Oh Yeah?

Punk dispatches from darkest Essex

AN OPEN LETTER TO STARBUCKS

Starbucks Colchester

20.5.2011

Dear Mr Bucks,

I recently headed in to Starbucks in Colchester (est. as far back as about 2006 as my recollection goes, we were late adopters, being one of the last to get with 'the program' and jump on the bandwagon... you know what I mean)... don't ask me why, every now and then I get the urge to worship at the temple of egregious capitalism. So this week marked Bob Dylan's 70^th birthday, and in order to celebrate it, I guessed, what better place than my local coffee house (right?). It was in these very coffee houses (OK not Starbucks), in New York, that the young Robert Zimmerman heard the folk music that would so influence him and in turn the pop music of the 20^th century. I wanted to see what today's young scene was like.

Starbucks in Colchester are cursed with a very bland building – not helped by the fact that they've painted it.... well, coffee. Various shades of coffee, to be exact. Also there is not too much artwork on the walls, probably because only allowing Starbucks-sanctioned corporate artwork on the walls is store policy or somefink, I dunoo.

My first suggestion is that you do something about this, Mr Starbuck. It is a coffee house, we get the idea. Not every piece of art on the walls has to be a tastefully done black and white portrait of a cup of coffee or an ethnic-looking tableau depicting indigenous folk digging coffee beans out of the ground in the jungle. You could,even, I dunno, involve a bit of local colour in your décor if this isn't too much of an old-fashioned idea. Colchester has many notable old buildings which you could put up moody black and white photos of, like the ruins of St. Botolphs priory or the evocative gothic Victorian town hall. OK so somebody dropped the ball on the new Orwellian monstrosity that's going up by town station, but some people like that kind of brutalism. It's just an idea.

Obviously I am not proposing to put Banksy's on the walls or bright coloured graffiti like some of these obnoxious new coffee houses do. That's fine for them. Starbucks, however, is a classy joint. Heaven knows, I am not trying to question the positioning of your brand (that bizarre two-tailed mermaid is the first thing you see when you come in, after all)... it's just that after too much joe the whole place starts to feel like a bizarre nightmare. There was a promotion on this week, and the 'barista' sold me up to a whole double serving of frappacino coffee with whipped cream and caramel. 'Do you want whipped cream?' he asked me, and of course like an idiot I did, because otherwise what was I paying for except a bit of cold coffee with some ice in it? So I was a little surprised with my drink, when it arrived, being more like an ice-cream than a caffeine-y beverage. I would hate to think of the calorie content of this thing. Speaking of contents, I don't know how much espresso went into that, but it was a lot, which is probably what brought on the strange... brown-ness that came on immediately after.

The clientele of the place were mostly in their 30s, nothing wrong there, but many of them were in shorts and looked like they were trying to dress much younger. Modern fashion is so hopeless (it's not your fault, Mr Starbucks you're just a symptom, not the cause). Most of them sat down and left within 15 minutes of coming. I noticed there was a chess board of squares marked out on the table top, but no pieces. It was a shame that none of them would ever have time to have a game. This, then, was the fast food of the coffee world.

As for the problem of what to do about your premises, I think I have the answer Mr Starbuck. The old Co-operative building is empty when our post office is finally evicted on June 6^th, and I wouldn't mind betting that you, in your wisdom, have already noticed this. I would bet that whatever new department store moves in there will have the space for a nice new coffee franchise when this happens. When it does, I would guess that the problem of having one pokey (by your standards) premises in Colchester will not be a problem much longer. Costa already have three, not that they need them -when everyone else is out of business, they can just close the other two or whichever aren't profitable enough. It's called cluster-fucking. But then you knew that, Mr Starbuck.

One further suggestion: while I was drowning in my sea of froth my enjoyment of the syrupy beverage and syrupy jazz constantly piping in was somewhat spoiled by the repetitive sounding of an alarm clock somewhere in the background. If your staff are so badly retarded that they can't even make a cup of coffee without one without fucking up, I suggest you replace them and get a bunch of new ones who you actually pay a decent wage to.

Finally I just wanted to thank you, Mr Starbuck, for bringing your weird two-assed mascot and all her attendant shit to our town, and to say that it's only a shame that everything else about your store was so fucking half-assed. Please keep doing what you're doing. Some day, all coffee shops will be made like this.

-F

May Day Bank Holiday

A Night On The Town in Colchester

by Frank Fraser

Colchester is a crumbling Mecca to which, on the evening before a bank holiday, faces from all walks of life gravitate to drink and lose themselves in a carnival atmosphere in the many pubs and clubs around the central-town area the mossy, Roman walls surround - the only reminder of a Mediterranean culture that abandoned this place to the elements two thousand years ago to be supplanted by the old-English culture of the lager, fags and kebabs type. You know it – the kind that those of us who go out on a Friday night are all caught up in time and again, unwholesomely clinging on to bottles, waking up the next morning to wish we hadn't been so stupid, and trying to remember just what it is we regret... 

Polly & Ashley, Newtons Apple (pic: FF)

This place can be wild, sometimes sleepy, spiritual and spirit-crushing all at the same time. A weird assortment night birds populate these narrow streets within the tightly-packed area of what was the Roman settlement here, now the town centre that can become a pressure cooker in the twinkling of an eye or the spilling of a pint. On the first of May, on a Sunday, we descended upon the V-Bar for an all-day extravaganza of musical excitement to include (but not limited to) two rooms, bars, a mighty PA and a stack of amplifiers up to the ceiling filling the tiny venue at the foot of the high street.

The V is always busy, because you only have to pack two or three people in and already it's a party. The entire floorplan of the bar must be little bigger than the footprint of a cigarette packet. In spite of the lack of an ability to swing a cat, on this particular evening the V-bar is certainly not lacking in atmosphere, since the group Lemon Party are bringing their unique brand of danceable rock music in the bar upstairs with the aim of introducing the crowd who have gathered at this too-early juncture of the evening to their almighty funk, dragging the hapless crowd (one of whom turns out to be a girlfriend and you would imagine the regular victim of this sort of stuff) on to the dance floor with the intention that you WILL be made to “get down”. The guitarist starts out topless, while by the end of the set the singer will be standing in only his pants in the middle of the bar wailing like an incoherent combination of Ian Curtis and The Ministry of Silly Walks, probably reminding us of the inherent ridiculousness of life, or something.

Later I met up with the boys to find out what makes them tick. Guitar player Jack confesses to being an enormous fan of (90s britpop) Kula Shaker, perhaps surprisingly, since Lemon Party sound nowt like them, but then perhaps it is not so surprising at all? He told me a story about having met them, which I will attempt to reproduce here, but probably fail, since it all got a bit hazy in the afterpartying, the like of which I had not seen since I met up with the mighty Good Shoes in '06. In any case...

JAKE: I saw them play at Leicester uni. I jumped over a barrier and got taken away by the bouncers, who put me in the band's car [the logic of this seems highly suspect to me, but we can probably say that he found himself in the group's car somehow]. The drummer got in, followed by the keyboard player, Harry. I think the keyboard player's called Harry...

ME: I don't know the name of the keyboard player in Kula Shaker, man!

JAKE: Anyway, then Crispian got in. They asked me what I was doing there and where I lived, and they gave me a lift home! I stole his guitar pick and I still play with it.

ME: You're lucky you lived close by. Otherwise they would have had to kill you and bury you somewhere.

I was quite inspired by this story. It's good to know that things like this still happen- I thought that kind of stuff was only in the movie Almost Famous.

The boys from Lemon Party

Back at the bar, the main event of the evening was Newtons Apple (no apostrophe), being a melodic, mixed boy-girl four piece. I have seen them twice now and can safely say that they rock. The defining moment in this realisation came when an Irish guy who had been standing next to me turned to me and said: 'They're pretty good, aren't they?'

There are many bands in Colchester, but not many of them stand out. The first time that this group came to my attention when I noticed a pretty girl holding a crash helmet rushing in to the back room of The Bull for a sound-check, which I thought was a pretty cool way to turn up for a gig. A bored engineer hustled them off so that a boring folk singer with a curly afro could set up. I knew this was going to be pretty special though, so I hung around to see it. Despite a pretty Spartan crowd that night, I wasn't disappointed. Here in the V tonight, though, there seems to be a bit more of an audience assembling.

'Do you like the name?' asks Wayne, the drummer, grinning, when I ask him about the lack of an apostrophe.

'I noticed you have a kind of shoegaze-y element to your sound that's really cool, kind of harking back to pre-grunge stuff How would you describe it yourself?'

'Just sort of funk-y rock... I don't know how to describe it!' He doesn't seem sure about the name. Maybe they will change it? 'What was the first thing you thought of when you heard it?' he wants to know. We can't think of anything better, though (for the record I think their name is fine!).

If they can keep it together, it seems like this band have a real chance of making it. Lead singer Polly Haynes is a soulful guitar player in a beanie hat. She's also an absolute star-in-the-making. Then there's Wayne on the Drums, Guitarist Charlie and bass player Ashley Pagani (the cyclist I saw earlier) who also sings backup vocals. They got together at college, and although there's a vague story about certain members knowing each other before this I don't quite manage to squeeze any details out of them before it's time to go on stage. I want to ask what exactly the girls are doing in the bizarre bedroom dare in the video for 'Sally Anne' (on youtube) that makes them throw up, but the mic is beckoning, and then there's the fact that Polly is severely hung-over, having hitched back here on an hours sleep from a party in time to play an acoustic set earlier in the day...

ME: What are your influences?

POLLY: Johnny Cash. The Pixies - of course. And Wallace Bird.

ME: Wallace Bird?'

POLLY: Yeah. She's a Welsh singer!

FF: I noticed you're drinking water. Do you avoid drinking before a gig?'

POLLY: I drink. But I'm really hung over! I had to hitch-hike back from Ridgewell last night. There was a party.
(for the record, I wondered if Ridgewell was where they build ((cheap Fender copies that used to be everywhere)) Ridgewood guitars. It's not.)

FF: Where's that?

POLLY: In Suffolk. I don't really know. It was far!

FF: You guys are pretty young. How long have you been together?

POLLY: About five months. We're getting some more gigs now, and we're playing dates in London soon.

It turns out they have a gig in Brixton coming up for which they need to some sell tickets, and while I'd be happy to oblige them, Polly has to take the stage.

'Good luck,' I say. 'Break a leg!'

'Someone once said that to me and I actually did break my leg,' she tells me.

In the event it all goes well, Polly wailing at the top of her lungs like a punk dynamo. The boys are all in the front row to provide moral support. The Apples and Lemons are talking about going out on tour together: 'We're thinking of calling it “the two of your five a day tour”,' say Lemon Party, staring up some girl's skirt while they're standing on the stairs, who blatantly knows, but doesn't seem to mind.

The headline act in The V Bar this evening is Angry vs The Bear, who are very big on the Colchester scene at this minute. Everything that can possibly be said has already been said about them, and what more can I add?

'Do you want to, do you really want to go?' they sing.

So I do.

Newtons Apple @ V Bar

Later on we go to another bar, where the Party boys occupy the dance floor flailing body parts while the DJ plays the Rolling Stones. Some of the locals are restless: seems like there's a certain unwritten code in Colchester, and having too much (or any) fun is not on it. No one has told the Party – people are windmilling and grown men are openly snogging each other – 'band practice,' they explain to me. I'm worried now. Their friend gets thrown out, ridiculously, because people are dancing to The Prodigy. The bouncer comes over and makes some noise about calming down or leaving, and Ross calls him an effing C.

'Say that again.'

'You're a f**king c**t.'

Such dispassionate lucidity, such fearless honesty!

I ought to speak up, to declare solidarity with him, or at least try to apologise for him, but instead I stand there motionless and wait to see what happens next, hopelessly.

The bouncer shoves him in the back, grabs him round the shoulders and throws him down the stairs out the door of the establishment.

By this time everyone's too pissed to notice and carries on until it's time to go up the hill to the Kebab shop, but the atmosphere has turned nasty, and people whose eyes are too close together are making faces at us. For a while there anarchy in the UK almost prevailed, but normality has returned, we realise that we are in a dirty area of the town where the dark windows of an empty shop opposite return our gaze, and I realise I once used to work there and wonder what I'm doing back here at all.

It is getting late. It is time to go home.

I stand and stare at the crowds of bank holiday revellers going by, the men the worse for wear, staggering, and hysterical women climbing into taxis, not wearing enough clothes. Some may have pulled a boyfriend or a girlfriend, some may have felt a real and deep human connection with their friends and worked out their differences with foes, some may have forgotten the sheer dullness of their lives for a few hours. There are moments when I wonder if it's all worth it. Everyone needs to let off steam, now and then, I suppose.

Even so, staring up from under pillars at the doleful Victorian windows, I feel grateful as I eat my chips. Just tomorrow to go, and then the long early May bank holiday is over, and we can all look forward to our own quiet dreams.

Like Bagpuss I disappear and the night is over. The mice on the piano go back to sleep again. 

The Devil's Mischief

the Devil's mischief

by Ed Marquand

abbeville press publishers

year ?

all books that appear on the site are for sale - contact the gent for up-to-date prices.