imitation of Life; I'll Take The Rain; Leaving New York; The Final Straw; Electron Blue; Man-Sized Wreath; Supernatural Superserious; Mr. Richards; I'm Gonna DJ; Discoverer; Mine Smell Like Honey -

I could go on. But my point is that there is a body of work which will (I use the modal verb with no hesitancy here) – WILL stand the test of time. As far as I'm concerned, Luke Lewis hasn't heard any of those post-95 albums and is, instead, subscribing to the easiest and laziest course of action – that is, agreeing with the consensus.

Worse, though was Everett True of The Collapse Board. Everett didn't care. You'd think, though, that if he truly didn't care that the worst thing he could do would be nothing. What could be worse, indeed, than saying nothing at all in the face of the disbanding of one of the most beloved and influential groups to ever have existed? The silence would have been deafening in its damnation.

But no. Everett wanted us to know just how much he didn't care. We were to hoist him aloft in praise of his right-on apathy. We were to worship his irreverence. And, in the process, old Everett came across as every bit as narrow-minded and obnoxious as one of those tadpoles who rushes to the comment section of an online obituary only to type “who?” The world must be aware of the extent to which you don't care.

Drowned In Sound almost got it right. It's a shame that their tribute revolved around the same tired old conceit that they've done nothing of value since 1995. But nothing could compare to the pathetic sneering cynicism which hung around the message boards like a bad smell. There I was called a “massive gaylord” for daring to care about something. Yes, I can see the funny side. But forgive me for not wanting to spend a second longer in a world which pours scorn upon those who care.



I couldn't bring myself to read "The Quietus Verdict". I'm sure it was very droll and knowing and superior, though.

No, this is a tribute from somebody who sees no need to put a spin or a position on his assessment. My love of R.E.M knows no bounds. It has no caveat. When I say that I love R.E.M, I am not referring to a specific era with a few exceptions. No. Without a single exception, I love everything they ever released.

Yes. I really like Around The Sun.

I'd wax lyrical about their incredible early-run of albums had they not been praised to high-heaven already. Similarly, I'd give their vastly underrated later albums some much needed love were it not to imply that I somehow favour their later years.

Instead, then, I want to talk about how much I love Collapse Into Now.

See, up until yesterday I saw this album as merely a further entry into an already impeccable body of work. Now, though, all have been forced to view it in a completely different light. Now it's to be forever viewed as their swan song.

That's why this really hurts, you know. I never thought there'd be a time without R.E.M. I thought they'd always be there. Now, though, I'm clutching onto Collapse Into Now like the last gift left by a loved-one.

Imagine if a loved-one were to die moments after handing you a box of matches. You'd treasure this box of matches for the rest of your life. It would languish in a locked box safe and untouched. You might take it out from time to time and smile benignly at the memories it evokes, but it wouldn't necessarily be part of your life.

Imagine, though, if the parting gift from the loved one is an intricate painting which, when hung on your wall, serves to really bring the room together. Generally, you're simply glad that it's there. But to just glance at it is to remind you of the person who is now, sadly, no longer with you. A glance is all that's needed to make you feel better.

But if you're to get up close and study the intricacies of this painting, something occurs to you: This is a very good painting. You could stare at it for hours. You could live in this painting.

Then, six months later, you realise something: You'd love this painting removed from context. You wouldn't hesitate to hang it on your wall even if it didn't have the emotional attachment to a departed friend.

That's exactly how I've come to feel about Collapse Into Now over the past day or so. I've liked the album ever since I first heard it. Now, though, it's become that parting gift. But, like the proverbial painting, I know for a fact that I'd treasure it as part of my life even if it wasn't so representative of something terrible. Hell, I'd treasure it even if it was the debut album of someone yet to change the world.

Essentially, what may have been an also-ran in my list of albums which have shaped my year is now a very strong contender for the number one spot.

Back in spring when I allowed for those wonderful, wonderful songs to soundtrack my walks to and from work, I had no idea just how much those tunes would come to mean to me. They're all testaments to the incredible power that loud, crunching guitar chords can have upon shaping my mood. They're all loaded with such melodies that have the same impact upon me as does the sun slowly emerging from behind a grey, heavy cloud. They are nothing short of the sound of happiness.

And, being R.E.M songs, they're also heavy with some of the most fantastic wordplay this side of anywhere. It will always be a rewarding task to explore these lyrical landscapes, but for now they all serve to put a hand on my shoulder and, with a smile, whisper four words:

“Goodbye. It's been fun.”

How fitting do those triumphant closing moments sound now.

I still don't like the cover, though.

I Really Wish E4 Hadn't Cancelled Friends

I thought it would never happen. E4 have stopped showing Friends.

Big deal? Absolutely. It's such a big deal that I was moved to revisit a piece I wrote in about 2006 in which I argued that reliable TV programming provides an excellent means of building a routine. And routines for some form an invaluable part of their sanity.

I called it "Television CAN Save The World! (or at least your sanity)", and I'm struck by how prescient and darkly prophetic it seems. I am now unemployed and deeply, deeply unhappy. I could really do with something like a daily fix of Friends. It would give me something to hold onto.

So, without further ado, here's some vintage me from 2006. Marvel at my use of ellipsis (which I would never use now), my reference to Mew and my invocation of knowledge gained during my "Introduction to Moral Philosophy" course:

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Every day at 17.00 (and again at 20.00) E4 broadcasts a double bill of Friends. You could quite literally set your watch to it: “And at the end of the Appletizer Diamond Promotion advert the time will be 17.00 exact. (Beep, beep, beep)”.  In many ways this marathon of mild, inoffensive comedy from across the pond is the highlight of my day. It’s pure escapism. When Friends is on, life doesn’t bother me at all. It’s not like I can relate to the lives of these rich, young, ridiculously attractive and appallingly shallow New Yorkers; far from it. But for an hour a day I can escape into a world where everything’s ok. Where conflicts are resolved in the space of a half hour cup of coffee, where people pause having spoken to allow for an invisible studio audience to laugh themselves into oblivion.

I’m not for one second claiming that Friends is an example of quality television. It frequently induces cringing. I find myself muting the TV when it’s likely that the audience will scream. A very reliable “heads-up” is when anyone kisses. Out-loud laughter’s infrequent, and many jokes miss the mark completely. And yet…I’m completely addicted. I find myself having withdrawal symptoms if I go without my daily fix.

And I’m sure that it’s exactly the same for many people. In a very post-modern move E4 have started to cringe at their own routine predictability: “Coming up next: More Friends (sigh)”. But they know for a fact that there’d be a right ruckus if they ever dared to change their scheduling. It’s the same with the daily 18.00 showing of The Simpsons, or the soaps that are on at exactly the same time every single night and subsequently repeated in a 2.5 hour endurance tests at the weekend. People have come to rely upon this schedule. It really is nice to know that at a set point every day you’ll have something decent to watch. It gives you something to look forward to. Case in point: Look how many people suddenly feel strangely empty when a series of Big Brother ends. That’s why we’re plagued with so many spin-off shows.

Any freshers who suddenly find themselves hundreds of miles away from home in a strange city surrounded by “frengers” (not quite friends, not quite strangers) can find solace in this sort of television. Once one has a routine it’s far easier for one to settle in. And before you know it, you’re enjoying yourself. I’m a second year now, and it’s fair to say that I’ve only just settled in. It took twelve months. However, I’m confident that had I access to a television set in my first year the process of settling in would only have taken…a week or two. No matter how adamantly we may try to deny it, as humans we are creatures of routine. Imagine a life without routine. You’d go insane very quickly. Aristotle knew it. He said that the virtuous life is filled with “worthwhile activity”. That might as well be a byword for “routine”. Look how bored and depressed the unemployed get. We NEED routine.

I’m all for daring and experimental television. But people should stop complaining about endless repeats. Some of us need those. Like the ozone layer and love, you’d only miss them when they’re gone.

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And oh, lord knows how I miss them.

An Afternoon At The BFI Mediateque

With three and a half hours to kill between job interviews, I spent a very enjoyable afternoon delving into the BFI Mediateque at the Derby Quad.

If you ply them with a proof of address, they'll give you a special card which will allow for you to watch as many films as you want for as long as you want. Suddenly, the yawning stretch of time between my appointments didn't seem so tedious. Within moments, I had a world of wonder at my fingertips – and in three hours I barely scratched the surface.

It should be noted, incidentally, that nine of the ten films I watched contribute towards my 2011 Film Challenge target.

I started with a couple of music videos. First came a TV promo by Screaming Lord Sutch for Jack The Ripper. As staunch, static and gaudy as any studio-bound performance of the early-60s, a succession of vaguely-Victorian ladies were mercilessly slaughtered in as camp and tasteless a manner as was possible in the stoic and tasteful wasteland that was television back then.

Next came an attempt to simulate the effects of psychedelic drugs without the use of psychedelic drugs. Called Beyond Image, it was essentially a colourful kaleidoscopic oil-lantern display set to the droning bleeps and repetitive bass jams of The Soft Machine. Watching it on headphones and staring fixedly at the screen, I really did feel something approaching transcendence as my thought patterns achieved synchronism with the mercurial colours.

 

After this I dipped into their animation archives, in which I could honestly have wallowed for hours. I begun with a cheerful piece called A Short Vision. Comprised mainly of still images with such animation as resembled the movements of puppets cut from paper, it told a story of nuclear apocalypse. Apparently shown on a prime-time slot in America, the footage of a man's eyeballs popping and melting down his face were seemingly enough to inspire the formation of the CND.
 

Run Wrake's Rabbit I had seen before, but I jumped upon the chance to see it again. Set in a storybook world part Ladybird, part Enid Blyton (everything has a label), it tells the story of two children who find an idol when they cut a rabbit in half with the intention of making a muff. The idol loves plum jam but hates wasps and flies. These pests he zaps with lightning bolts from his fingers and, once zapped, they become jewels and, of course, feathers and jars of ink. Though surreal in the purest sense of the word, this highly disturbing piece also harboured a very important message and a truly horrifying ending.
 

Then came something which I've wanted to see for ages: The Quay Brothers' Street of Crocodiles which, apart from anything else, served to reassure me that I'm not yet fully desensitised and that, when exposed to certain concepts and imagery, I'm still very much capable of finding myself unnerved. Many such images could be found here: the fading glow of a dying lightbulb-headed man; a museum of bizarre anthropomorphic machinery banging on the glass for mercy; a female-torso fondling its own breasts; living screws dancing to their own beat and, worst of all, a makeover from three utterly freaky eyeless dolls which began with the removal of the head. It wasn't so much the images themselves that freaked me out as the inescapable feeling of familiarity: I've had this exact nightmare before, I just know it.

Fancying something lighter, I opted for an experimental piece from 1955 entitled 13 Cantos From Hell. Subtitled as “thirteen dramatised scenes from Dante's Divine Comedy”, this was the work of sculptor Peter King, who tragically died in a motorcycle accident two years after the film's release. It's comprised exclusively of stark black on white images which owe a lot to elaborate and distorted tribal patterns and the elegant work of shadow puppetry. The images themselves were striking enough, but the real pleasure here was in the remarkable soundtrack. A succession of rhythmic tribal percussion, otherworldly wailing and strange electronic beeps; a lot of the time it reminded me of the creepier and more discordant moments from the Liars' discography. I'm almost certain that they must have watched this one at some point, scribbling furious notes as they did so.

Though by no means tiring of animation, I wanted something a little different next. I opted for a trio of films from the first decade of the twentieth century. The earliest, entitled Undressing Extraordinary (1901), reminded me of those Daffy Duck cartoons in which he's tormented by the sadistic pencil of the animator. A tired traveller attempted to undress for bed, but upon removing one item of clothing another would appear. Hilariously, the traveller began, seemingly without realising, to step into the character of these costumes: He became regal when dressed as a king, stately when dressed as a policeman etc. Eventually he succeeded in stripping but was foiled in going to bed by the sudden appearance of a skeleton. Then the skeleton disappeared. Then it began to snow. Though ostensibly a comedy, apparently contemporary audiences found the concept of the most basic and everyday of tasks being rendered impossible by supernatural forces uncomfortable and disquieting. Undressing Extraordinary, then, is recognised by some as a very early horror film.

I stuck with the horror theme for the remainder of the afternoon. Dreams of Toyland (1908) was probably intended to be charming, enthralling and comedic. However, I found the dreamscape of ultraviolent toys to be nothing short of diabolical. They begun by waving at the camera, but in no time at all they were indulging in such practices that might make even Itchy and Scratchy wince: A wild goose gnawed ravenously on the face of a doll. A lady was tossed, face first, into the deep fat fryer of a passing hot-dog cart. A London bus, driven by an insane monkey, appeared to take great delight in ploughing over all who stood in its way. That this was supposed to be a comedy should give food for thought for those who think that gratuitous violence is a relatively new phenomenon in cinema.

The Man & His Bottle (1908), though, I don't think was ever intended to be taken lightly. A man, either hungover or attempting to kick his alcoholism, found himself tormented by apparitions of devils, white rats and legions of floating bottles. One bottle sprouted arms and legs and began to follow him down the street. His nightmare ended in a beer cellar, where he was at first attacked by strange octopus-like creatures. Then a trio of clowns appeared with “DT” written on their costumes (delirium tremens?) Taking a limb each, they stretched him until he resembled a gaunt rag-doll before stuffing him into a giant bottle and leaving him to die a painfully and ironic death.

In each of these three silent films, equally – if not more so – fascinating than the storylines were the faces staring suspiciously from windows at the camera. It's a feature of a lot of early cinema and photography. The camera must have been a source of marvel and wariness for these people. Scholars could interpret their looks as the past confronting the future. Personally, I'm always reminded of the ghostly faces glimpsed in the back of hearses – late for their own funeral.

Jumping forward some seven decades, my curiosity was piqued by a piece entitled The Universe of Dermot Finn, which I've only just discovered to have been directed by the increasingly-fascinating Philip Ridley. As the brief synopsis insisted, the less you know about this film before watching it, the more you'll enjoy it. I couldn't agree more, and that no images of it seem to exist online may hint at the existence of a sort of clandestine effort to preserve its mystery and wonder for the uninitiated. Suffice to say that it's one of the most successful blends of comedy and horror I've ever seen and that it rivals even David Lynch's Eraserhead in conjuring such images and concepts that will stick with you for life. It's a very British spin on a certain nightmarish scenario, and I would not hesitate to describe it as utterly unmissable.

Saving the longest (if not the best) for last, my afternoon was brought to a close when I finally got a chance to watch the original 1968 Omnibus version of Whistle & I'll Come To You. For my full thoughts on this one, why not head over to Found 0bjects?

I cannot recommend the BFI Mediateque enough. There really is something for everyone. I think my tastes can be roundly surmised as being “acquired”, but even I found enough to keep me enthralled for an entire afternoon, and I just know I'll be making a return visit before long.

It's free to join and, having joined, free to use. It's worth an afternoon of anyone's time. In fact, it's so good, that even if you don't live near I'd advise you to make a pilgrimage. You won't regret it for a moment.

ATP Don't Look Back - The Flaming Lips, Dinosaur Jr, Deerhoof

 Photos once again pilfered from James Wilkes's Facebook

This was the very first time I ever wore the t-shirt of the band I was due to see that night. Ho yes: For one night only, I was that guy.

This was also the very first time I'd attended a gig in London that wasn't some kind of festival. In addition, it was my first ever ATP event. The moment we entered Alexandra Palace, I understood just why their events are so revered: It's the attention to detail. It was clear right from the start that this was a night put on by music lovers with the express intention of satisfying the needs of those for whom music is a way of life.

The covers of the three albums that were to be played that night hung above the entrance like tribal banners. Giant versions stood before tall sparkling curtains by which you could have your picture taken. You could get yourself a massage, browse archival reviews and shop at the pop-up Rough Trade outlet. There were circles of chairs with attached headphones through which you could listen to what appeared to be albums considered canonical by the ATP elite: Fun House, If You're Feeling Sinister, Ladies & Gentlemen We're Floating In Space – right from the outset efforts had been made to make an event out of the gig.

Giant balloons had been suspended from the ceiling of the grand hall that was the performance space. Some were within our reach, so no sooner had the crowd gathered than a game began in which attempts were made to knock the smaller balloons into the larger ones. The effect was that a gentle multicoloured bobbing swam before the stage throughout the night – all performances were therefore as technicolour and fun as that of the headliners -  it felt like a birthday party or some other celebration of goodwill. I suppose that was the point all along.

First up were Deerhoof, who were to play Milk Man, their 2004 concept album about some kind of malevolent psychedelic pied-piper type, in its entirety. They didn't quite achieve this. I can't remember them playing New Sneakers, and they bookended their set with a song which appears midway through the album's running order. The opening version of Milking was weak, anaemic and nervous – an immense disappointment which didn't bode well for the rest of the set. Things improved very rapidly, though, with a stunning triple barrage of Milk Man, Giga Dance and Desaparecere. But they really hit their stride with a demented run-through Rainbow Silhouette of the Milky Rain. It was every bit as mind-expanding as its title would have you believe and it teetered on a thrilling knife-edge between mathematical precision and absolute insanity. The second time they played Milking they recruited Cliff, the Flaming Lips' drummer. This allowed for a dual guitar line-up, so they were finally able to capture the demented chaos that I had come to expect. All was well.

A weapons-grade stack of Marshal amps heralded the arrival of Dinosaur Jr. They were here to play 1988's Bug, which meant that for what must have been the first time in a couple of decades they opened their set with Freak Scene. J Mascis would have been very well served by an electric fan at head height – he would have looked immortal were his flowing silver locks to billow as he shredded through his searing force-ten solos. So densely layered is their sound on record that I was afraid that they'd sound comparatively hollow live. Not so – their sound was a constant deliciously brutal sludge over which the sweetest and most laconic of vocals fluttered completely at-odds with the violence they were underpinning. They exuded a particular force during Yeah We Know – the thunderous THUMP which cleared the air before each refrain was heart-stopping. Finally, despite promising to destroy his voice for us, Lou Barlow's vocals on Don't had more of an Ozzy Osbourne wail about them than the hardcore roars we might have expected. I think the song was much better served by this style, though. It sounded like something of a yawning abyss of pain – utterly cathartic.

Some ten minutes or so before The Flaming Lips were due to take to the stage, Wayne Coyne addressed us directly. Prior to this, he had hardly been aloof. He had assisted in setting-up his band's equipment and could clearly be seen enjoying the two previous bands from the side of the stage. He warned those in the front row about the intensity of their strobes and spoke about what it meant to him to sing The Soft Bulletin in its entirety. He said that to play it in sequence is to make a suite out of it which, he said, really served to bring to light some of the concepts and thoughts inherent in the songs. He admitted that he sometimes felt overpowered by this, and begged our forgiveness should he falter.

There are some bands who thrive on mystique. Few would dare reveal themselves so starkly with the house-lights up. Wayne Coyne, though, seems to know that his music is powerful enough to speak for itself. It could survive without its accompanying smoke and mirrors, and his rambling monologues and interactions merely add further humanity to what is already the most human of music. I know some who are annoyed by what they call his “sermons”, but for me it just turns him into a sort of psychedelic Springsteen – a favourite uncle who's been round the block, has all the answers and knows loads of magic tricks.

He came amongst us in his space bubble – even though I was stood just in front of the mixing desk, he came even closer to me than he did even at Glastonbury 2010 where I was stood right at the front. As usual, I found it impossible not to grin on the verge of ecstatic tears as the confetti cannons exploded upon the first note of Race For The Prize. Then came A Spoonful Weighs A Ton, which was performed to a backdrop of Teletubbies, a show which looks more like a disturbing Japanese “found-object” with every passing year. The last line of this song is “The sound they made was love”, after which we were encouraged to emit a primal orgasmic roar. I think we failed in this, with maestro Steve Drozd remarking that ours sounded like the sort of orgasm you have when you don't want anybody to know you've had an orgasm.

The good thing about watching bands play albums in sequence is that by-and-large you can be sure that certain of your favourites will be played. It was marvellous seeing Spiritualized perform Ladies & Gentlemen... as I knew they'd play I Think I'm In Love. Similarly, part of my almost unbearable joy on Friday night lie in knowing that The Flaming Lips would play The Spark That Bled. It didn't disappoint. In fact, it exceeded all expectations – the moment they launched into the orchestral breakdown – here replicated on guitars – I found the emotions that welled up inside almost too much to bear. I really did want to stand up and say “Yeah” - or something similar – just anything to release the spiralling hyper real intensity that they were kindling within. They finished their song with their famous “Laser Hands” routine – in which Wayne Coyne shot multicoloured rainbows at a glitter ball above – which served to turn the whole room into a transcendental kaleidoscope. To put it simply, it was “a moment”.

One of the many remarkable things about The Soft Bulletin is the fact that at least two versions exist and neither seems to be thought of as canonical. The American release has a different running order to that of Europe, which means that when they play the album here, we get a different setlist to the American shows. Across the Atlantic, The Spark That Bled is followed by The Spiderbite Song and Buggin'. I envy the Americans on Buggin', but through owning a European version of the album I've never really been familiar with The Spiderbite Song. And, besides, we got an airy, shimmering piano version of Slow Motion. Apparently only the second time they've ever played it, we were warned that here more than anywhere they were likely to falter. But they didn't – it was beautiful.

Then things went wonderfully Pink Floyd as the lights went low and the lasers were released for the pulsating combo of What Is That Light? and The Observer. Easily the most atmospheric section of the night, I was nonetheless impatient for what I knew was coming next – what must be one of the saddest songs ever written, Waitin' For A Superman was performed in a stripped-down fashion with just Steven on the piano. Wayne worked his way around some of the lyrics in quite a jazzy fashion, but the overall effect was as devastating as a song can possibly be when shorn of its chiming tubular bells.

Due to a combination of a passed-out girl needing rescuing and, I fear, Wayne's sermonising, the set felt somewhat truncated. We did get the entirety of the European release of The Soft Bulletin, and it was magnificent. To no avail I hoped for Buggin', but so magnificent was the grandeur of that which they did play – so human and intense the themes and feelings evoked – that it would be churlish to complain. The American's got a longer encore, but Do You Realize?? is such a beautiful,  life-affirming song that, again, in the face of it I feel it's impossible to criticise. That song radiates such all-encompassing truth that I'd happily have it played at both my wedding and my funeral.

On the way out I was harangued by a journalist type who informed me that he hadn't enjoyed the gig and had therefore left early. This he proclaimed with a shrug before shoving a camera in my face and asking that I give my thoughts. For many reasons, by that point I was reeling, so in retrospect my diatribe was probably every bit as shaky, disjointed and rambling as one of Wayne Coyne's.

His happiness, optimism and apparently undying faith in humanity, then, is seemingly infectious. He's absolutely right when he insists that “rock and roll can save the world, if you're nice to people”.

Said journalist had commented upon how he simply felt that “something was missing”.

Well, if ever anything was missing from my life, I feel that I owe a large portion of my salvation to The Flaming Lips.

10 Things I Learned At Glastonbury 2011

Photos are by James Wilkes and are stolen from his Facebook.

I recently swore a solemn oath to attend Glastonbury every year it takes place for either as long as I live, or, at the very least, as long as it's sensible for me to do so. They've got that place nailed. Once again, each of the five days sowed at least one memory which will be treasured for life. In fact, I had such a wonderful time that I've even begun to consider 2011's to be a new benchmark in life-affirmation. Ho yes: I might just have enjoyed myself more than I did in 2009.

I would hammer out a painstaking dissection of my entire weekend, but for a few reasons. First of all, nobody would read it. Second of all, so prone am I to hyperbole and hagiography that those who did read it might mistake my ramblings for Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Mostly, though, it was always going to be the case that I'd finally “get” U2, that Coldplay would spellbind and that Elbow would, once again, make me feel like I'm floating several feet above my body.

Instead, then, in a rare moment of brevity on my part, I'm going to share the ten things I learned at Glastonbury 2011:

1. I Really Like Rock Music

Yes, this was always the case, I know. I couldn't help but notice, though, how all but two or three of the acts I saw over the weekend comprised of either gently strumming ethereal wonders or furiously punishing squalling warriors of such vigour that they'd be just in describing their instruments as “axes”. And you know what? It was bloody flipping brilliant. Yes, there will always be tremendous room for excursions into electronic sound as conducted with furrowed brows and stroked beards, but this weekend I learned that my “bread and butter” is served with a hefty slice of pickups and plectrums. Which reminds me -

2. Josh Homme Is A Really Nice Man

Yes, so enamoured was I by the majesty of rock that I caved and decided to let my weekend go out with a bang. The laser-enhanced Queens Of The Stone Age were a force of nature. So intense, intricate and brutal were their jams that the plaid-wearer in me was never not going to be thrilled, but having heard so much bad about the walking sneer that is Josh Homme, I was stunned to find him to actually be a really, really nice man. He seemed genuinely pleased to be onstage and absolutely delighted to play for us. His jokes were lewd but often swung endearing close to “dad” territory (“I saw a couple of guys dressed as fuckin' bananas. I guess they split”). I fully believed his statement that they'd never forget that night, and they more than delivered on their promise to give us a show that we'd never forget.

3. Mr. E Knows Exactly What He's Doing

In Sunday's blistering heat, a spin through their painfully aching back catalogue might not have provided a convincing case for Eels to be the ideal band to play at sunset. But when they took to the stage with a pair of uniformed horn players in tow and proceeded to treat us to nuanced arrangements of the more upbeat offerings from their canon, suddenly the planets aligned. The usually claustrophobic, terrifying Flyswatter was given such a summery revamp that the uninitiated might have mistaken it for a song about fishing during a carnival, or something. The Man Called E also confirmed himself to be one of the strangest and funniest men in rock. Such screams as “You have a nice smile!” came between songs, and his band introductions were utterly hysterical.

4. I Know What Bliss Looks And Tastes Like

It looks like a panoramic view of a sunkissed valley teaming with people dedicated to having the best time it is possible to have whilst inhabiting human skin set to the gently lilting sounds of Sea of Bees. It tastes like chargrilled Jamaican jerk chicken served with fried rice and kidney beans washed down with a cold beer. Bliss is also best spent in the company of people who you'd proudly profess to “bloody love”. Which it was. All weekend.

5. If You Want To Have Fun, It's Impossible Not To

Never mind the biblical downpours which greeted our arrival on Wednesday morning which ensured that we had to hastily erect our tents in freezing torrents and sit shivering in them for hours afterwards whilst we waited for the sky to clear, our clothes to dry and our fatigue to lift. By mid-afternoon we were sprawled on the grass drinking festival-strength pear-cider. We had arrived. And never mind that it took me some 11.5 hours to get home. What matters is that I was there. Glastonbury has tremendous potential to make you smile even when it seems that absolutely everything is conspiring against you. Case in point – our Welsh companion had some £150 stolen from his tent. He simply thus concluded that he therefore had to have an extra £150 worth of fun. Would that he and I and everyone could take the same approach to the rest of our lives.

6. Festivals Can Be Very, Very Cheap

I'm quite poor at the moment, but at no point did I feel destitute over the weekend. At no point did I feel as though my insolvency was having a negative impact upon my potential to enjoy myself. In fact, I managed to survive on around £100 for the entire five day weekend. The trick is to take lots of apples, bananas and cereal bars, to drink milk in the morning and to only eat when you feel hungry (as opposed to “whenever you pass a food vendor with a nice smile”, as has been my M.O in previous years). Also, the almost-intolerable hangover I suffered on Thursday morning served to scupper my alcohol intake for the rest of the weekend, which was a further ease on my spending. This also lead to the realisation that:

7. I Don't Have To Be Drunk Or Drinking To Enjoy Myself

See above. Though this one comes as an almighty relief, I'd quite like a glass of whatever Guy Garvey's having, thanks.

8. TV On The Radio Are To Be Respected And Feared
Paul Simon was a horrible disappointment. Stood in an immobile crowd in the baking heat (they weren't even rudely talking amongst themselves! They just were), we strained to hear him mumble his way through apparently endless meandering blues jams as opposed to dipping into one of the strongest repertoires in music. Also, so hasty were we to reach him that I fell face-first into the mud. Disappointed and alienated, we instead decided to watch TV On The Radio – a band I'd previously not really listened to and therefore had no real intention of watching. Well, their set was one of those incredible “revelation” things for which us music fans always yearn. The opening swathes of Young Liars provided every ounce of salvation I had expected from Mr. Simon. Before long, everything was OK again, and by the end of their uplifting, hyperkinetic and utterly vital set, they were covering Ray Parker Jnr.'s Ghostbusters. I left with a “new” band to “check out”. There are few greater feelings.

9. The King Of Limbs Was Written To Be Played Live

Due to severe problems with the crowd, Radiohead's surprise Friday set was far from a weekend highlight for me. I must stress, though, that my disappointment has absolutely nothing to do with the band. They offered tight, mercurial, majestic elegance which served to remind me as to why I still insist that they're my favourite band. It was an immense honour to find myself prithee to the live debuts of such songs which were, apparently, so difficult to replicate live that they had to recruit an auxiliary drummer. His name's Clive, and Thom was right, we love him already. When I wasn't struggling to see and hear them amongst a desperately impatient crowd, I was able to marvel at how incredible has been their evolution from grunge also-rans through Britpop saviours and world-conquering, genre-defying and defining luminaries to the taut and groovy peerless jazz-blues elder-statesmen that they've become today. The material from The King of Limbs which so dominated the set sounds awesome live – and any “reporter” who insists that the crowd was disappointed by the lack of “hits” is obviously spouting piffle in the interests of pursuing tired and tedious iconoclastic copy – from where I was standing, they were loving it.

10. The Realisation That There Will Be No Glastonbury Next Year Is Rather Like Realising That There'll Be No Christmas

Wes Anderson's Rushmore teaches us that the secret to happiness may lie in finding something that we enjoy doing and to keep on doing it. Well, for me that seems to be going to Glastonbury. It's utopia, nirvana, Brigadoon and Christmas all rolled into one. And it's not taking place next year.

Which makes me wonder: Just what the hell are we all going to do with ourselves next summer? Just like Halloween wouldn't act as a substitute for Christmas, I doubt that simply opting for a different festival would be enough to sate me.

It might well be the case that we'll just have to unite and try our utmost to create our own positivity.

And there you go – a beautiful lesson for life – make your own wonder. We can change the world and happiness is possible – just so long as we're nice to each other.

Until 2013, then.

London Feis 2011 - Satuday June 18

 Image from NME.com

I think that getting up at 5:30 to catch a 6:10 train in order to make my 7:00 coach is the second biggest effort I've ever made for the sake of live music. The coach was run by a company called “The Big Green Coach Company”. It was actually a milky white colour, but credit where it's due, it was quite big. It was full of families and people younger than me. I was the only one travelling alone, a fact our friendly driver brought to everyone's attention before we set off. Whether he was encouraging the other travellers to talk to me, I don't know. But they didn't. Heaven knows I tried talking to them. We stopped at Watford Gap and I bought a coffee. Recognising someone else from the coach in the queue, with a smile I raised my cup and said in a semi-suggestive voice: “One more cup of coffee before I go, hey?” The look I received was blank.
    When we got to Finsbury Park, I experienced the closest I'll ever come to VIP treatment. I paid but £5.40 for my ticket thanks to the beautiful people at Supajam, who were selling spare guestlist passes. Trudging across the mud I waved to the bearded fellow who was shouting “Supajam” again and again. He directed me towards a special gate where I was allowed entry without hassle, completely bypassing the long queue of those who'd paid £70 or so for the pleasure of being there. I felt as important as it's possible to feel whilst wearing a rust-coloured jumper.
    Walking around the site, I couldn't wipe the grin from my face – festival season has begun! And it felt incredible. Adding to my feeling of well-being was the knowledge that I was, at that moment, sharing a vicinity of sorts with Bob Dylan. That's the sort of fact which bears thinking about: It feels amazing.
    There were three stages on-site. Besides the main, there was an almighty tent reserved for the more trad-types on the line-up. Then there was the “Third Stage”, really just a raised platform under a tarpaulin. Their compère was reciting a verse from an epic concerning lemmings between each band. I listened to the prologue before watching Brian Kennedy do his thing in the tent. That man had credentials, and he was more than happy to tell us about the time he played with Van Morrison, the song he wrote with Eddi Reader (who, up until that very moment, I had assumed to be the singer from Pearl Jam). He was pleasant enough, but soon the drums from the main-stage began to drown-out his lilting. It was a band called The Coronas, who sounded about good enough to have supported Razorlight circa 2002. A few songs were sung in Gaelic, which was something, but not a lot. Still, it was my first instance of live and loud outdoor guitar music of the year, and it induced a hankering for cider to which I was more than happy to succumb.
    Presently Dan arrived, and scrutinising the line-up we worked out an itinerary of who to see. In doing so, we realised that we really were going to have a lovely day, and didn't we just?
    The first band we saw together were The Undertones, who proclaimed their intentions to play their first album in its entirety. This they did, but not in sequence – Teenage Kicks came towards the end – but not even John Peel's favourite song which, as he used to say, is indeed perfect in every way – could raise the stature of what was essentially a throwaway set of forgettable punk rock songs which, sounding too similar to one another, simply bled together into one big, tedious drone.
    Now, as sentences go, this one will do wonders for shattering every ounce of cool I might ever have harboured: Luckily, The Waterboys came on next. Their Glastonbury Song raised the hairs on the back of my neck as I was reminded of where I'd be in less than a week. We also got their other two biggest songs in The Whole Of The Moon and Fisherman's Blues – powerful stuff – and a song from their upcoming Yeats album sounded excellent. Unfortunately, their set was marred by a breaking of what's sort of a golden rule of mine – never cover a band who're going to play on the same stage, on the same day. Their version of You're A Big Girl Now wasn't necessarily bad, but it ate about eight minutes of an hour long set which could've been filled with something else from their mighty canon.
    After this we ventured into the trad-tent to have a gander at the Sharon Shannon Big Band. She was magical, the place was heaving and the atmosphere was incredible – a surging, whooping mass of goodwill and abandon. We should've spent more time in there, actually. It'd've been drier, at least.
    But then we wouldn't've seen The Gaslight Anthem and The Cranberries! The former's albums had never really impressed me before – I thought they sounded like an even more polished version of The Killers – but live they were something of a glowing force of positivity – finally all of the Springsteen comparisons began to make sense – their hopeful chords and plaintive vocals were like gentle arms around the waist under a sky which broke repeatedly. And The Cranberries! Queuing for a pie, I regrettably all but missed the pounding opening trills of Zombie, but it did mean that I could savour the taste of soft, fluffy and warm mash as they rhymed “finger” with “linger”. That was a moment to which I'd happily return right now – for to return to that moment would mean that I'd be able to live through all that followed once more.
    What followed? A spell at the third-stage to watch The Treetop Flyers. Their sprightly shouty folk-rock had drawn quite a sizeable crowd, and their noise was such an empowering force that it could've billowed hairs and spilt pints – theirs is the sort of music that grabs you by the beard and with a sly wink puts a fiver in your front pocket. We exchanged a bemused look as they introduced their last song with some fifteen minutes of their set time remaining. Turns out, though, that they were just saving room for a multi-part folk opera which seemed to be a haunted house. I was every bit as enthralled as I was the first time I saw Mumford and Sons. But, seeing as these guys seemed to have more than one metaphor at their disposal, I might not even find myself disappointed when I expose them to deeper scrutiny!
    After “bumping into” some old friends, I excused myself to go and see O Emperor. Meekly I admitted that they sound a bit like Starsailor. Yep, I sighed. That's the sort of music which gets me excited these days.
    Except, they don't. Their sound has a lot more in common with the likes of Midlake and Mercury Rev – cosmic, mercurial, spellbinding. Not even the girl who asked me for a cigarette and a light after seemingly every single song could shake me from the awestruck trance they inspired. I surrendered, and life has been that little bit better ever since I set a place at the table for O Emperor – a band wholly worthy of the vocative in their name. May they conquer the world, and may all who oppose them find themselves knee-deep in the blood of their children.
    So, suitably limbered, I was, as they say in some parts, “Ready For Bob”. I was asked, earlier in the day, if I expected him to be shit. Truthfully, I was fearing the worst. It's a good means of ensuring that you're never disappointed, is fearing the worst. Within moments of him taking to the stage, though, I wondered as to what exactly those scribblers of bad reviews in which I had immersed myself the night before had crammed up their collective arses. Then it struck me: they all came from such resources for which I have no respect at all. Principally, The Telegraph and The Quietus – two resources which I hold in about equal esteem. Not to blow my own trumpet, but I think it says something about my intense loathing for The Quietus when The Telegraph release shit like this and dare to call it a "feature".
    Anyway, Bob Dylan. Despite my reservations, very little of my enjoyment of his set stemmed from the reverence of being in the presence of a hero. Rather, it all came from the music – it had to, really. There were no screens flanking this stage.
    All the tyrannical rearrangement of his songs of which I'd been warned simply resulted in tighter grooves and bigger drums – the result being that you could dance to most everything he played, and most everyone did. Dance, that is. It was one of the most energised, alive and amplified crowds of which I've ever been a part. To such wondrous boogies as Thunder On The Mountain, Summer Days and an incandescent Highway 61, ho did we ever “get down”. A particular highlight was a tremendous slow-burning rendition of Cold Irons Bound. Closing the main set, Ballad Of  A Thin Man radiated evil. Rather than plugging their fingers in their ears and insisting that “he's still got it” (as The Quietus would like to believe we do), I firmly believe that there must still be scores of people who dream of being as cool as Dylan. God knows I'd love to be able to inspire such widespread reverence at seventy.
    Indeed, only during the horribly strained choruses of A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall did he even come close to embodying the criticism with which he's often levied these days. However, this can be forgiven of an artist capable of such an encore: Like A Rolling Stone, All Along The Watchtower, Blowing In The Wind. Three of the most intense, beautiful and timeless compositions from the entire rock canon whipped out successively and with fiery aplomb by the very man who originally penned such masterpieces. I live for times like that.
    So, yes, our realisation that we'd have a great day came to be. We had a great day. It unfortunately has made a tedious type out of me, though, as it's now probably the case that I'll extol the virtues of Dylan at the top of my voice at every given opportunity.
    I apologise in advance.

Idea For A Film

    Norman Tartell has hooked himself up to a life-support machine which is rigged to cut-off should the phone ever ring. He figures that as far as bridge-burnings go, there are worse ways to ensure that you're never bothered by anyone ever again.
    He's been bothered for a while by a three-pronged interlinked conspiracy against his happiness. It consists of an online social networking platform in which it's the 1920s and everyone's fabulous; a company who specialise in fixing leaks and the mascot from his local cinema who resembles an anthropomorphic red jigsaw piece. Each of them has designs on his girlfriend.
    He remembers their first meeting. She ran the Scarlet Bistro, and one rainy afternoon he found himself entangled in her fairy-lights. It wasn't a pleasant place to be trapped. Threaded as they were through a meticulously trimmed hedge which bordered her patio, the more he struggled the more he was prodded and pricked by errant twigs and branches.
    She had come to his rescue armed only with a smile and a pair of ELC-branded safety scissors. Over coffee, they had taken it from there.
    But now she traded electronic kudos using a sunglasses-wearing flapper of an avatar wrapped in a lambs-wool shawl taking deep drags from a slender cigarette holder. She had the leak-repair company on autodial stored under Hotkey #3, and she was frequently spotted challenging corporate logos to races across the frozen lake.
    But Norman's troubles had really begun when he paid a visit to his old flat to pick up his post. Pausing at the front door, he realised that by just closing his eyes he could still picture everything as it had been – right down to the patterns the dust made as they fell on the hardwood floors. Knowing that he wouldn't be able to stomach seeing previously precious floor-space being used in offensively different ways by offensively anonymous people, with a sigh he abandoned his misdelivered mail and returned home.
    It was as close as he had come to his past in a long while. It was too much. He sat in the armchair in the corner and struggled to fight back the tears. A part of him knew though that at the very least, were he to cry it might open up the doors of communication. That might help. That might be a start.
    But with a smile his mother cast a blanket over him. She had done it in jest, but it made him feel like a statue; a relic protected from the dust, from age.
    Daring to take a peek from under the blanket, he saw that his entire family had gathered in an attempt to restore order to their cluttered household. They were trying to make it less like an exploded attic and more like a place in which they could live once more.
    Joining in, amongst the old board-games and letters of recommendation he found a beaker full of diced livers on the mantel-piece. He could remember carefully slicing them for dinner years ago. Had they been stood on the mantel-piece all this time? Gingerly he sniffed them. They smelled fine, so he popped one in his mouth and savoured the acrid juices as they spread over his tongue like cracks across ice. He offered them around to his gathered family, but nobody else would try any.
    They were, at that time, partaking in an experimental new shopping system in which all the local residents of an area had their own personal shelf in the back-rooms of the supermarket. Instead of shopping, you loaded any required wares onto your shelf a week in advance of taking them home. The supermarket then employed a surveyor to take stock of each of the different shelves. He would carefully write down everything which had been loaded and affix his report to the shelf-edge. When, one week hence, it came time to collect your wares, it was simply a case of presenting this report to the till, where it would be tallied and you would be charged accordingly.
    Though inter-shelf theft and dishonesty was rife, the system was proving to be very popular with both the store and the customers. The government claimed that it would save billions annually, but never quite explained how.
    It was Norman's turn to collect their gatherings from the shelf. Arriving, he found their shelf to be covered in dust. Several empty cardboard boxes were stacked alongside their usual beloved potted-cakes and tins of liver. Evidently, assuming the shelf to be abandoned, the store had taken to using it for their own storage.
    The stacked wares having long since passed their use-by dates, Norman skulked his way home in a state of dejection. Walking down the high street he noticed several severe discrepancies between his mental image of the store-fronts and the actual picture he saw before him. The last time he had come this way all were dressed impeccably in their hats and scarves and galoshes. Beaming butchers picked by hand the tenderest loins of liver for their cherished customers. Librarians would declare via tannoy each book they found to have a happy ending. People would treasure each sip of coffee they ingested whilst sat for hours on the patio of the Scarlet Bistro.
    Now, though, bright-red metallic sheets covered the fronts of all the buildings. The streets were clean and empty and Norman had to admit that the towering red edifices cast a commanding figure against bright blue skies. But it wasn't the street he knew. Everyone had been evicted for not using the public spaces as the architect had planned.
    Across the street a panel opened on the front of one of the buildings revealing a screen on which a red anthropomorphic jigsaw piece winked at whoever was looking.
    “It's going to kill the cinema,” said a voice. Norman looked and saw a rotund old man in a green trench coat and a flat-peaked hat frowning at the screen.
    “It already has,” said Norman.
    The old-man agreed and started talking about money whilst licking his lips suggestively. Fearing for the integrity of his sister, who Norman remembered had once taken to walking the aisles of the supermarket topless, Norman rushed home.
    When he got there he found all rooms to be immaculate but empty. Dust blankets had been cast over all items of furniture to the effect that faded off-white ghosts stared back impassively from every room.
    He called for his family, but received no reply.
    In another age it would have been him applying the ice-skates and challenging that corporate logo to a race across the frozen lake. His feat would be performed at the violet-hour before a breath-taking sunset. With a grin he would overtake the steadfast corporate logo and, assuming it to be a red anthropomorphic jigsaw piece, would instead find it to be a pale-blue wrench painted to look like a postage stamp.
    Their desperate race would take them through the golden 1920s pool party where, amongst the crowd, Norman would spot his darling flapper, cigarette holder in hand. Though her sunglasses would make it difficult to read her expression, Norman would nonetheless be able to read a glimmer of admiration in her countenance.
    He was back. He was doing it again. He was here, he was now, when for so long he had been then.
    And, on his victory lap, Norman would remember her hastily loading a tangled mass of wire into the alarm-box which doubled as her safety deposit box nestled amongst the leaves surrounding her patio.
    Having embraced her immediately afterwards, Norman had never been able to see clearly the contents of this box. Now, though, he was closer than he'd ever been before. He would see. Any second now, he would know. For the very first time, all would be clear, all would be wonderful again.
    But then the phone began to ring.
    Nobody will ever know how Norman's story ends.