i am a rubbish friend
i feel rather rubbish today as i missed a friend’s birthday bash because it was on the other side of the city and it takes over an hour to get there and i knew i’d have to leave early to get home for work in the morning. i was all set to go, but on my way back from work i got into a quarrel with a London Underground person because i had inadvertently tried to go through a travelcard-only station with pre-pay on my oyster card. how I am supposed to know which - if they let me in on the oyster readers boarding, how come they won’t let me off again? i honestly don’t get it. the man told me i was lying when i said i hadn’t meant to and tried to make me pay an astronomical penalty fair. the really annoying thing was, i left work early to try and get home so i could go out to my friend’s birthday do, but this held me up something chronic – and minifig was upset because dinner was subsequently messed up. i was so angry i nearly started crying and when i got home was still so upset that i didn’t want to go out again. and now I feel really stupid. i think i might as well turn in for the night. i do wish these little things didn’t bother me so.sorry James - happy birthday
a woman's right to shoes
it’s that icky summer/autumn crossover point again and I’m left desperately searching for a comfortable yet fantastic pair of shoes to see me through the season. unfortunately, where as previously my choices have been wider due to the fact that, being at university, i only had myself to please, i suddenly have to confirm to a work-place dress code where trainers are unacceptable and biker boots a little, well…. rough, i suppose.
although i do have a little bit more money now, i still feel guilty splashing out on new shoes. i hate wearing heels outside, i find them uncomfortable and unstable – unless they are heavy duty slut-platforms, which, i doubt is deemed appropriate office wear.
thankfully, there is one company i can always rely on to answers my shoe dreams – even though the only pair i own is so painful they draw blood across my ankles. irregular choice. i’m writing this post, because i’m thinking about buying a new pair – a kind of ska two-tone zebra-print ballet pump – if you can imagine such a thing. they make me feel cool as a cucumber – something between a sexy gum-popping night owl and a saucy 1950’s waitress with rhinestone pink sunglasses. they are completely unnecessary and not cheap! i know i really shouldn’t buy them and yet i still desperately want them….
shoes hold a unique, cinderella-esque power for so many women i know.
like little sculptural works of art, it is often the case that the more beautiful they are, the more impractical and painful they necessarily are too. but, when buying them, the sacrifice seems momentarily worthwhile, as they appear to have magical transformative powers. each proverbial glass slipper has something different to offer, or more thrillingly, can make me over into a different person.
my cranberry red dolly shoes with dusty pink suede bows make me feel somewhere between dorothy in the wizard of oz and doris day. my massively high round-toed brown platforms make me feel like a saucy 1960s secretary, where as my lower, black ankle-strap round-toes with the beige bow make me feel like a demure, ladylike 1960s secretary. i had a pair of gold spiked sandals with a clear plastic heel that made me feel like a tawdry bond girl – but i threw them out as they were far too gutsy for me to carry off. i have black corded pointy-toe heels that make me feel like a ball-breaking career girl, even though i’m a wishy-washy wimp who wants to work in “the arts”, whatever that is. my doc martens make me feel 17. i got asked to be in a band when I was wearing my biker boots, which, even have pockets for my lighters. my converse make me feel happy.
i truly believe the 2-tone ska-style pumps would make me feel cool. but i guess there are some things even shoes cannot change….
so i suppose you can all breathe a sigh of relief now i’ve made my mind up…
although, i could use some slouchy calf-boots, perhaps in worn black leather
willy mason at the bedford
minifig and i went to see willy mason at the bedford arms tonight – an amazing, tardis-like pub in balham that should be renowned the entire world over! it was a truly magical gig experience to be cherished, and even though i really suffered for it the next day at work, was worth the 8 hours of misery on thursday.
the bedford looks rather unremarkable from the outside – a big, friendly gastro pub, but perhaps nothing special. however, tucked away, somewhere inside, are a series of amazing rooms where they stage awesome – and usually free – live music nights. the place is infact rather like narnia - i came out of the loo, turned the wrong way, and ended up in a saucy salsa class - so beware...when you walk up to the globe – our room for the gig, i think, you stroll up a lengthy staircase which is lined with photos of some of britain’s top comedians – all of whom have played the modest bedford. there is a tasteful, elegant little bar with comfy leather chairs and soft lighting which acts as a kind of waiting lobby before they pull back the curtain to reveal the gig venue. a circular-ish room, quite mock-jacobean in feel, with steps leading down to the main gig area, the room has a few chairs and tables along the top of the outer ring, whilst in the pit there are a few small circular tables along the front of an ickle stage, and a few larger tables to seat ten or so people. there is a small bar at the back, which closes during sets. stick-in-the-mud-grandma me, i really appreciate that level of respect being given to performers at gigs – buy your drinks in advance, i say. plus, there are even little menus on the tables, and by collecting a spoon at the bar, you can get table service. minifig had chunky chips, which looked delicious, and i had a really evil chocolate torte thingy.
the room can’t hold more than a hundred people. the stage was set up with just one microphone and a couple of guitar stands. minifig and i sat at a small circular table, so close to the stage that minifig rested his impossibly large feet against an amp. minifig has really stupid feet. the atmosphere was really calm and low-key: it was so civilised and intimate. before the show starts, an MC addresses the crowd and reminds people to turn off their mobile phones (yes! damn mobile phones – the scourge of the world), and asks people to move upstairs if they wish to talk during the set (again, yes! shut up). this meant that each singer necessarily held your complete attention, helped by the fact that the audience was so small. i was so grateful to find a gig-venue with a less manic, fashion-show atmosphere – it makes me happy just to know that the bedford arms exists.
the first act was a singer songwriter called lee broderick. his songs were intelligent, well-written, nothing especially innovative, but far far better than the current stream of singer songwriters, each one casually compared to Dylan (who can keep his capital 'D'), much to my untempered disgust. jack johnson, james blunt – you know who you are… although, damien rice - you're not that bad.
all this would be fair enough, if lee broderick wasn’t sixteen! sixteen i tell you! when i was sixteen i was mooning over richie edwards, screaming at everyone in my house and writing angst-written slogans in pencil all over my bedroom walls whilst pouring over rimbaud and not understanding a damn word of it. minifig and i were happily amazed and ashamed and told him so while i signed our tickets. we're such losers..
according to wikipedia, willy mason was born on 21st november 1984, which would make him 20. this is even more shameful. because if anyone deserves the Dylan comparisons, it is, without a doubt, willy mason. with a deep, growly, slightly raspy, sometimes sleepy slur, perpetual bed-hair and aching, bluesy music, watching willy mason perform to this blue-tinged, smoky room, literally inches from me, was an absolute dream. with witty little quips between sets, taking requests from audience members and goofing around, it felt a real privilege to be in that room, with those people, watching willy mason. i felt secure, full of cake, and, one of my favourite emotions, smug. total magic - and the bedford, wonderful place that it is, let the gig overrun by a good half hour. willy mason is a miniature genius and my night was complete when minifig and i caught him on the stairs and said a very heart-felt *thank you* - he looked a bit bemused, but then, he often appears to look that way.
there is something very special about those moments at gigs when you’re simply left with a bloke or a girl onstage with nothing but an instrument and a voice. a stripped down, no frills, purity that makes it an event. more and more groups have thankfully stopped shoe-gazing in front of their audiences and are actually bothering to make some kind of contact – the beastie boys, radiohead, green day – three bands i love dearly, and favourites because of their live performances. each one has a completely different style – showy, graceful and comic, respectively – but all big smackerfuls of entertainment. but the fact that mix master mike is good whether behind three dudes in boiler suits or just murdering stuff on the decks, that johnny greenwood is capable of making outerspace zoo sounds with a couple of funny pedals, and that billy jo is sweet as pie with an acoustic across his lap (oh! to be that guitar!) makes them the real deal, in my, not very humble opinion.
the only thing missing from the gig was anna – with whom I saw willy mason the last time – a week before our first finals exam – a six hour shakespeare paper that turned out to be an unforgiving monster. she introduced me to the delights of willy mason, for which i am eternally grafeful - amongst many other reasons too. that evening in april goes down as a gig-classic because willy was supported by a crazy little man called kid carpet. making music by amplifying 1980’s kid’s toys, including miniature guitars and fisher price keyboards, he played a complete blinder of a set. whenever i feel a little low, kid carpet’s album, *ideas & oh dears* never ceases to make me smile. I LOVE HIM! bristol should be bloody proud.
And on that note, i think i’m going to go off and boogie to track 4 – it’s called *there’s a shoe* and makes perfect fodder for daft running-man-type moves. let’s groove, kids...
stephen malkmus and the jicks @ koko
headed down to Koko tonight to check out Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks (former Pavement fontman). Koko is the new name now bestowed on the former Camden Palace. the place has enjoyed a refit, with blood-red walls and gaudy gold, gilt trimmings. it’s also home to an enormous, sparkly mirrorball spinning over the main dance-floor which gives it a nicely trashy Studio 54 feel. Koko’s major downfall is its lack of adequate bathroom facilities – a major issue when serving alcohol - and its overpriced bar – the only gig venue where you pay £3.20 for a can – not even draught! – of lager. saying that though - the excessive queues have led to some great conversations with other women - i've been invited to front someone's goth band because i had cool shoes on, been drawn into a debate on csi vs. desperate housewives and i've even spoken to someone's boyfriend on the phone while she went for a wee.
so, the place does have its charms. Koko has retained its three tiered structure, so the place looks like a magnificently gory cake. the dance floor is so small that even when standing at the back by the bar, you get a pretty good view of the main acts, but the real top spot in my humble opinion, is on the first section behind the shiny black lacquered sound desk – a great tech-y spot where you can happily read the set-list and watch the techies key up the lights in time to the beats. unfortunately, such extra charms makes this an extremely difficult position to keep when needing either the bar or the bathroom – both activities also being necessarily linked. Koko’s layout also approaches a rabbit’s warren when it comes to travelling to either the bar or the loo – no crows fly in this place!
so, as minifig and i arrived at Koko early, we thought we’d try and bag one of the very few booths. because Koko turns into a club after gigs, it has a few seating areas – most of which are entirely useless if you’re trying to actually watch a band. but there are some crafty little tables and bar stools in the curved sections around the stage on levels 1 and 2, and so long as you’re not fussy about having an amplifier blocking part of the stage, you get a much comfier gig – and for something a little more lo-fi and chilled like stephen malkmus and the jicks, it seemed like a good idea.
it was excellent – from our newfound spot, we could see proper facial expressions on the performers and it’s the only place you have a hope in hell of getting to the loo quickly! Absolutely marvellous place to go and hang out for a gig. I have no idea what the first band onstage were called, but they were strangely intriguing. minifig absolutely despised them – and to be a fair, they were derivative – like really bad pj harvey (as if there could ever be such a thing) mixed with a heavy dose of rizzo from grease and the do me bad things. they were like a sixth form band – but from Cheltenham ladies’ college with one older, bad-influence-boy. the song writing was poor and repetitive and the performance was quite affected and self-conscious – but perhaps because of these flaws, i found them quite engaging. and although their lead singer is a bit irritating, she’s extraordinarily pretty, which, if you look at most crappy music channels, obviously is part of the package these days. if anyone else was there at the gig and knows who this band is, please leave a comment and let me know.
clor were up next. i decided a while ago that i didn’t like clor and i still think that they are the weakest group in the current new-wave of guitars and synth bands. i would probably award the prize for best guitar/synth band to the kaiser chiefs – better lyrics than the killers and they remind me a lot of pulp, of whom I am extremely fond. plus they were pucker at glastonbury. however, clor were entertaining, tight, had a great, full sound, expressive performance and their song-writing is actually quite fascinating – lots of neat little sound games. if you get a chance to see them, do.
stephen malkmus and the jicks were laidback and self-assured with a fabulously dingy, grungy, spaced out guitar sound that reminded me of sitting sulkily in my room as a teenager, staring moodily into the mirror. malkmus’s songwriting is so subtle and warmly familiar – plus he is incredibly likeable because he doesn’t play the big moody rock star game - which is obviously good fun with some bands – but its absence is enjoyable where the jicks are concerned. despite all this goodness, however, the gig was pretty much thoroughly spoilt by two wasted teenage boys with stinky flailing limbs and dodgy balance, sweating and swaying all over the place just before stephen malkmus and the jicks came on. they were so stupidly wrecked i don’t think they noticed that three people left our little booth, and rudely elbowed minifig out of the way halfway through the set before assaulting me with their pissed up antics.
if you want to get wasted - go to a pub, and if you want to hurl yourself around at a gig - go into the pit. do not, ever, get so pissed, that you forget who you’re seeing, or end up inadvertently battering everyone standing either side of you. if you love the band so much you want to be as close to them as possible, get there earlier – don’t screw up other people’s night. a special nod here should go to radiohead, who, at south park in oxford, gave wristbands to the first few people that hurled themselves across the park and to the front of the stage, a good ten hours before radiohead played – enabling us to get food, pee and chill out without fighting with pissed up bullies later on in the night. Hurrah!
gripe over. now i guess it’s time for me to stand outside and shake my fists at the passing youngsters! maybe i should start keeping an excessive number of cats and swearing at people in the street....
effortlessly happy
today was made infinitely special by the fact that i returned from work to find my first two comments ever on my blog – one from a very special friend called Anna – which i guess is okay to tell you, as she left her name on the site, who is currently in South Africa *sob*, and one from a man in America called Kelly. his blog, the wonderfully titled "effortlessly average" is well worth checking out – he likes CSI - a man of good taste, surely and has hilarious kids and a cool wife. highly recommended.
friday i'm in love
Some interesting and good things have been happening this week. My partner in crime, minifig, went for a job interview on Wednesday and found out today that he will be promoted in four weeks. He's a boy genius.
minifig is a caped crusader working for the powers that be in the heart of the city– make of that what you will. I am a scrivener, debt collector and storyteller.
I generally enjoy my job, but, like most normal, well adjusted people, am happy when the end of the day arrives and prefer Fridays to Mondays.
I must say, I am dreadfully sorry, but although it’s only 9.20pm on a Friday night in the big wild city, I fear I shall make my way along the path and across the stile to Bedfordshire. Good night
the lemonheads @ shepherds bush empire
minifig and i were lucky enough to go and see the lemonheads perform it’s a shame about ray at shepherds bush empire. i’m 22, and the album came out in 1992, so if you do your sums, you could work out that i would have been 9 when the album came out, and so too young to see the lemonheads first time around.
however, in the same year, cameron crowe’s singles also came out, and due to my parents’ uncharacteristically liberal attitude to my choice of tv, films and music, for some reason i later bought it on video. looking back, i have absolutely no idea what made me buy it, and watching it first time around, i didn’t really get any of the jokes. and yet i found these messy twentysomethings with their crinkled clothes and complicated relationships, wondering around the wintry city and dirty bars with their interesting jobs and apartments strangely glamorous and alluring.
scarily, singles was probably the biggest influence on my taste in music, other than perhaps madonna’s like a prayer, as a pre-teen. as a result of the film’s extensive use of paul westerberg on the soundtrack , together with that gorgeous little scene where campbell scott and kyra sedgwick’s eyes meet over the laundry to jimi hendrix’s lush may this be love, I went out and bought the soundtrack. suddenly, in my final year of primary school, i found myself caught up in mudhoney, pearl jam, chris cornell and smashing pumpkins, and all those disapproving editorials in the family newspaper about this thing called grunge which involved dressing like a tramp and listening to loud music, suddenly opened up this brand new amazing little world. this collided with sunday morning trips to the supermarket, where my mum would indulge my curiosity and buy me a teen-magazine. in one copy of mizz there was an article written by a girl whose sister had died of a heroin overdose. this late sister was also a massive nirvana fan, and the articles included some lyrics, and in the space of about ten minutes i came to some dim understanding of why this whole heroin thing was not a good idea for kurt cobain. only unplugged in new york was considered suitable listening for the journey into school each morning, which is fair enough, as my little sister was barely past the i-might-still-pee-my-pants stage of school life. perhaps, if given more time, i would have stumbled upon the lemonheads eventually, but by the time the full impact of this had begun to work its magic, kurt cobain was dead, everyone hated eddie vedder, and there were whispers about groups of anaemic, floppy haired boys in single-syllable bands like blur, pulp, suede…
as a result, apart from local radio playing mrs robinson, the lemonheads completely passed me by and I switched my converse all star to three stripe adidas (does anybody else identify music tribes by footwear?)
it was minifig who introduced me to the lemonheads. minifig had the greatest technique for wooing girls, and I can’t work out why the ones before me never fell for it. his carefully wrought compliation tape that he sent me in the post, with a handwritten letter and a charles bukowski poem hooked me, but he also had a habit of presenting girls with a copy of nick drake and the bad seed’s into my arms. he was everything I had idly dreamt about, and our early summer dates spent bumming around cafes and parks, sneaking reads in bookstores and record shopping were blissfully happy.
it was in out of time records, perhaps the best indie record store i’ve ever set foot in, just like you’d imagine the store in high fidelity to be, that minifig persuaded me to buy a copy of it’s a shame about ray. now inextricably connected to gcse revision and falling in love for the first time, that album sounded and felt tinged with nostalgia even as I listened to it for the first time. it’s mix of gentle, drowsy melancholy and upbeat pop, that feeling of being miserable and tipsy in the sunshine, makes it one of the most perfect pop records of the nineties.
so the chance to hear it played in its entirety by a band who i never thought i’d ever see live was too good to be true. the groups of people in their late twenties and early thirties, wearing old band t-shirts and a few more lines on their faces made for a nicer, less cynical audience than you often get at london gigs these days. plus, we were treated with a very special support act by the vaguely familiar eugene kelly… “yeah, I used to be in this band called the vaselines” eugene kelly, who went onto play jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam, molly’s lips and son of a gun, prompting wayne-esque *we are not worthy” gestures from minifig.
in a characteristic weak-bladdered moment from darling vicarage, i was in the queue for the ladies when the lemonheads took to the stage, and peed frantically listening to the opening chords of rockin’ stroll, scrambling furtively back to my seat. to see evan dando looking fragile and lanky with his munster-ish profile and hide-behind hair – this unassuming, shy rockgod - was predictably excellent – but to see the band playing such a reliably fantastic set made this a gig that exceeded already rocket-high expectations. my favourite moments during the gig were my favourite songs on the album; my drug buddy, rudderless, frank mills – which made me cry its so sweet! and because it’s a shame about ray is such a cheekily short album, we were also treated to some amazing lemonheads classics; into your arms, the great big no, being around and the outdoor type – a song that I understand and sympathise with only too well.
when evan dando stands on a stage by himself with only an electric guitar for company he plays with such awkward grace and sweetness – his performance was really touching and endearing, which is really refreshing with today’s too-cool-for-school attitude being so prevalent. i have two downloaded live acoustic performances by dando – classic soul ballad will you still love me tomorrow (famously in a bed scene of dirty dancing) and abba’s knowing me, knowing you, and his voice just brings out how unbelievably heartbreaking both songs are.
it’s a bit frustrating that people seem to see the lemonheads as a light-weight by-product of grunge, because their songs are so deceptively simple and summery – but they’re also really quite meaningful and honest and for that, the lemonheads should be appreciated and not dismissed.
one of the appealing things about the don’t look back series of gigs is that they inevitably encourage people to look back with misty eyes. and, like certain jumpers and party dresses and types of food, albums are another way of giving your life some kind of framework. i think that because day-to-day life has no plot or structure in the same satisfying way it does in books, it’s nice that on occasions, when you remember stuff, it comes complete with its own costumes and soundtrack. rose-tinted spectacles are never the best or most reliable way of seeing the world by any sensible person’s standards, but i don’t think it hurts to indulge that impulse from time to time.
right now, having just graduated, i’m at the stage where lots of friends are leaving the city to do other things – people are naturally moving on. my little sister is just starting university, and leaving all the comforts of high school and mum and dad and it’s a weird, exciting, desperately sad time – or at least it was/still is for me. so there’s no harm in occasionally thinking about the good old days when you didn’t have to get up for work and someone else cooked your dinner and you had to be home by eleven. and as much as revisiting it’s a shame about ray made me feel deeply nostalgic, everyone looked much older, and i enjoyed being able to buy my own drink with legitimate ID and getting into my flat with my own door key. being sixteen was fun – but i cried more then about small things than i do today, and i could be a little bitch without it even occurring to me that i might be impacting on other people’s lives.
and i get all the jokes in singles now.
a word about shepherd’s bush empire
this was my first time visiting the bush and it’s such an adorable venue. there’s a main standing area which is probably about half the size of brixton, to the point where you can make out distinct characteristics of people’s faces and work out who’s with whom in the crowd. I wouldn’t be surprised if its closer to the size of the stage in koko, or even ulu (although that is really quite diddy). the floor isn’t half as murky or sticky as it is at the astoria, and the seats are positively plush in red velvet. there are three tiered balconied areas which seat a really small number of people – compared to somewhere like hammersmith apollo, there are only two exits and the loos are still inside the main seating area. we sat in the front row of level one, and the view of the stage is perfect – even if you’re over to one side, it’s like being in the centre of seating at almost any other venue in london. the only downside for dirty scum like me is that no smoking is permitted in the seating areas – like brixton since last year, and hammersmith. the astoria still wins hands down for spit-and-sawdust, cans and foil ashtray glammy-grime atmosphere. the décor at shepherd’s bush is really well kept, lots of gilt and gaudy edwardian music-hall sculptures, although it doesn’t have the same gothic edge that brixton has. however, it’s in the level one bar that the venue wins hands down. it has quite smart brown leather stools and chairs, a varied collection of framed, and sometimes signed photos from previous performances with set-lists attached to some – notably the rolling stones and led zeppelin. it was playing quirky 50s rock and roll when i went in, and there are two massive flat screens showing the stage, so you can keep and eye on the proceedings when stocking up on beer. and because the seating section is relatively small, it means that the bar doesn’t get stupidly full and hot.
bravo to the bush!
by the way, this is a lemonhead. they're american(?) sweets - i've never had one, but i can't say that i rate american "candy" much. however, on their official website, you can take a tour to see how they make them - if you're really that interested or that bored.
5 correct answers
I hadn't realised, but tonight was the final of University Challenge. I wanted the Romantic Novelists' Assocation to win, but the Privy Council Office took the cup.
I answered five questions correctly, all of which indicate that, in accordance with the dour-faced warnings of people when I left university this summer, my brain is turning to mush. Two questions on the cover artwork of books for children, and two questions on The Clash.
I spent most of the programme organising my bag for tomorrow at work - not because I need to, you understand, but because I faff about, checking I have enough tissues and ibuprofen, in case I am left stranded somewhere with a runny nose and a headache. I also need my IPOD, a book, a bottle of water, an extra layer of clothing and a snack - why loll about waiting when you can be stuffing your face with biscuits whilst listening to music AND finishing the chapter you started when you were left waiting around the last time?
I don't understand people who sit on the tube or the trains with nothing but themselves for company. Perhaps they are deeply interesting people with fascinating internal lives?
I have fourty-five minutes before I have to go to bed, in order to go to work. In between eating three meals a day, sleeping, washing and talking to the people I care about, there's barely any time for reading or music.
my first post
It is 8.25pm on a slightly warm Monday night in South London - which means only four days left until I can sleep past six-thirty, and only five minutes until University Challenge - although it's The Professionals, so not as good.
It has taken forty-five minutes to choose my name, the blog name and the address, largely because, as always, I was too late.
England won The Ashes, which I am reliably informed is not only rather good, but especially rare. Plus The Guardian now comes in a tabloid-esque format, so no more paper wrestling on the tube.
Let's be grateful for small mercies.
