Reflections on Rock (part 2)

Reader, last Friday I went to see The Rakes and I met Les out of Carter USM. Already documented below is my respect for the man, if not his music. Also documented is the fearsomeness of his female company, on which I shall now elaborate.

Reader, she was dressed in a big jumper with dreadlocks in her hair, Doctor Marten boots, and (no doubt) stripey leggings. A flouncy skirt, a handful of piercings - I'm sure you're getting the (dykey) picture. Les had skipped off to empty his stately bladder, and being the well-bred young gadabout that I am, I moved on my conversation to his lass. I don't recall what question I opened with, but it was met with an abrupt (nay, rude) rejoinder and a demand for me to go and smoke elsewhere. Reader, I was floored.

I don't expect rapture from everyone I meet, but I'm afraid I have a mandate on good manners. If she didn't like smoke, then a polite request would have sufficed. If she didn't like me, then some subtle social tactic would have given me the nod to move along. But to treat me with such offhand petulance offended me and insulted me - and it really took me back.

You see, back when in the days when Les was successful, this was how indie girls used to be. They were stroppy, angry, bolshy, and dykey. They wore damp and dirty old clothes and had ugly, unwashed hair. They were often overweight and they didn't wear any make up. They listened to The Levellers, they drank cider and black and they didn't like anyone telling them what to do. They expressed their femininity by exercising their right to be unattractive. They were emancipated from the controlling shackles of the male myth of beauty, and showed it by all dressing in the same vile army surplus uniform.

They had an agenda. They were angry. They had vague but strongly-held beliefs. And by crikey, they were annoying. Indulgent, self-righteous, and outraged, they challenged our assumptions about their status as females by menas of a strange sort of social aversion therapy. Their core beliefs were not easy to ascertain, because this particular breed of female was not capable of arguing without shouting down the less righteous. To them, there was no greater crime than being caught in possession of an unreconstructed belief, and the merest accusation could undermine even the most well thought-out argument. Reason held no sway against the threat of being labelled a 'racist', or a 'sexist', or a 'homophobe', or (gasp!) a 'townie'.

In those days, the battle of the sexes was a bit like Scottish seperatism: one side is conducting a secret cultural war against an aggressive oppressor; the other isn't really bothered either way. Forget reasoned notions of how gender difference is a subtle play of myriad differences between to social-defined poles of identity - all men were cunts, and they were going to fucking pay. As I'm sure you remember, it was unbelievably tiresome.

And yet I was taken crashingly back to such impolite times by Les's angry companion, and it showed me how far we've come. Girls today can go to the gym without being called traitors. They dress better, they smell better and some of them even have better conversational skills.

But not all were willing to change, as we have seen. What happened to history's refugees when the supply of Levellers records and clompy boots dried up? Most were shipped to bypass protest sites around the country, were they can be found to this day, living in caravans, claiming benefits and agitating against the local parish council. Others escaped to academia, where they still draw frightened stares from the fresh-faced first year students. And one or two of the luckiest bagged themselves a genuine indie rock star as a guaranteed protection against the inevitable march of fashion, and as waining but comforting kudos for the dark and lonely years ahead.

Let the lesson for today be this: Never become shackled to a fashion or a harridan.

Now go in peace.

Reflections on Rock (part 1)

Reader, last Friday I went to see the Rakes at the Windmill in Brixton.

Now, I've not really got any strong feelings either way about the Rakes. Don't like 'em, don't hate 'em. To be honest, whilst they were performing, I was too busy getting up to mischief. Heard of a band called The Others? No, frankly neither had I until Friday, but whilst the Rakes were performing their own particular brand of take-it-or-leave-it guitar music, I got chatting to a member of The Others. He is either the person on the left or the person on the right below:












See, one of them is Johnny out The Others, the other is Robert Smith out The Cure, but it's quite a task to work out which is which, so similar are their appearances. You'd think with such an uncanny resemblance between the two, there'd be some element of design on the part of the younger. However, when I approached Johnny to congratulate him on his uncanny simulation of old Bob, he didn't want to know. He flat denied any similarity. In fact, he put on such a performance that you'd think I'd told him he resembled one of The Levellers.

See, Johnny out The Others is a twat. Not just a twat - if there were a competition to find the most utterly ridiculous cunt in London, Jonny could quite fairly fancy his chances. Instead of responding to my gentle joshing with polite good humour, Jonny reacted with adolescent petulance the likes of which I've not seen since secondary school. He was a character study in affected teenage oddness and laboured weirdness, utterly preposterous and cringeworthy in every way. If he'd been fourteen, I would have been willing to let it go, but in the circumstances, I pursued his objections to my observation for a good ten minutes. Eventually he flounced off in a patchouly strop.

Twenty minutes earlier, I'd met Les out of dreary 90's social indie combo Carter USM. Although I wasn't a fan of his music, I said hello and he was utterly charming in response. He was every inch the elder statesman, and only too happy to chat. (His girlfriend, on the other hand, was fearsome, but more on that in part 2). There is certainly a lesson for Jonny to learn from our Les. But then there's a lesson for all of us to learn...

Despite the fact that I've never heard of The Others, I'm told they have a strong following. Just look at some of the quotes - "Britains most worshipped new band"; "transcending the rules to create something extraordinary"; "music that inspires you and can change your life". Pretty strong stuff, eh? Thing is, I've not heard the band, but I'm willing to gamble at least three of my limbs that they produce anodyne, gutless, derivative shite. If I'm wrong, may my credibility desert me. I'm puttting it on the line here - I honestly don't need to listen to this band to write off their music without a second thought.

How can I be so sure? Well I've met the cunt for one. But The Others are simply another in a long line of bands specialising in anodyne, gutless, derivative shite for audiences that demand nothing less. Just who are we letting get ahead here?! What do these people stand for? Why are we giving them our money?! What have they got to say for themselves?!

And more pointedly, what does it say about us? How can we sleep at night knowing that cunts like Jonny are enjoying moderate success? We really should be ashamed of ourselves.

Advertorial Paucity? It Must Be January.

January - such a grim and grey month of post-Christmas frugality. We have only ourselves to blame, I suppose. We go out and spend wildly, drink wildly and eat immoderately at the behest of the vile gods of the high street, and then spend January regretting it and eating beans on toast.

And don't the advertisers - the ulcerated cherubim of the aforementioned gods - just fucking know it? And what do they do to regulate and feed our misery? They make all adverts shit.

Let's take as an example two posters that I pass on my way to work. (An aside here: Whilst I'm on my way to work, or in fact even before darkness falls and I can permissably drink again, I can become consumed with hatred by own shadow, but don't be concenred that this reasonable misanthropy has clouded my judgement). The first is for Halifax Credit Cards (and again, don't let my previous disfunctional relationship with the Halifax concern you), the second (I think) for Telewest Broadband.

Firstly, the Halifax. 'Your Happy New Year Card!' shouts a glittering banner in a Broadway style, whilst a cunt-ugly lady with a side parting holds up a credit card. '15.9%' shouts the poster. 'Transfer your balances!' it probably says elsewhere, along with the usual financial small print confessing that if they were honest, the Halifax basically see you as corpse they'd quite like to rape. It sounds like standard fare, so what's my problem then, eh? I'll tell you. It's her.

I'm sure you're aware that for the past too many years, the Halifax have exacerbated the indignity of being a member of their staff by making the plainer-looking ones appear in their adverts. There's Howard - he's black, but he wears glasses, so he's 'nice-black'. And then there was some dumpy blond girl who was made to dance around in a way that didn't compliment her figure. (I imagine they were going for the 'buxom' look, but what they got was like watching a dugong being rolled down a hill). In the current poster, we have Mary, who, when it comes to looking ordinary, takes the stale digestive.

I'm sure in real life, she's not especially unattractive. However, 'not especially' isn't good enough for the Halifax. So they've moved her side parting to just above her ear, swapped her hairspray for Crisp'n'Dry, and photographed her from an angle that must have been provided by a supercomputer specially designed to calculate unflatteringness. Combine this with the 'je ne sais quoi' repulsiveness of the Halifax uniform and we have an image that is as sexless and dispiriting as an old people's home.

Poster number two: A simplified drawing of a woman escaping from the prison inside her computer monitor by sawing through the bars with a hacksaw. 'Freeeeedom', the banner proclaims. Problem? The stylization of the illustration. It's SHIT. It looks like it's aiming to be retro and kitsch, and thus appeal to those women who have broadband but are concerned about download limits ('She's ABC1, 25-45, gym membership, small car, cat, works in management - basically, she's a do-er. She's in charge of her life, but she's not invulnerable.' 'Yah, sounds great. Kinda Bridget Jones with a networking card. Take it to the client and touch base this p.m.'). Thing is, it's FUCKING SHIT. It looks like it's been drawn by someone who spent the past 20 years in a coma, but has recently been shaken roughly awake, sat down in front of Adobe Illustrator and told to get on with it. It's just so wrong in every way. It's not clever. It's not funny. It's not cute. It's not anything.

And this is what we get for overspending at Christmas. Styleless, functional, 'B&Q' advertising. No arresting imagery, no stirring creativity, no promise of a better life, no luxury, no drama, no nothing. Just two weeks ago Moet & Chandon were advertising at bus stops; now we get debt consolidation and dull design. These corporations - they really know how to do it so it hurts, don't they?

Well I say fuck 'em. Let's make January the month of cheap excess! Let's get pissed for cheap all weekend! Special Brew before we go out, cheap bar, more Spesh when we get home. Then more beer for breakfast! Coke? Not this month, but I'll have a chug of speed if you've got some. Pack of fags? No, rollies, son.

I'm claiming January back for the kids. No more paucity, no more contrition for excessive consumption - we're off to the pub, and we're staying there ALL WEEKEND.