Red Meow

My kitten found some chillies in a bag this morning on the shelves where we keep jars of sugar, pasta and rice. They were the dried sort, with a really strong thwack tingling in the face built in them. Bored of mild curry, my boyfriend bought them a few moths ago and has been slyly integrating them into our meals to build some kind of fire resistance. I don’t mind this, until a seriously sized volcano of purple and red erupts and then continues to spill pain lava in my mouth, when I hit a slither of the white membrane or a slinky little seed. Everyone knows the seeds and white bits in the chilli are the throat shrinkers and tongue numb creators. ‘The bite in chilli is called Capsaicin. Most of the capsaicin is contained in the seeds and the membrane which when removed makes the chilli milder.’ My kitten, like Charlie, had not had the foresight to remove the seeds or membrane before attacking said chillies this sunrise. The seeds were sprinkled like inferno rain all over the floor, the chillies hearts ripped open, and kitten Francois’ eyes watering.

Well, at least to me they looked slightly red and moister than normal, a little duller than their normal swimming pool of black pupil, and take me hunting excitable selves. What do you do when your kitten eats chillies? Bathe the ginger fluff in natural yoghurt? Take him to the vets to get his little stomach pumped? Anguished and not quite risen I decided to get out the hoover and suck up the remaining seeds and skins on the floor. From the scuttling sounds this morning, Francois had been playing with the shrivelled bombs like they were insects. As I struggled to catch the flying skins from the mini swiping paws and claws, I considered that perhaps the chillies were mere toys to the Tom, as opposed to cheese, crisps or bread that he eats with relish. Maybe no amount of chilli passed the cheeky chops.

I just don’t know.

Right now he is locked in a ball, occasionally adopting a superman pose and stretching out his back paw toes. I’m looking for watery eyes still. I’m hoping there isn’t a ball of fire in the lion’s belly. I got some natural yoghurt in Spar just in case it helps. I think I’ll stay in and look after him tonight. The boy needs a lap and some gourmet. I wish he could speak.

I do believe this looks good. Maybe as a film elite, elite you'd be having none of this. Is this between the action movie/rom com ala Jennifer Aniston and the very obscure one that it just so frikkin, damn silently ahead? Prob's. I like what the film critic Nathan Rabin said about the female protagonist - like many in 'these' (Juno/Eternal Sunshine/You, me...)- she is quirky endearing. Hate the word quirky now. You can buy it in my shop for £3.99. See: Manic Pixie Dream Girl: [T]hat bubbly, shallow cinematic creation that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of writer directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.'

A help line letter on style

Grinding my gears

What is with these fixed wheel kids cramming up the streets? Coloured wheels and tight trousers… what happens when they try and go up one of those high gradients eh? Or when a squirrel runs out into the road and there are no brakes to pull?

Wondering more about these spindly chumps, I forfeited one of my three carbon evil Google searches of the day and had a butchers at what the crack actually is. How far had this gone? I couldn’t believe the phenomenal outcome. Galleries dedicated to the yearning and salivating of potential ‘cool’ upgrades. Forums for the hill struggling riders. Sites and sites of the trading of these bikes. These ‘fixies’ have spread like melted butter. Oily mess.

Historically, couriers used to use them in the 1980s in New York. They are the most simplistic bikes, and back then they were cheap as fries, and (due to the fact you have to ‘commit’ to every bump and swerve in the road) they are quick. The couriers in London started to use them a bit later. And then they began to slowly acquire the trend ace card. So now they’re bloody expensive, the cool factor whacking up the pricing (just like they did with Casio watches. Sick.). They are also now massive in Germany (see film: Fixed City), so we’re talking a Global mania, infiltrating all aspects of modern life. The ‘fixie’ kid, is the new capitalism pick up. But still…so bloody cool. Best thing I saw as testament to this credential, the ‘Shoreditch Bike Polo Invitational’, sponsored by Brooks. My god.

However, amongst this, I saw a backlash to ‘we’re so different, we’re so unique, are you…?’ thing. Namely someone shooting fixed wheel bikes with bazookas. I mean, I just don’t know how to take the whole movement. In Bristol, I am sad to report, I have had many a bike stolen from my clutches, swiftly taken and sold for glue in the meaner streets, I presume. If I was to indulge in this trend, I think the tough kids would twist its dainty metal into oblivion. I may go to a man in Bristol and get one of the original ‘fixies’ of the 80s before they quadruple in price… Do you think that’s the right decision? I mean when it comes down to it, I’m all for a trend me (although I do live up a hill).

Yours,

Bertie

Synecdoche New York - May 2009

Introspection mixed with confusion, and then the swirling somewhat forced suspension of disbelief. This film, that I can’t pronounce- Synecdoche New York, Synecdoche meaning; ahem... ‘a figure of speech in which the word for part of something is used to mean the whole, e.g. 'sail' for 'boat', or vice versa’. I don’t think I have ever used that word before, but when you watch the film, what it means makes sense. I get the feeling that I am already making little sense myself in these words. I blame the film for this. I have never in my years spent sitting on red velvety flip seats, ever heard so little noise emit from an audience at the end of a film. When I sat down I was next to a loved up couple that were absolutely Sunday stoned. They were giggling, the guy at some points outright laughing. And at the beginning the film certainly was pretty funny. The lead actor, Philip Seymour Hoffman is comical, and Charlie Kaufman’s films have a painfully, startlingly truthful comedy about them. Quite black, but so good/to the bone, it’s funny and hurts a little in equal amounts. As the film progressed, however the laughs became more sporadic, turning increasingly to sighs, exasperation, and sadness. By the time the film was over, Mr and Mrs Romantically Stoned were static and silent. Black, that’s what this film is, a black hole, or a blank slate. Essentially saying ‘we all live in our own little bubbles, where we are the centre of our story’, what’s yours? You decide. The protagonist, the hero, the God, the one you want everything to work out for the most. PSH plays a theatre director with a terrible sense of impending doom. Of his death, the end of it all, he awaited life, now is waiting for death. So much so, that at the back of my mind there sat a little fairy dressed in black whispering ‘are you Ok?, Could you be dying right now too, as something small attacks, tap, tap, tap?’ Errrrm. It is all encompassing, this world of tragedy, fear and occasional love, punctuated by subtle bits of humour. You the audience are seeing the life of Caden as he sees it, and as a theatre director would see it. Caden is trying to recreate authenticity, whilst fiction blurs with fantasy, as he attempts to make sense of his melancholic life- on a life size stage. Some parts are genius fantastical realism, for example the character of Hazel – she just IS fantastical realism, her house consistently on fire throughout the film, smouldering, and burning as she buys it, ‘it’s a big decision to decide where you will die’. The film is a theatre, allowing fantasy, and a reminder that we are all in our own theatres. Inside our own heads, living with our own thoughts, own actions and dreams. It is an acknowledgement to life, and living yours. And of course, that every one person is as important as the next person. Thinking about it afterwards, I concluded haphazardly that you are as special as you think that you are, because it is you that has to think and believe it. You are not dying. But you could, so appreciate your show.

Bored of Folk (for a little while)

Feeling a bit saturated by that aniti folk blah now. It's time for a little change of whack a dack. I like this. And they are playing in Brisol in June.

Jeffrey Lewis and The Junkyard @ Thekla 27/04/2009

The warming up of guitars accompanied by the humming sounds of Fletcher, the only female member, was a sweet introduction to a swaying, stomping boat ride at the Thekla. Jeffrey started the set with 'Sea Song', my particular, most repeated tune. 'Sea Song' is a ride on the open seas and a submerging into the depths of the fishy, murky bottom, as the fish are made anthropomorphic, and you sail in a clear submarine. It takes you away from the mundane you may be experiencing. His voice was a little crackly at the start, with its strong American drawl tearing out the lyrics. I imagine that his voice has been used all day and night, discussing his observations, views and musings. His scratchy voice soon heated up however, whilst retaining his rusty raw sound, and the tunes flowed up, round and very central. The band speckled the slower songs with a smack of punky, which Jeffrey and his brother Jack seemed to enjoy chaotically. The other two members looked on, as the brothers delved head first into their punk love. A sibling thing, that happened to make a seriously inspiring sound. Jeffrey (and the band)is very likeable. His comments between songs are like those made by your friends, 'one' can imagine sitting around on robust logs with him. Punctuated by words like ‘gosh!’ and 'darn!', love it. Towards the end, Jeffrey transformed the audience into a class and gave a lesson with a song and a comic book on the troubles in Korea. An unexpected education, illustrated through the powers of music and art. His new album tracks:'Upside down Cross', and 'Broken, Broken, Broken Heart'...along with the rest of the album. Excellentile. Let the tunes speak. Jeffrey has the poetic lyrics, the mind, the hope and the belief in people to make some of the best music around. And live, he is even more than just a performer. He truly is a poet, a thought provoker, an educator and an instiller of faith in the goodness of people and yourself, as you trundle through life.

MOVIE: Let The Right One In - 04/2009

A vampire movie created in Sweden. A fairytale. Young and innocent love mixed with brutal necessity set within the ethereal, icy climes of Winter season Svenska. The light is white. Or it is murky black. The jumpers are thick, the boots heavy, and the silences long. They are cold and fearful or simple and tingling. The mood is set with angular looks, internal breathing and a carrying soundtrack.

Let The Right One In centres around a boy, Oskar, and a vampire girl named Eli, set in 1982. The two meet outside their housing block, on the climbing frame covered in snow, and from that moment they embark on a relationship. It is both delicate, as the film shows them throw themselves into the pit of love, and treacherous. Oskar is an endearing, touching and humorous lead. Bullied at school, his parents live separately and he yearns for a deeper sense of belonging, and has a vision of crushing his bullies. Eli provides for him, a friend, an accomplice, a companion, and an emblem of strength. Eli herself is controlling. Being a vampire, she has that capability. But yet, she is still soft and gentle, even with blood forming red lines from her mouth.

There are no other characters that are given this voyeuristic camera time. This may be the reason why you become so incorporated in the presence, and the silence surrounding the two leads. Set off further by the crisp freshness, it’s a beautifully brutal tale of purity, love, and blood.

Not a People Carrier - The Italian Motor Show, Bristol 25/04/2009

In my new home dwelling of Bristol, I was ambling through the concrete, my mind redundant, my vision filled with City shaped stimuli. The yellow sun was reflecting off home glazing and glinting in speckles through the urban trees and the liberated for the weekend office buildings, forming angular and flowery shapes on my passage. I could say that right then I was contented as pie. Quiet in sprawl. Then, as if in a 1930s red lipstick pouting, bowler hat and quick tapper tap of getaway shoes, there was a BANG! (written in a bubble). This was no kid with a plastic sheriff badge, this BANG! shook the revolving doors. ‘What the...’, I thought. Darn and Blast!!

I quickened my pace considering my recent move to City sirens, a good point fairy on one shoulder and a bad on the other. This doesn’t happen in Kernow! As my frowning walk took me down an ally, I came across a collection of men all clutching polishing cloths. I’ve walked into the eye of the BANG! storm I thought, considering putting my hands in the air. But what kind of gang is this? Polishing cloths? They were surrounded by a crowd of milling people from a confusingly wide demographic. Clearly not actually scary, this was like a family gathering. I looked beyond them, and saw, quietly shining in the sun, a series of vintage 1980s cars. One had her bonnet up, as a man of about 60 sat on its leather quarters and revved her up, BANG! Ahhh. Sense made. These were motors with perms. Maintenance required, creating fearful shootings in the sound waves. People fascinated by the wheeled metal.

I walked further on (to what I discovered was the Bristol Vintage Motor show), and found the ‘Bristol Mod Squad’, clad in ‘The’ fur lined parkas and straight trousers. Their hands stuffed heavily in parka pockets, their posture leaning back with self-assurance. Faces occupied by an expression still holding and resonating from the passionate sense of belonging and comradeship from 40 years past. I looked at the line of scooters they stood behind. The multitude of wing mirrors and lights upon them clearly labelling, and making their group statement from within their sphere of youth. Transported now to 2009 with nostalgia and continued belief in unity, the scooters continue to be an emblem of the internal workings of the squad.

I continued, and found whole spectrums of vintage. Low down cars with eyelid lights, that the ‘Avengers’ and ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ definitely chased around in. ‘James Bond’s’ smooth lined, grey ice, alluringly dangerous Aston Martin. I stroked some beautifully kept 1950s cars that I have seen in photos with my young Grandparents inside, enjoying the realms of the beginning of a love affair. I smiled at a collection of cheeky, pastel coloured Fiat bubbles, waiting to float off on riotous trips, with headscarves and fairy cake picnics. I chuckled at the famous Morris Minor, and lusted with a vampires want at the Fiat Spider sports cars. I actually KNOW one would be perfect for my regular trips to windy French mountainous roads. In powder blue. I also walked past many young men next to sports cars, engrossed in admiration and questions with their proud owners. Owners they passed on the street the day before this day.

The show of motors, (and the power of the vintage auto) bought out the nostalgic, rose tinted memories of the older, the stories from associations of the youth, the fantasies of the desiring and the affections of the belonged. To have a vintage car is to have a dream, a bubble of a fairyland. It allows the imagination to become a reality, and the characters, passions, excitements and feelings of the past to be carried to the morning suns and starry nights.

I REALLY WANT ONE

Phantom Limb 03/04/2009

The upper floor of the Louisana trembled in the sound waves of the penetrating voice. The crowd moved in small swaying circles, the truly dedicated fans losing their thoughts into the padded bed of reverberations. Phantom Limb are a band that have a song writing skill and a leading vocalist that you want to take with you wherever you may go. From Bristol to the Philippines, they have an ability to communicate, to transcend confines and travel to the nether reaches of Timbuktu. The majority of the crowd tonight came with a log book of past gigs and a mind set to Limb. Their barriers were locked down, and Phantom Limb delivered their set on a diamond plate.

I was told after listening to Phantom Limb on someone else’s i pod at work, that you only can truly achieve that overwhelming shattering of boundaries and eardrums when you see them live. They didn’t blow my categorised cobwebs when I listened to them at my dull as polishing coal job. However, there was one song that melted into my numbed soul, Good Fortune. Incidentally it was the first song that they played in the Louisiana rectangle. And live it affected me in a way that was unexpected, having only hearing it in my own little zone, this was a far more powerful track with a face. The elongated notes stretched out to the seas, and took me up a tree to a fantasy land with silvery blue sparkling waters and dark jade forestry. Of course, Yolanda Quartey works with Bristol’s Massive Attack, singing live with them. One of the most escapingly beautiful bands I’ve ever heard live/at all. So I was expecting some sort of fluttering, but this was more of a gliding through the blue sky as opposed to a flowering butterfly thing. Really nice.

Now Yolanda; Combining country, soul and gospel, Yolanda’s voice is a weapon of such incredible force, it literally floors you. And it is just so LOUD! I think that the sound genies could have twisted those volume dials down a tad. I’ve since been told that normally she is EVEN louder. She is such an expressive and confident woman, she is probably more comfortable on the pyramid stage that in a little pub. That voice could fill nine fields, and make the sheep pass out. Able to really unleash, she would have no trouble with filling that stage. And blimey, did her confidence gIve me a little kick up the feminist ass. Shoulders back, head high and appreciate that body of yours. Yolanda is definitely aware that confidence will take you anywhere you want to go. And with that confidence she in turn takes her crowd, those utterly adoring fans, and her dedicated and talented band where she wants.

Their last song was true testament to the band’s skills, electrifying the audience and working harmoniously with Yolanda, they produced a dancing jam session. It riled up the crowd, and left an after dinner minty freshness that produced a desire for more, and an energy for an everlasting evening. Boom!!

I popped into the ladies before leaving the pub, and was immediately talking LOUDly to four besotted, affected women. They were visibly thrown by the performance, and were clearly riding high on their triggered emotions. What a power Phantom Limb clearly has.

I would say, if you see the Limb advertised, you should, SHOULD see them. Marvel at the resonating voice, the lyrics, the power of sound, and the working of an ass. I am very doubtful you will be disappointed.

Crimes of Passion - Street Art in Bristol RWA 03 - 05 2009

Rebellion and resistance integrated into the mainstream (well, into Clifton. Darling). So a prestigious gallery space in a massive, beautiful building full of all the history of Bristol, a pillar of it, a symbol, an emblem, a STARK MASSIVE BENTLEY for the small man... of Bristol. Basically, if I was a Clifton thoroughbred, I would be all over this gallery. Oh the raaa dee raaa raaaa of Clifton high society. But! What is this?! Is Clifton like gettin’ well street? Well yes, it is. Kind of...

So, the giant phallic symbol of Clifton has allowed 50 of Bristol’s ‘celebrated street artists to invade the city’s grandest gallery for six weeks this Spring’. And aint it grand. I muse as the GIANT contradiction walks around. The pearly adorned, Babour jacket wearing people of high society project their artistic knowledge onto this criminal (?) exhibition with purposeful voices. They are on unknown territory, the horse has jumped the fence into the caravan field. But they are willing to have a cup of tea bag tea. Now, now, these are the VERY people who do NOT approve of resistance, of anything against the grain of smooth living. Especially Mr Spray Can.

‘Actually, you are ruining the smooth flow of my wine down my gullet, you’re a scratch on the Merc, a nuisance, a pain and you remind me that I didn’t necessarily want a life like this. Once I may have rebelled a tad myself. Or thought about it. Conformity and the dream; the wealth, the house, the walls with not a speck of riff and certainly no raff! Plain walls please, safe. And you know, actually ,I’ve put a lot of effort into getting my walls like this. Don’t make me choke on my wine, with a reminder of something else.'

I would say that in many eyes, graffiti is definitely wrong. But on the walls of a gallery, it is...OK? I am confused. I muse.

Perhaps it is the more youthful people in Clifton. Maybe all those 500,000 Audi driving, North Face kids are remembering their youth raving or something. But then when I went there, I saw many an older customer pondering over the works of Sickboy, Inkie and 3D. But I am left wondering, now, when they see a piece of street art are they going to discuss its merits with vigour, or tut in disdain?

Now, as far as the exhibition itself goes, it is most impressive. The artists have been allowed to paint on the walls of the gallery itself, which makes the whole over the borders thing clear, but more than that, it looks very effective on the carefully maintained, historic walls. Within the confines of a frame would be against the format. There are some little unexpected gems, such as two stuffed seagulls, one dressed as a hobo seagull and the other as a gangster. Also some huge curvaceous female figures carved out, a dinosaur ‘made into’ Bristol, and some obviously marvellous graffiti that you will have to see, as I am not sure how to write about some of it. Regardless though, these guys have the potential to cash in. Most pieces were priced at 1-2 thousand pounds. Nice, nice. But are the Cliftoners going to really have their sprays over the mantelpiece? I don’t think many of these people have seen that much graffiti, I definitely can’t imagine them around Stokes Croft et al. In this respect it is good. They are able to see it properly, stand there and really look, without their acquaintances guffawing or feeling intimidated. It is quite amusing too, that they are essentially being made to appreciate it by the very conformity that dictates them. AND, there are some tamer pieces that are just plain beautiful, such as the mirror pond. Also, the squirrel with an alligators head. Like twisted hunting.

However, is all this selling the resistance of graffiti? Are these unlikely appreciators really seeing the graffiti ‘properly’? Is the statement graffiti makes muted hideously by hanging it on capitalism’s wall? Surely it is better to view graffiti where it is intended to be? The very fact that it is sprayed over grey, dull walls is so that is says, ‘this frikkin sucks! Ahh, but look how much more interesting this is?’ Art. They are asking for you to be out of your comfort zone, it is more than artistically interesting/brilliant. So I don't know, is it stripped of its depth of meaning by being put on the walls of Clifton’s giant phallus? Or is it really just laughing at them? Making copious money from the very people that opposed them?

I personally am hoping that the people of Clifton, by going to this exhibition, are getting a little pulse of rebellion in their souls. That it is reminding them that there is ‘other’, not just completely mainstreaming something. Banksy is already now appreciated throughout his Bristol homeland. Perhaps now all graffiti will stay?! Whatever, I do hope that the graffiti artists retain their fighting, creative spirit, they don’t just wallow in their glory. Many of the best artists have been appreciated posthumously, dying with a yearning, it never left their art. A deeply contented graffiti artist.... hmm would they spray with such vigour? Now, I don’t think these guys should die and then everyone go, ‘ahhhh wasn’t he great!’, I just don’t want them to be all chummy with the wall proposers/builders. And I do think that these guys have the ability to see beyond monetary successes. They have passion and that is their appeal for me. And oh... it's the title of the exhibition. In the meantime, in this ‘current economic climate’ (HATE WORDS) kudos for selling to the rich, for modern appreciation and for providing a very interesting exhibition.

Noah and The Whale 15/03/2009

A girl entered his life within the haze of Summer’s gold. They sat up all night drinking cheap wine, smoking and nonsensically yabbering about the most important things in their rosy sphere. That Summer they are so unfeasibly happy, riding together in a huge theme park in the sky. It’s real love sprinkling their every millimetre with sparkling, golden sand. A sand that will never, ever be able to be removed from all those tiny places. Noah and The Whale’s songs are the Summer of absolute and complete love. Then in contrast to the blinding yellow, there is the beige. The songs that are the questions, is this really until holy matrimony? Is it infinite, or for this all encompassing ending second?

And then finally the blue, full of slow strumming and desolation, the songs when the buzzing Summer Queen bee has clearly left the Noah nectar. She has gone and he waits for her. He sleeps with someone else. And still he waits for her. The sand stuck in his heart. He loves her. ‘I fell in love with the world and you. Death do not feel like the victor, ‘cos my poor life makes you none the richer.’ – Hold my Hand as I’m Lowered. The world opened to him through the united heartbeats, is now a peep hole in a well.

With The Whale there is the elation, as you skip through the barley fields and eat candyfloss on the pier, then the anxiety, the yearning, the deepest despair and the end. I want him in his Summer! Then that’s not real life I suppose, and without this massive sadness, where would the poetry and the empathy be? When I first heard Noah and The Whale, I thought they were the Summer straw trilby of music, but when I listened to them more, and saw them live on Sunday, I was far more hit by the slower, straining songs. That’s not to say that 5 Years Time wasn’t a stamping joy, and there were a multitude of couples in the hausen. I loved it! But I think that the song writing poetries should not be blurred by the light of the Summer hits simplicity.

The set itself was complimented by the ultra slick lighting and the films playing in the background. The films were created by a variety of collections of people, most to support the songs themselves. Many of them were made to look like old films, filled with memories of happiness, nostalgic and romantic. They filled the audience with a contented warm light buzz. The strobe lighting on lead singer, Charlie was very striking and linked the silhouette of him playing to the rolling film in the background. Minus the ukulele, (ow...) the band had a little rock out at the end of many of their songs. With their electric guitars and the violin it was a varied and inspiring sound. Charlie himself talked a little between the songs, telling the audience about his ‘love’ for Bris. Course. He also asked for a bit of participation from his (many adoring girl) fans to join him in singing the line; ‘In a year it will be better!’- ahh the love that struck him down. In a year, the world will be a different place. Who knows what it may bring... more of the screaming girl fans? I hope he gets the love strike again. But keeps it til the forevers this time. But then all the songs would be Summer, and you need the Winter. That’s where Noah and The Whale get their real depth, and makes for a wholesome show that leaves you with many emotions touched.

Emmy The Great 26/02/2009

The dark wooded pub was full of silent admirers as Emmy sweetly sung her sensitive and often comical lyrics. Her guitar gently lolled along beside her rhyming words, like her favourite toy bouncing beside her as she walks through her land. Her tone rising and falling with the lines, and a violin and second guitar joining in with the poetry created a delicate, but full and wholesome sound. Like a creamy dessert, with some big chunks of fruit. Light, fluffy and sweet, but with a real fruity bite, Emmy’s a girl that the boys like as their mate (adoringly, of course), but also a real girl, with the emotions and such.

During the gaps between songs, Emmy divulged little snippets about herself. ‘I wrote about this when I got my Mooncup’, for example. Liberating? By mentioning these little things that are so personal the audience gets a feel for the cheeky, naughty Emmy. Unafraid to let strangers know about her little details, she doesn’t shy away from the cold and basic reality. Getting the lyrics wrong she shouts, ‘Shit, wrong, wrong!’, she is on one hand a vulnerable femme, and on the other straight talking and very funny.

The realism of her stage persona is reflected in her lyrics. ‘We almost had a baby’ for example, starting with the line, ‘you didn’t stop when I told you to stop’. Title and first line indicating throes of passion and the fearful little consequences. Not exactly the super romantic stuff that flows from many a mouths. She articulates the situations so well. Spelling them out with no gloss, or spangle, she told you to stop! You almost had a baby! The title track of her first album, ‘First Love’ is full of the soaring highs and the imperfections of a first love. ‘I wish that I had never met you the night you said you said you had a room you have music to play’, BUT, ‘I would do it again, and I would forget like I would piss on a grave, I would piss on a grave’. Climaxing with ‘Hallelujah, hallelujah and the sky was so much bluer, and the world was so much newer’. Just because ‘hallelujah’ was in the tape deck, doesn’t mean it was a ‘hallelujah’ moment, but then the love felt right there and then... Ahh the excitement, the touch, the brewing life and brimming lustful heart, spilling over into love! Surely everyone knows how that feels? Her words and emotions are so believable and sung so sweetly, often with just herself and her guitar, it is as if it is you right there, sitting in your bedroom, and she is singing you her moments and stories. Taking you with her as she walks down the street with her favourite toy, and her open heart and thoughts.

The Polecats 21/02/2009

Standing in the smoky bit outside of the Fiddlers, I was surrounded by lots of denim jacket wearing men, some hooded men, and a few girls with silky head bands tied in a knot. I was in a really confusing place right then, in that alley place. And as the cigarette smoke fogged my vision, my reality sailed off to an island and left me completely, what time zone was this exactly? After walking back in and having an unpleasant chat with a bar manager who wouldn’t accept that I asked his barman for a single whisky, not a double (customer aint lying), I was in a bit of eyebrow raising mood. Whilst still up for a good time, the atmosphere had distinctly altered since I walked back in, and not just because of my whisky agro.





As I stood in the middle of the room and waited for next act, The Polecats, a band started in the 70s, and proper Bristol boys like, I really wasn’t sure what to expect from this crowd. The swinging ladies were now relaxing on the sidelines, and all I could see was denim, skinheads, denim, and (for those still with it), excessively gelled hair. And then drum roll... The Polecats(!!), started their punk, rockabilly set. Immediately I felt a hand sweep me aside as three denims stomped to the front, which instantly became the original pit. They threw each other around, slammed about and crashed me into the world of pole. I wasn’t sure whether these men had ever changed their hair since the 70s, perhaps as a sign of their devotion, they were true fans of these guys, and the band knew it. This was old school love, home love and a whizz back to the beginnings of punk and rockabilly. The Polecats gave an energised performance and delivered to their fans. However, I didn’t see the passion, yearning and the slight element of modesty that I like to see in an act, just a teeny bit. But then these guys know they rock, they’ve been told it for decades. Perhaps I just haven’t seen enough old school punk, it is the arrogance, the ‘screw you’ that makes them punk. I did want to see a bit more of a twinkle in their eyes, and maybe a bit more pizzazz, some spice, and something warm and nice, but again, that aint punk. Overall though, from the set I saw, they are a grand band, with roots in time and place, and for this they have some serious respect. They perform for their fans and exude the qualities of musical past. They didn’t get under my skin, but I know those clad in denim had a sparkling night.

The Zen Hussies - Bristol, Fiddlers 21/02/2009

The hair gel came out and the swing switched max on. The Zen Hussies came out to play on Saturday 21st February and they took the audience in their time machine and buzzed me, themselves and everyone, to a land where the crunch aint hittin’. And what a fantastic grunting, rolling voice the lead singer has. A Victoria sponge cake with fluorescent icing, the Hussies have the style and sound of the swing era, combined with a flourish of the modern, a bare footed sax player, a smattering of the modern hippy/new retro glam. The bare brick walls of the venue adding the element of an old dance hall, or a 30s jazz club perhaps.

So refreshing to watch a band play this kind of music live, and have so many adoring fans, dancing in circles, or with a burlesque feminine flourish. Nostalgia is hitting the world pretty hard right now with the recession, and has for a long time. Increasingly now, young people are also looking to that ‘simpler’ time. Whether it was or not, we/they weren’t even there, but the music taps into the idealistic dreams of the old, and the style separates the girls and the boys with colour and frivolity.

You, audience member, are your Granny and Granddad when they fell in love. But you are them in 2009, so one must add a bit of the something that wouldn't have been there before...your Granny wouldn’t be proactively dancing next to your potential Granddad in 1945. But they wanted to... didn't they? The Zen Hussies embrace all the qualities of an old dance in your local hall, then put in some liberalism. You can see they have been through the 60s free love session. Their stage presence is a little more modern, they roll in the element of the new hippy. Their audience are people that like to dress up, to embrace creativity, and a touch of knitting. They make their own clothes and dance to old school, 'real' music.

...They would all look fantastic playing in the woods with fairy lights, flowing fabric and men in brown suits with waistcoats.

The Zen Hussies are a modern Jazz. They take a portion of youth's past exuberance, music and style, and then add a dollop of the naughty but friendly new. Love it. A contented smiling, twirling act, helped by the atmosphere being so friendly and appealing. A combination of all we know and all we are waiting for.


Certainly I would recommend this band of jazzy, swingy, cool kids. They embrace all that is tea and cakes on an afternoon, having a good old dance, swinging and smiling, red lipstick and smirks. A really deliciously sexy combination. And they’re local.

Sons of Noel and Adrian 18/02/2009

A choir of booming voices, whistling, a multitude of instruments, a man with an incredible, indescribable, deep, low voice and a background of passion. Sons of Noel and Adrian are from the Midlands, there can be eleven members, there can be five, all have the ability to embed themselves into every note they play. They now reside in Brighton, which is where Mr Mumford and Co, met them and took them flying in their tour bus. On this night, the collection of men entered the stage, lumberjacks, thick rolling hair and sensitive, yet confident smiles as they set up their instruments. A violin started playing, long languorous notes, and silence was set upon the audience. Next a beautiful, light guitar rode next to the violin, and then the unique voice came streaming from the voice of Jacob. They all cantered for a while before drifting dreamily off with one long, slow flap of a bird’s wings, taking you gliding over the hills and oceans. This particular song I am describing here is named Inside Olympia, yet every song they played had the same ethereal quality. Whilst each musician was performing throughout, it seemed that each member was in their own sphere, the music was taking them to somewhere very private. They would sway their heads, closing their eyes they would point their faces down to the wooden floors, or up to the lights. The lead singer, Jacob, had a small frown on his face as the words came from him, with thought and precision. This crease would release as the notes built up to a massive musical outburst from the group. They all stamped their foot in time, reverberating it around the underground blackness, and moved wildly about on stage, like impassioned lovers.



The loud strumming of the guitar, the feisty violin, the double bass, banjo etc. it is the gold pot at the end of the rainbow, the colours streaming in. It is romanticism, country people meeting the city lights, it is the ocean, the trees, the love and the excesses. Pure and delicious, Sons of Noel and Adrian should wear a little sticky Organic label; from the pastures of England and the coastal sweeps, the weeping willows and the buzzing bees, sprout these musical hearts, and take you to their land on a hush of a breeze.

Mumford and Sons 18/02/2009

Streaming and flowing through the low ceilinged room, the guitar notes swirl and spiral, cushioning and blending with the folksy, powerful voice of Marcus. Then the banjo starts to play, and the piano. Then the drum and the tambourine, and then the whole lot begin to rapidly increase in speed and intensity. The guitar gets louder and louder, and the sweat starts to drip. A furrow on the brow, a stomp of the feet and then, like a rocket arriving in space, you are happily transported to a folk rave. You are at the mercy of the notes, floating around, sliding on Saturn’s rings, swinging around the stars. Before once again being taking back down to earth with that voice and those slow notes. All of this is powered by the hands, mouths and hearts of four men, each with their own quirks comfortably exposed on stage. Mumford & Sons take you on a journey, fast paced strumming, mixing with meltingly slow.

Watching the band live makes their sound and talent impact, a whole lot more forceful. The multi instrument playing, the quality of the husky lead voice and the rising climatic combined sound, contentedly delve into the spirits. White Blank Page is a beautiful song. A man lying next to a woman, can he say that his heart is in the same place as his body is? Cue only rage, love, attention and huge anguish. The latter shown through the violin strings, and the acapella. Culminating in the ‘truth’s’ banjos and further acapella. This crescendo building is a bit of a formula for Mumford & Sons, and ensures those listening experience heightened sense of the instruments, the emotions and the folk. A proper ‘ho down’, as Winston said.



I went outside and chatted to one of the band members (the one who chatted on stage the most, Winston). I asked him if he was enjoying tour life, (I could see he clearly was). He said with the exception of his previous night, attempting to chat to girls and then running away like a little rabbit (perhaps), he absolutely loved it, and proceeded to show me his tattoo symbolising his love of ‘The Tour’. He rolled up his sleeve, and there was the word, ‘TOUR’ tattooed on his arm. Love the tour. Winston is an endearing man and I hope that he retains this shy, deeper side, juxtaposed with a distinct cheekiness. One of the band’s qualities is a proper realness, not doing it for the money ambience. Rather they are just spreading their music, hence the lack of album release, as they build their fan base with small gigs like this one. They are right here and right there, your local, the little and the big festival, on the plane, on a bus, enjoying right now, as Mr TOUR said they are, ‘doing what they love doing’ with their mates.

If you can’t watch them in a dark wooded pub, watch them in Summer drinking Cider, with knitwear round your waist and grass on the floor.

Krafty Kuts Motion 6/02/2009

Phew, what a massive line up. This was a pretty grimy night, full of dark beats and squashed up excitement. Motion is quite the epic club. Skate park and warehouse world, spiralling into smaller rooms, and a ferociously cold decking area by the river. The atmosphere was very friendly and both Audio Bullys and Krafty Kuts performed some magic from their heights. There was a large smattering of glitter too for your pleasure, in the shape of ‘Bitch ‘n’ Stitch’, who’ll perform some colourful magic upon the face – brightening you up like Tinkerbell. Because of course, in a way, that’s what this was, Peter Pan, the lost boys, kids who don’t want to grow up, because the parties are so much fun. And mortgages are not. We are all kids dancing around and embracing these years before they trot away from us. This night was a beat lover’s heaven, a short and sparkly night if you wanted it to be, or a long endless one, if that’s your fancy, depending on whether the next day needs to contain anything. With such a good line up and venue though, perhaps everyone should embrace these multicoloured nights in some way at least once in a while.

Karima Francis Review 03/02/2009

When Karima Francis strutted on stage, shiny leggings, vintage jumper and a big mass of hair, then immediately fiddled with her curls and looked cheekily out to the audience, she visibly became the oxymoron that she is. A mad, powerful and effortless ranging voice, with a confident, startling look and incredible presence when she unleashes her sound, combined with shyness, a youth and distinct northern charm.

As soon as that first note escaped Karima, with its perfect and yet startlingly raw sound, mini goose bumps hurtled through me like antelope running from a lion. Literally the most ridiculous live voice I have heard for a very long time. The Cooler wasn’t packed, but it was a nice crowd, some sitting, some slowly absent mindedly swaying. The atmosphere was friendly as each person escaped to their own melodic cabin. Joined by her guitar with its brash little neon ‘Blackpool’ sticker, and her beautifully calm guitarist, the act was such a simple set up. This unfussiness served to support the naivety of her heart’s lyrics and expose 21 year old Karima’s talent. There are hints of Tracey Chapman in her voice, but it’s hard to say she’s like any particular artist, as she has such an individual sound. Where this range hugging, instrument of a voice originated from she doesn’t know. ‘I just wrote a song and the voice kind of came with the words,’ she says, ‘I’ve always had this range, which still shocks me.’

Growing up in Blackpool and Manchester, her Mother would tape her singing Celine Dion songs, telling her she was going to be a great singer one day, as she possessed, ‘this voice’, as Karima states. However she didn’t appreciate her silencing powers in her younger years. Upon finding said tapes, she snapped them and threw them in a field’, as she was so embarrassed. It was only when she moved to Manchester with her Mother, and fell in love that these heart pulling, feel it in your bones and soul lyrics truly came out, unearthed and exposed. As did ‘the voice’,
As testament to her character; between songs, her posture would become loose, her face would crease into a mischievous smile and the glint in her eye filled the time space. Her little anecdotes, a Rolex she found in a charity shop in Cornwall for £10, ‘Karima got herself a Rolex for ten quid, come and ‘ave a look, it’s dead nice’ brought the audience into her little world and made her seem more vulnerable and charming. She also said ‘thank you’ after every applause she received, commenting that it’s so strange and unbelievable to have your own personal emotions and words clapped to. Something that she mentions in an interview; ‘I still have my insecurities. But I must have some confidence to get up on stage and do what I do. When an audience claps at the end of a song, I can’t understand it. I’m just stood there, and there are hundreds of people listening to my words – it’s kind of hard to take in.’

Karima has a talent that is explosive and makes the world a more vivid and bright, colourful place. She has a personality and paradoxical quality that is endearing, entertaining and heart pulling. Her single Chasing the Morning Light resonated within me as I cleaned my teeth at night and the next morning, and her cover of Need Somebody by Kings of Leon transfixes the heart and mind. Karima on the third of February, was ‘ma fave’.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7SR7q3Q17bI Watch this eh.