Archive for September, 2005
There aren’t many bands that are almost 15 years into their career, are still relatively unknown, but who are as consistent or as influential as Clutch.
I first heard them in 1992 when they were signed to a local Nottingham record label called Earache. Their singer had the gruffest voice this side of a death metal band, and they had a strange bluesy element to their sound even though on the surface they seemed to be a punk band. Since then I have purchased every thing they have released, and seen them every time they have been to London. Never once have I been disappointed. The band I saw supporting CKY last night is made up of the same four guys that I heard in the early 90s (with the addition of a guy on Hammond organ), and although their sound is much closer to blues than punk these days, each time I see them it renews my belief in music.
Last night’s gig was a last minute thing. They got asked to support a band formed by the brother of Bam Margera (of Jackass fame) who’s only claim to fame appears to be that they had a load of their music used on Jackass. I don’t want to exhibit favouritism, but judging by the amount of 13 year olds wearing their T-shirts/badges/hats/bags at the Astoria last night their appeal is on a much lower level than Clutch. I’ve never enjoyed their music, and I made a swift exit as soon as Clutch finished their 50 minute set.
Which was, as always, fantastic.
September 30th, 2005
Being woken up by a cat crawling over you at 5am is bad enough.
Being woken at 6am by a crying cat because it’s been locked out of the bedroom is not ideal.
The same cat pissing all over your side of the quilt whilst you’re out at work is an evictable offence.
Yet the cat is still curled up on the sofa as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Sigh.
September 28th, 2005
I got my first camera when I was about six or seven. It was a pretty basic Instamatic affair, took 110 film cartridges and had a lens the size of a freckle. And a purple shutter button if I remember correctly. My mother worked on the photography counter at Boots in Hartlepool from the age of 14 until she was whisked away to the Midlands, and she handed it down to me.
From that point on I was hooked. I would take pictures of anything that moved and everything that didn’t. I have a box at home stuffed with pictures of family members, my Scalextric set, my Dad’s constantly changing company cars, etc. etc.
Christmas 1986 brought my first 35mm camera. A new fangled Snappy S compact camera made by Canon. Suddenly, pictures were in focus, correctly exposed and the negatives were full size like proper professional ones! It just made me more determined to capture everything in front of me. And obviously mother was paying for the processing!
My first SLR came a couple of years later from a school friend who had no use for it. It was a Praktica. It was forged from solid steel and was completely manual. It had a light meter built into the top that never told the truth. It was a rude awakening. But it didn’t really replace the Canon until the mysterious world of the school darkroom was introduced to us. And darkrooms are where I spent a lot of my free time through art college and uni.
There’s nothing like getting your hands on the hidden workings of film processing. Having such control over your images makes it very hard to go back to High Street labs. For some bizarre reason, I never considered photography for a career, and so once I moved to London with my graphics degree and started having to earn a living, photography took a back seat in a massive way. I had a jazzy new Pentax SLR camera, but it only came out to play on special occasions. Boots in Hackney seemed to have an uncanny way of mangling all my films, and using pro labs was too expensive. The final straw came with my friends’ wedding when Kodak in Camden managed to process all my film after seemingly dragging it through a dustbath.
The next month I bought a Canon Digital Ixus 400. Yes, there was a level of sacrifice in the quality, and I felt like I was breaking some unwritten law by turning my back on film, but once again I was back in control. I kept the Pentax, but it wasn’t long before I was hankering after a digital SLR.
6 months on and it’s time to send the Pentax to it’s new owner (thanks eBay). I thought I’d feel bad. I know I’ll probably never own a film camera again. I’ll almost definitely never process another film myself. But the expense, time and wastage are the only things I’m losing. Everything else is just nostalgia.
September 26th, 2005
Last year’s London Design Festival opening reception was a grand affair. In the British Museum, rubbing shoulders with untold artifacts stolen from all around the world, great canapés, bumping into all sorts of friends…
This year we were in the National Gallery, surrounded by gloomy and depressing paintings. There was nobody there of any interest, apart from some freaky Bride of Wildenstein look-a-like (Plastic surgery – don’t do it kids). The canapés consisted of endless miniscule lumps of over-cooked puff pastry with various different things added, none of which distracted from the over-cooked puff pastry. BN1 was necking the champagne at a furious rate, so we left before he lost it and attacked Van Gogh’s Sunflowers with a puff pastry missile.
This year’s guest of honour was the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who—unlike Prescott last year—sounded like he had thought about his speech before he turned up. He mingled too:
Even Tom Dixon’s bench made of elastic bands was particularly unimpressive. Sitting on it produced a distinct feeling of being precariously suspended, and fear of breaking my arse on Trafalgar Square had me standing up before you could say ‘boing’.
Roll on next year.
September 20th, 2005
A month in, and I’m slightly taken aback at the number of comments appearing in reply to my blog posts. The only person I sent a link to was Jay, but somehow I seem to be collecting an audience.
My main problem is figuring out who is actually reading it. Jay had the good manners to create a Blogger ID with her name on it. Kev luckily made lots of references to Newcastle and signed off as ‘downunder k’, which sounds like a limited edition breakfast cereal. davidfisher6932 sent me a lovely link to a dating site and said how great my blog was, but it turns out that was spam!!! (Yes Jay, you are not special I’m afraid)
Most annoying of all, someone has purposefully remained anonymous, then signed off with ‘guess who’! How am I supposed to guess?! (Is that you Taff?)
Another side effect of all this attention is increased pressure to not only post more regularly than I have been managing, but also to be more interesting, this post not being a great example. Have to keep the vicarious pleasures coming thick and fast.
Tonight is the opening reception of The London Design Festival 2005 at the National Gallery. Last year we found ourselves stood shoulder to shoulder with John Prescott and Zandra Rhodes, so who knows what excitement will feature in tomorrow’s post? An in depth critique of Tom Dixon’s rubber band bench which is currently sitting in Trafalgar Square maybe. Or perhaps just a review of the canapés.
September 19th, 2005
So much for last barbeque of the summer. Just when you thought autumn had you in its grip a last ditch invite to Boss No.1’s house for a late summer evening of charcoaled lumps of animal and bottled Budvar in a bucket of cold water.
I’m not complaining. I lurve barbeques, especially when they bring new joys such as M&S salmon burgers. But once the food was gone and the strange Canadian neighbours (and their parents!) had left, the turntable and 80s/90s vinyl collection was wheeled out.
A couple of Wonder Stuff, some Abba and the theme from Champion the Wonder Horse under our belts, next thing I know it’s 3am. I don’t stay up until that kind of time anymore! That’s for the kids. BN1’s other half managed to put away half a bottle of some strange Sicilian digestif and pass out, which gave us the excuse we needed to shuffle off to bed. But it may take me a week or two to recover.
And sitting here at midnight typing this nonsense isn’t going to help anything. Z..z..z..z..z..
September 18th, 2005
You could have predicted it months ago. My employers are big cricket fans, and the Ashes means a lot to them, but having an Aussie start work in the office at the begining of the series just made it all the more important.
So today, the last day of the summer’s games, meant they would be down the pub. I’m surprised they made it to noon to be honest. A quick break for a meeting, then back to the pub. After a full working (ha!) day, we joined them as the match came to an end. A couple of beers later and the day out of the office came and bit them on the ass. Bad moods, awkward phone-calls, threats of heading home.
Excuses made, we left them to drown their sorrows. And after an ‘on-plan’ goats cheese and asparagus sarnie at Charing Cross, the chip shop called. The Chicken and Mushroom Pukka Pie was unecessary, but the chips were just what the doctor ordered.
Only Monday, you say?
September 12th, 2005
What started as a trip to the cinema to see ‘Red Eye’ became a trip to the local bar, thanks to total gridlock in the centre of Greenwich at 9:30pm. I’d spent the previous hour bitching and moaning about all my troubles, and wasn’t particularly good company.
The Plan seems such a distant possibility sometimes. I’m sure some of the obstacles in my path are mental, but nothing that £10,000 wouldn’t fix in a flash.
A couple of pints of Erdinger Weißbeer later and I was a lot cheerier. So cheery in fact that we failed to notice the time, or that we were the only people left in the bar other than the rather tired and impatient looking guy serving the drinks. Rare thing these days, especially in Ladywell.
September 8th, 2005
I’ve discovered recently that one of the ways old age makes its presence felt is in the way that you choose to celebrate good news or special occasions. I’ve never been one for all night benders or even nightclubs in general, much preferring to be sat in a crusty old pub with a pint of ale and a bag of nuts.
Even in my student days the only nightclub I regularly frequented was the Mayfair in Newcastle. A rock club in a glamourous ballroom (carpet, polished dancefloor, balcony), full of people in combat shorts and stripy tights headbanging to Machine Head (the band, not the album) and Pantera. Beer was the only stimulant consumed and everyone took their own empties back to the bar. The ‘Boat’ was my worst nightmare, and I only went once during my last few days as a student.
As far as I can remember, the last time I went to a nightclub was on my friend Nick’s stag doo. In September 2003! I distinctly remember not enjoying it. A major factor is that I don’t enjoy dancing. And a growing dislike for the company of strangers is another factor. It sounds horribly antisocial, but I think turning 30 has made me realise that I don’t have time for unnecessary hassle or small talk.
So, Jess’ first taste of teaching employment will be celebrated by watching the England v Wales match in our living room, with a beer in hand, followed by the last BBQ of the summer in the garden. This in turn will be followed by drinking as long as we can bear the increasingly dark and cold evening air, or until we fall asleep.
Maybe this has always been my preferred way to spend my time, but it’s only now that marriage and middle-age are close at hand that I feel in a position to ignore the usual trappings and pressures of youth, and embrace the quiet existence I crave.
P.S. Moved desks after only 4 months in my current job! My new vista:
September 2nd, 2005
