Friday, 29 April 2011

Oh Yeah?

Punk Dispatches from Darkest Essex

Mother Funkers: Sacred Mother Tongue @ The Twist (pic: Fraser)

Time was when we'd start off the summer going to the park with fags and alcohol, which combined with the first stirrings of teenage lust must have made it seem an idyllic time. As Wordsworth said: 'bliss it was in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven!' Now I'm mythologising a bit - when I was a teenager I (almost) never had sex. I didn't know what it was. Not to break into a weak cliche like 'nowadays', but nowadays kids grow up fast. They don't know that as a child you've never had it so good. All I'm saying is, if there were such a thing as a heaven, I don't believe anyone is old there.

Could be that when we're drinking and smoking ourselves into oblivion, we're actually trying to get that buzz back - that feeling of being seventeen, I mean. That thought was what put me in mind of the film I saw recently at the arts centre about the town of Hebden Bridge in Yorkshire, the 'unofficial suicide capital of Great Britain,' the place where director Jez Lewis' friends from school have become dependant on booze and benefits. It's title is Shed Your Tears and Walk Away.

I met Jez Lewis after the showing and spoke to him, trying to be empathetic. I got the feeling that his filmmaking had helped him to escape from the hopelessness that invades so many of our lives - especially, it seems to me, in the small towns! The film was not judgemental - Lewis himself, being friends with some of the participants in it, eventually got involved and tried to help. Some of those people have serious psychological problems, but mostly you got the impression that it was the utter fucking hopelessness of their lives that had made them that way.

Next time I pass the drunks on the Magic Roundabout*, I will not look at them in the same way.



It really narks me off that my generation has failed to produce anything like a worthwhile pop musical figure in any way. Yes the Arctic Monkeys, but they're not that controversial or interesting anyway. Sure there are interesting bands, but they seem to be around for about five minutes (I'm looking at you, Larrikin Love). The great god (Satan?) of the music industry seems to have decided that from now on all youth culture will be dark heavy metal or multicoloured mindless electro crap. Thanks, Johnny Borell, for finally killing indie music forever.

With this in mind I headed off to The Twist to see some metal. Sacred Mother Tongue are probably not terrible if you enjoy this genre. Personally, I don't.

Incidentally, I noticed that Prince William & Kate chose Ellie Goulding to sing at the royal reception. I don't mind the royal family, as long as they stay out of the way and I never have to see them or think about them at all, so I tried to avoid this business, but when I heard about Goulding being drafted in I was surprised - she is the one bright point on the musical landscape right now, crap Elton John covers aside (like many talented people she went to the same university as me at the same time, and though I never actually met her, I like to believe we are kin somehow). This lead me to think: Wills, if I were you, why wouldn't I marry her instead? He could have any girl he likes. I give it about ten years before he sleeps with someone else and fucks it up.

Anyways, that's my final thought for now. By the time you read this the whole thing will be over, and if there's any of you left who still haven't been brainwashed we can go back to thinking about more serious things, like drawing up the petition to get the BBC to make another series of Aurelio Zen.

Ciao!


-F



*St Botolphs in Colchester

Friday, 8 April 2011

The Cooler

Written by George Markstein, the co-creator of the Prisoner TV series, this tale of war-time spooks takes place in the nineteen-forties and includes some of the same themes of paranoia and alienation that would make that show such a success.


'I could kill you as soon as look at you...' (pic: Channel4.com)
23

'...I'll take you in a cab,' he said. 'Where are you staying?'
     'A sort of hostel - but don't bother. I'll walk. It's quite near.'
     'Trying to get rid of me?'
     'I'd like a bit of fresh air. Gives me a chance to see some shops,' said Clare.
     'In the blackout?' he snorted.
     Oh, how the hell do I shake him off?
     'You can't walk by yourself,' he said. 'Not all alone.'
     I can kill people, she felt like saying. I can make them die quite quickly with a hat needle, or a bit of wire. I can break their arm. Just stop fussing.
     'Don't be silly,' said Clare, 'I'll be fine.


[...]Tony was a navigator on a B-24, based with his wing at Fakenham, in Norfolk. He was on his second tour of missions, and when he was drunk he always told her that he was living on borrowed time.
     Maybe that was one reason she saw him from time to time. She felt secure. There could be no involvement here. He might not return from a raid. And if he did, eventually he'd go home. Far away. Thousands of miles away, to far off Denver. It couldn't come to anything, and she liked it that way. It was less complicated.
     She had the number of the base, and she called the orderly room. Yes, he had said, he could get to London that evening. See you at Willow Run. After you've ditched your old man.
     And there he was, in his Eisenhower jacket, and his battered hat.
     'You look great, honey,' he said, and kissed her.
     He always said that. It seemed to be a kind of password, to be used on meeting a date. Tell them they look great, and after that it's all smooth going...





see also...
The Camomile Lawn ~ Mary Wesley, 1984 (adapted for TV)
Gravity's Rainbow ~ Thomas Pynchon, 1973
Catch 22 ~ Joseph Heller, 1961 (filmed 1970)
The Prisoner ~ Patrick McGoohan, George Markstein etc. (TV series, 1967)
A Canterbury Tale ~ Michael Powell & Emeric Pressberger (film, 1944)