Urban Landfill

Book: Florian Zeller - Neiges artificielles

Florian Zeller is scarily young for a novelist. He's younger than me, so is only ever going to be younger than me, and eternally scary. That's a sobering thought for a Wednesday night.

More recently, he's become more renowned for his emerging presence on the French theatre scene (as playwright and director), but Neiges Artificielles, his debut novel was published in 2002.

Zeller is often bracketed together with one of my favourite novellists, Michel Houellebecq, so it made sense that I check him out. Whilst there are a number of similarities between the two - both show an inherent cynicism and could easily be bracketed together as Nietzschean, neither shys away from the overtly erotic, both are urban and ultimately contemporary, there are a number of telling differences betweeen the two. Benchmarking Zeller against the his older contemporary is probably unfair because he doesn't (yet?) bring the same real world baggage to his work and hasn't (at the time of writing this) hasn't evolved fully as a writer.

Neiges Artificielles (Artificial Snow) is a coming of age novel for both the first person narrator of the tale and Zeller himself. In fact, the story does seem to be largely drawn on Zeller's romantic experiences as a young adult. (Hmmm the fact the narrator is called Florian Deller is probably a bit of a giveaway). Location-wise, its set in the types of places in Paris a young, relatively well-to-do Frenchman would be likely to hang out. Bascially, he's living a good, vibrant life, filled with booze and sex, but like any intelligent, over-educated young man, he's psychotically unhappy.

As a result, he's finding it terribly difficult to get over a failed relationship with his beloved Lou. The novel is a testament to him struggling with this, as well as his own place in the social structure - days spent wandering the streets and Metro of the French capital do little to make him feel any better, despite the box cutter permanently in his grasp. To this extent Zeller is obviously more Romantic than Houellebecq. The obvious recurring motifs, the missed underground train, the images of birth, the mud and of course the snow of the title bear witness to that.

Neiges Artificielles is clearly a juvenile work, but one that is well restrained, focused and emotionally powerful. The personality insights we get at towards the end of the book are particularly evocative. I'll definitely be checking out more of his work. And not just for the rude bits.

Art: Andy Warhol, Other Voices, Other Rooms, Hayward Gallery, Southbank Centre, London

The all-singing, all-dancing Warhol jamboree rides into town, tossing witty barbs, terrifying the cops and the upholders of common decency as it gallops. Kind of.

The Andy show has hit the Hayward gallery fresh from a stint in Amsterdam, home of drugs, sleaze and tulips. It's a firm crowd-pleasing move from the Southbank Centre who have clearly invested heavily in bringing the travelling collection to Waterloo, but one that seems to overlook quality in favour of footfall.

It's split into four main sections - Warhol trivia (his time-capsules, his polaroids, his doodles), video and audio of the sights and sounds of the Factory, a collection of the shows he produced for MTV and his better known larger scale video/film work. The collection makes good use of the Hayward space, some might argue too good use as the works do seem to be a little crammed into the lower floor of the gallery (there's a different exhibition on upstairs at the moment).

I'm generally a big fan of the Hayward, some of their recent exhibitions, Undercover Surrealism and Laughing in a Foreign Language in particular, but as a someone who is hugely interested in the work of Warhol (I'm a shameless Velvet Underground afficionado, and really appreciate the importance of his large scale screen prints), I think they've got it wrong with this collection.

I came away from Other Voices, Other Rooms with a deeper understanding of Warhol the curator, the archivist, rather than him as an artist. Now, I know that part of Warhol's talent lay in the way he was able to capture and transform the banal into art, but there's too much of the untransformed banality in this exhibition to make it really worth a visit (hey, times are tough, you can't afford to go to every new exhibition!)

The video clips of life in and around the Factory, for example, are just plain dull. Sure, they are interesting for a couple of seconds (but once you get beyond the haircuts, the clothes, the fashion shows, the glimpses inside Studio 54 there's very little of any real value left). Now, you could argue that this is in itself Warhol's artistic judgement, but I'd just say that you were being a smart arse, and I think you'd be wrong.

Warhol's MTV films, are again interesting from the perspective that they document the excess of the late 1970s and 1980s, but they shine only as...well....MTV programmes...and there's just so much of this mediocrity, spread very thinly at that.

The one opportunity the show has to redeem itself is the final gallery, showing some of Warhol's longer fully-fledges film works on a succession of dramatically large screens, flanked by some impressively comfortable foam sofas. It all just feels a little cramped - surely these works would have been better digested at the BFI's season of Warhol films last year The layout of the gallery means it feels like you are being channeled through, so its not really condusive to stopping and watching. So a a little bit of scandal (banana sucking ahoy), and you are spat out into the shop. Ahh the shop, looking better stocked than I've ever seen it before. Maybe that's what this exhibition was about all along....

Andy Warhol: Other Voices, Other Rooms shows at the Hayward Gallery, London until January 18th, 2009
Image:© The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts, Inc

Film: Gomorrah

You can't walk down the street, open a paper or a view a web page without being confronted with Daniel Craig's smug face at the moment. I've never been a fan of the Bond films, or come to think of it the supposedly edgier Bourne ones, prefering my movies a little bit more cerebral and, well, gritty.

Saturday's movie choice has certainly got grit by the bucketload. It's an Italian movie, set in Napoli, directed by Matteo Garrone and based on the book by Roberto Saviano, and tells the story of the Camorra (basically the local mafia). This isn't a Godfather-style glamoratisation of the mafioso lifestyle - far from it. It tells the stories of a success of men (some young, some not so young) and the implications of being permanently 'at war'.

Its not just about shootings and drug deals (those are there in their unbridled glory if you want them), but it also looks at the much more unsexy side of the mobster life - toxic waste disposal, and the involvement in haute couture.

Gomorrah is a powerful movie that really demands an emotional response. More so when you realise that a large proportion of the film's cast aren't actually actors, but residents of the mean streets where the film was shot - a lot of the people you actually see on screen have lived life as part of or under the shadow of the Camorra. The Guardian ran a piece about this the other day.

With its grainy (often documentary style) camerawork, the film has a certain naked honesty that brings to mind Man Bites Dog (without the dark humour), City of God (minus the banana) and La Haine.

For me, the film too often seems to lack a focus and a real sense of narrative, and so falls a little short of La Haine in that regard. That said. Gomorrah is still a blinding - if a bleakly blinding - piece of work..

Technorati Profile

The Quarter After, Asteroid #4, Half Moon, Herne Hill, October 9, 2008

There's a danger that bands playing psychedelic, introspective music that focuses so heavily on externalising inner space lose track of their audience. It's something the Brian Jonestown Massacre are always in danger of, something that Sonic Boom/Spectrum can be guilty of, and something My Bloody Valentine stay (just) the right side of.

For me, listening to music at home, or through headphones on the way home from work is a very different experience than seeing a gig live. Rocking out on my own, or in my own space can be a solitary, meditative thing - akin to experiencing a novel. Heading out to a gig (again apart from the social aspect of seeing friends and people-watching) is less about contemplation, about decyphering the secrets of the cosmos than it is about being transported to another place, dancing around like a loon and having a bloody good time.

The Asteroid #4 and The Quarter After at The Dream Machine gig at Herne Hill's Half Moon was the archetype of everything a cracking night out should be about; it had a great, friendly crowd, a landlord that wasn't hung-up about curfews, and, most importantly, two bands that were focussed on producing a crowd-pleasing show.

The two bands have been touring together around the UK and Europe for a couple of weeks and this was their first London show since Psychodahlia at The Fly. First up were the QA who brought their Byrds/Springfield/Sabbath-influenced jangle pop to South London for the first time. Led by the Jonestown's Rob Campanella, the band were noticeably enjoying themselves (even Campanella who normally looks a slightly concerned/panicked figure onstage with Newcombe's gang looked happy to be kicking back). Hell, Christoph, the bands third guitarist/keyboard player looked like he'd stepped right out of the Rolling Thunder Revue with his sideburns and lace-up jeans. Yes, you read that right - lace-up jeans. Closing their set with the majestic Too Much To Think About, the Quarter After brought smiles aplenty to this part of London.

Tonight was all about the Asteroid #4, however.Touring to promote their blinding new album 'These Flowers of Ours', it took them a couple of songs to hit their stride, but once they got going, they moved the evening from a gig...to a happening, man. For me, they a shining example of everything a neo-psychedelic band should be - they've cherry picked some of the best sounds from the 60s and the Paisley Underground and fused them with a post Spacemen/Spiritualized drone. Crucually, they never lose sight of the fact its all about putting on a show; they've got the rockstar attitude (swigging from bottles of wine on stage), the mind melting lightshow but they clearly give a fuck about the crowd having a cracking time (like various audience members being dragged up on stage to play percussion. You know who you are).

Highlights all seemed to blur into one for me, but standout tracks were Ask Me About Pittsburgh and a Rain Parade cover (I Look Around - I got a little bit overexcited by that one!) Hell, even the Quarter After were into it (even after a few weeks of touring together). Special mention must go to QA singer Dominic Campanella's inspired dancefloor moves. Oh yes.

In short, tonight was a celebration - not only of the Dulwich Dream Machine record shop and all who sail in her, not just for Masonic Boom and her artwork (it was the opening of her show tonight), but of just how much fun the nu-gaze, post-Jonestown, neo-psych..whatever..'scene' can actually be.

Posted by russwilliams_uk at 03:04 PM in Music | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

Technorati Tags: Asteroid #4, Brian Jonestown Massacre, Dream Machine, London, Music, Paisley Underground, psychedelia, psychedelic, Quarter After, Rain Parade, Spacemen 3, Spiritualize

It's rare that you go to a gig and wake up the next morning to The Sun printing a story about how the guitarist has been stabbed to death. Thankfully, the Currant Bun got it wrong on this occasion (there was, apparently, an incident that remains shrouded in mystery - whatever the record company says), but it'll surely go down in history as yet another episode in the ongoing soap opera that is The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Cards on the table, the Jonestown are one of my very favourite bands. I've probably seen them more times than is healthy (my girlfriend would definitely agree). What with the countless stories of Newcombe-isms and general musical shenanigans, its almost easy to forget that the BJM remain one of the greatest live bands around - the grandaddys of the 'neo-psych' movement and a true bunch of innovators.

When the circus rolls into London, there's always talk that 'the band never put on a good show in the capital' or 'Anton always loses it at the big gigs'. For me, apart from one, notable drunken exception at Koko in June 2008, those fears have always been unfounded. The Forum date, was possibly their biggest triumph to date in London town. The same line-up that we've grown accustomed to over the last couple of years (is this the most stable Jonestown line-up ever?), with the notable addition of Willie B Carruthers (yes, the other one from Spacemen 3 and the first Spiritualized album) replacing the honeymooning Collin Henga on bass.

Some of the more hardcore BJM-ers (to be found lurking here:http://keepmusicevil.freeforums.org/) have bemoaned the lack of variation in the band's setlist over the last couple of tours. I freely admit to considering myself whether I'd pay the admission fee to hear 'Whoever You Are' open the set for what seems like the millionth time. Tonight, the setlist saw a number of welcome additions; yes we got firm set staples - Nailing Honey To The Bee, Here it Comes, the ever majestic Hide & Seek, When Jokers Attack, Servo and Swallowtail, but we also got a couple of relative newbies - Yeah Yeah and Golden Frost off the new album, and the as yet unreleased (and very Waiting For My Man esque) Prefab Ambulation which they performed as an encore after (yes AFTER) Swallowtail.

The overriding memory of this night ('stabbings' notwithstanding) was the fact this was a kick-ass professional performance from the band. Sure, it was shambolic in parts, and it took them until about the third song before things really started sounding as they should - that's what you get when the circus rolls into town - but the band were as tight as they've been for the last couple of UK tours. It wasn't a flawless gig, there were a number of technical gremlins, and there was the usual abuse from the 'cool' London crowd, but the band didn't let it break their stride. It was mostly good-humoured - even Anton's running gags about the knife crime epidemic in the capital...

Joel, stalking the middle of the stage with a new found post Dilettantes confidence seems to have found a whole new raft of stage moves, and a longer-haired Frankie Emerson was a little more, well, let's just say animated, than usual. Emerson was given free reign on Golden Frost. Apparently he made up his own words to that one...

Carruthers, however, was the real star of tonight. He's played bass guitar on a couple of the greatest modern psych/drone albums of modern times, and he brought his swagger and poise to the BJM basslines like never before, complementing Anton's guitar perfectly, freeing them from the freelovebabies. Sorry Collin, but may this collaboration long continue.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre in London: always an experience, always lots of talking points. Surely, the band are never slick, and their set is always full of peaks and troughs, highs and lows. Tonight, however, any troughs just made the peaks seem even clearer. It's just a shame Frankie had to die in the process.

There are two main types of types of psychedelia in this age of the new trippy dawn. The first, and by far the most abundant, is a fanciful, floppy-haired Nuggets-carrying, tamborine banging type of whimsy. The second is an all-absorbing, terrifying, boot in the brain style affair - one that rips open your skull and turns the darkness of your soul inside out. Or something. Whatever it is, we got both types on show at Cargo tonight...

First up was the sheer brilliance of The Heads. Now The Heads are from Bristol - a city more traditionally known for its trip-hop music scene that birthed the likes of Tricky, Massive Attack and Portishead. Formed in 1994, The Heads couldn't be further removed from that scene, but clearly have a shared interest in deeply psychotropic substances. Rather than just nibbling mushrooms and keeping it all inside, The Heads are focused on conveying the whole drugs experience through music to an unsuspecting public. Before I start sounding like some wisened old hippy who wasted his youth at the UFO club, I mean the band mess with their audiences heads - and they do this with a combination of an insanely psychedelic (in the true sense of the word) visuals and light show (why don't more psych bands make a big show of their lights - the mighty Asteroid #4 excepted...?) In short, The Heads, with a combination of heavy grooves - think Dead Meadow heavier and, well, groovier, Stooges-esque riffs and a 'don't give a fuck' attitude - were the most exhilarating live band I've seen all year. Head on over to: http://www.myspace.com/theheadsrock and check them out for yourselves. Better than that, check them out live. You'll be blown away.

The Wooden Shjips (no, its not a fucking typo) are the other side of the psychedelic coin (if such a thing could possibly exist). Their self-titled debut album, as well as their follow-up collection of early singles have got rave reviews around the cool kid muso websites and tracks such as Dance California really are refreshingly creative and hypnotic. They've even drawn comparisons with the legendary Les Rallizes Denudes. Live, however, was a different story - just couldn't pull off the majesty of their recorded work. Whilst the album is a multi-layered, mesmerising work of staggering beauty, the live performance was someone one-dimensional. Any band would have suffered in front of an audience whose ears were still ringing after The Heads, but the whilst the Bristolians had depth the San Fanciscans seemed to be playing the same song over and over again. And then once more. They were OK, but they JUST WEREN'T THE HEADS. Worth a listen, though.

Ok, so this isn't the first blog that I've started, and it isn't going to be the last. I'm going to try and keep this separate from my day job, and use it as a way of getting me to focus on my writing/honing my critical faculties. So now you know.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Forum, London, July 16, 2008

It's rare that you go to a gig and wake up the next morning to The Sun printing a story about how the guitarist has been stabbed to death. Thankfully, the Currant Bun got it wrong on this occasion (there was, apparently, an incident that remains shrouded in mystery - whatever the record company says), but it'll surely go down in history as yet another episode in the ongoing soap opera that is The Brian Jonestown Massacre.

Cards on the table, the Jonestown are one of my very favourite bands. I've probably seen them more times than is healthy (my girlfriend would definitely agree). What with the countless stories of Newcombe-isms and general musical shenanigans, its almost easy to forget that the BJM remain one of the greatest live bands around - the grandaddys of the 'neo-psych' movement and a true bunch of innovators.

When the circus rolls into London, there's always talk that 'the band never put on a good show in the capital' or 'Anton always loses it at the big gigs'. For me, apart from one, notable drunken exception at Koko in June 2008, those fears have always been unfounded. The Forum date, was possibly their biggest triumph to date in London town. The same line-up that we've grown accustomed to over the last couple of years (is this the most stable Jonestown line-up ever?), with the notable addition of Willie B Carruthers (yes, the other one from Spacemen 3 and the first Spiritualized album) replacing the honeymooning Collin Henga on bass.

Some of the more hardcore BJM-ers (to be found lurking here:http://keepmusicevil.freeforums.org/) have bemoaned the lack of variation in the band's setlist over the last couple of tours. I freely admit to considering myself whether I'd pay the admission fee to hear 'Whoever You Are' open the set for what seems like the millionth time. Tonight, the setlist saw a number of welcome additions; yes we got firm set staples - Nailing Honey To The Bee, Here it Comes, the ever majestic Hide & Seek, When Jokers Attack, Servo and Swallowtail, but we also got a couple of relative newbies - Yeah Yeah and Golden Frost off the new album, and the as yet unreleased (and very Waiting For My Man esque) Prefab Ambulation which they performed as an encore after (yes AFTER) Swallowtail.

The overriding memory of this night ('stabbings' notwithstanding) was the fact this was a kick-ass professional performance from the band. Sure, it was shambolic in parts, and it took them until about the third song before things really started sounding as they should - that's what you get when the circus rolls into town - but the band were as tight as they've been for the last couple of UK tours. It wasn't a flawless gig, there were a number of technical gremlins, and there was the usual abuse from the 'cool' London crowd, but the band didn't let it break their stride. It was mostly good-humoured - even Anton's running gags about the knife crime epidemic in the capital...

Joel, stalking the middle of the stage with a new found post Dilettantes confidence seems to have found a whole new raft of stage moves, and a longer-haired Frankie Emerson was a little more, well, let's just say animated, than usual. Emerson was given free reign on Golden Frost. Apparently he made up his own words to that one...

Carruthers, however, was the real star of tonight. He's played bass guitar on a couple of the greatest modern psych/drone albums of modern times, and he brought his swagger and poise to the BJM basslines like never before, complementing Anton's guitar perfectly, freeing them from the freelovebabies. Sorry Collin, but may this collaboration long continue.

The Brian Jonestown Massacre in London: always an experience, always lots of talking points. Surely, the band are never slick, and their set is always full of peaks and troughs, highs and lows. Tonight, however, any troughs just made the peaks seem even clearer. It's just a shame Frankie had to die in the process.

The Heads, The Wooden Shjips, London Cargo, July 13th 2008.

There are two main types of types of psychedelia in this age of the new trippy dawn. The first, and by far the most abundant, is a fanciful, floppy-haired Nuggets-carrying, tamborine banging type of whimsy. The second is an all-absorbing, terrifying, boot in the brain style affair - one that rips open your skull and turns the darkness of your soul inside out. Or something. Whatever it is, we got both types on show at Cargo tonight...

First up was the sheer brilliance of The Heads. Now The Heads are from Bristol - a city more traditionally known for its trip-hop music scene that birthed the likes of Tricky, Massive Attack and Portishead. Formed in 1994, The Heads couldn't be further removed from that scene, but clearly have a shared interest in deeply psychotropic substances. Rather than just nibbling mushrooms and keeping it all inside, The Heads are focused on conveying the whole drugs experience through music to an unsuspecting public. Before I start sounding like some wisened old hippy who wasted his youth at the UFO club, I mean the band mess with their audiences heads - and they do this with a combination of an insanely psychedelic (in the true sense of the word) visuals and light show (why don't more psych bands make a big show of their lights - the mighty Asteroid #4 excepted...?) In short, The Heads, with a combination of heavy grooves - think Dead Meadow heavier and, well, groovier, Stooges-esque riffs and a 'don't give a fuck' attitude - were the most exhilarating live band I've seen all year. Head on over to: http://www.myspace.com/theheadsrock and check them out for yourselves. Better than that, check them out live. You'll be blown away.

The Wooden Shjips (no, its not a fucking typo) are the other side of the psychedelic coin (if such a thing could possibly exist). Their self-titled debut album, as well as their follow-up collection of early singles have got rave reviews around the cool kid muso websites and tracks such as Dance California really are refreshingly creative and hypnotic. They've even drawn comparisons with the legendary Les Rallizes Denudes. Live, however, was a different story - just couldn't pull off the majesty of their recorded work. Whilst the album is a multi-layered, mesmerising work of staggering beauty, the live performance was someone one-dimensional. Any band would have suffered in front of an audience whose ears were still ringing after The Heads, but the whilst the Bristolians had depth the San Fanciscans seemed to be playing the same song over and over again. And then once more. They were OK, but they JUST WEREN'T THE HEADS. Worth a listen, though.

The first time

Ok, so this isn't the first blog that I've started, and it isn't going to be the last. I'm going to try and keep this separate from my day job, and use it as a way of getting me to focus on my writing/honing my critical faculties. So now you know.