Sad news from Cuba. Looks like the state is recentralising, possibly to consolidate power for Castro's successor?
World Jump Day! The science behind it is highly suspect, but it's an excuse to jump up and down, so who cares?
What the Oscar Presenters and Performers got in their prize bags (warning: may make you wonder just why these people, who are probably quite rich in the first place, need all this stuff).
But first: Channel 4's 100 Greatest series. I mean, really. Now, it's not a innovative format, but it could be good. Perhaps if they chucked out the 'annoying comedian of the moment' linking clips, beat the graphic scriptwriters over the head with a grammar guide explaining the difference between 'its' and 'it's', and dropped the sneery tone that all the talking heads seem to have ("Oh, it was crap, wasn't it? Mind you, I did spend every afternoon watching it" – there's no need to be ashamed of your childhood), it could be a fun programme. Say, chop the list of featured shows to 50, get rid of the Internet voting aspect, and actually talk about the programmes themselves instead of bringing up the Captain Pugwash myths yet again. In tonight's 100 Greatest Cartoons, there was some lovely moments, including seeing footage from David Jason's voice recording sessions on Danger Mouse, and what I think may have been the first broadcast on British television of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles opening sequence. Yet, instead of attention being called to these things, it felt that they were just thrown in because Channel 4 could get the rights cheaply, and they'd extend the running of the show by a few minutes. In the end, it just becomes another couple of hours dedicated to laughing at the past. Which sucks.
(And no, I wasn't just annoyed that Transformers was dismissed in thirty seconds. The cartoon series wasn't all that good, at least in the writing, but it could have stood to have a little more discussion about say, that it was one of the first major toy-tie-in cartoons, that it still runs to this day in a modified form, and hell, considering the tone of the show, you would have thought that as the film features characters swearing, it would have been a easy choice to have a stand-up comedian saying "they SWORE? In a kid's film? WOW!")
Anyway! The Oscars 2005! The organisers have revealed themselves to be big Youssou Ndour and Neneh Cherry fans, as tonight's telecast is on a seven-second delay (I'm so sorry). The PTC has the FCC on speeddial, just waiting for Chris Rock to come on-stage, and celebrating that it may soon become cheaper to start a nuclear incident rather than show parts of the body on broadcast television. Yay progress!
To be honest, I'm not sure about tonight's ceremony. For a start, I haven't seen most of the nominated films, so I don't really know what I want to win (except for Best Animated Picture - if Shrek 2 beats The Incredibles, then there really is no justice in this universe). It'd be nice for Kate Winslet to pick up an award, but there's no chance of her doing so. The films that are going to win tonight are Million Dollar Baby, The Aviator, and Ray. We know this because they won all the other awards, and the same people vote for the Oscars as the SAG awards. Plus, the changes to the format are irksome. It sounds nice to say that some people will not be given their Oscars on the stage to speed up proceedings, but what this means is that the winners of Best Make-Up, Set Design, and other backroom categories won't have their moment, because the organisers wouldn't dare to do the same for the Best Actor award, would they? And I liked those speeches by the winners of the smaller awards; they're always more personal than the winners of the big categories. So boo to that.
(And what's the deal with having Beyonce sing three of the nominated songs? Why can't Minnie Driver sing her song? It just doesn't make sense)
And every year, I forget that there's the annoying "Countdown" bit beforehand. Look! people walking inside! How exciting!
And already, I miss the BBC. Adverts are also quite annoying.
I think I can hear the PTC dialling already. But indeed, the "imagine you work at the Gap, and your till is $90 trillion short" routine was funny.
Best Art Direction! And the first change - all the nominees are on stage. What happens to the losers? Oh they just get to clap while the winners get their Oscar. The losers have disappeared. Dropped through a trap door, I guess.
Okay, starting here: The Give Renee Zellweger A Chip Foundation! Because she looks terrible. Empire Records, dear! You looked absolutely fine before - and scary with losing all that weight. And, as predicted, the Supporting Actor award is in the old format, because you can't mess with the stars, can you?
Eh? Why were they playing the Star Trek theme when heading out to a break?
Robin Williams thinks he's hosting. But no worries, because The Incredibles won Best Animated Feature! Aww, Brad looks very awkward. But sweet.
Best Make-Up! Cate Blanchett is at the back of the hall, where all the nominees are sitting together, and the winners get to go to a small microphone to deliver their speech, because they're not good enough for the stage (Lemony Snicket won by the way).
Beyonce's first song of the evening is in French. And would probably sound better if the original singer was doing it…
Okay, that may be the funniest Oscar segment in a long time
Scarlett Johansson: This year's Science/Tech awards, or "We send a beautiful girl to mock the geeks" Party.
Edna Mode! EDNA MODE! EDNA MODE!
Best Supporting Actress: Cate Blanchett.
Oh, and Best Documentary: Fahrenheit 9/11 was ineligible because it was shown on TV during 2004. No clips from the documentaries this time, just the winner: Born Into Brothels (hurrah! As Super-Size Me irritates me a lot: surely it's not rocket science to think that eating junk food exclusively for a month is incredibly bad?)
Mmm, Kirsten Dunst…oh, and The Aviator wins Best Editing.
THE SINGER OF THE COUNTING CROWS HAS A HUGE SPIDER ON HIS HEAD! SOMEBODY TELL HIM! BEFORE IT CONSUMES HIS BODY!
it's always fun when they let drunk actors in for the British bits…
Best Adapted screenplay! Sideways get its consolation prize for being popular with the critics.
Best Visual Effects, and boy does Zhang Zyi look uncomfortable up there. Spidey 2!
Having people dedicate shows to "The Troops" is odd. You wouldn't get Stephen Fry giving a shout-out to the British Army during the BAFTA telecast, would you?
Al Pacino looks like he's spent the past week living on the street. Giving Sidney Lumet the Lifetime Oscar. Pauline Kael is rolling in her grave. Morgan Freeman is not going to let go of his Oscar. For Anyone. (and hey, Kael may have hated him, but I like Serpico and Network!)
Oh, how much money would we give to have Jay-Z be behind the Phantom mask?
"Comedy Superstar Jeremy Irons!"
Best short: Wasp. PTC reaching for that speed dial. If they understand British…
Best Animated Short: Ryan
Best Cinematography (presented by the lovely Kate Winslet): The Aviator, meaning that Passion of The Christ isn't getting anything tonight.
It's a good thing that nobody actually watches the inbetween bits. So far, nasty works about the Daily Mail, and a very drunk Will from Will and Grace.
Best Sound Mixing: Ray
Best Sound Editing: The Incredibles!
Best Documentary Short (Natalie Portman's dress is ugly): Mighty Times: The Children's March
I guess Rock isn't too enamoured with the changes either. Anyway: Best! Original! Score! Finding Neverland!
Martin Scoresce gets to hold an Oscar. "Yes, Marty, you can hold it. BUT YOU'RE NEVER GETTING ONE!"
Josh from the West Wing ducks. Yo-Yo Ma plays the Death List.
Puffy? What's he doing there? Please, no more Beyonce. Please.
Prince is going to speak! Prince! Prince! Although it seems he doesn't really want to do it…Best Song: The Motorcycle Diaries! Someone tell Collin!
Sean Penn has a sense of humour failure live on stage. It. Was. A. Joke. Annnnd best actress goes to: Hilary Swank. Boooooo. I expect a reissue of The Next Karate Kid soon, people.
Incidentally, where did they find the woman Oscar presenters for tonight? They appear to be seven feet tall!
SNIPPETY-SNAP, Rock!
Best Foreign Picture: The Sea Inside
Best Original Screenplay: Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind! Yay! Charlie Kaufman!
The women from Desperate Housewives have been drinking. Quite considerably. They look as if they're going to jump Jamie Theakston at any moment.
Best Actor: Jamie Foxx
Johnny Depp is wearing a Gonzo fist tie-clip, which is pretty cool.
Best Director: Clint Eastwood. The Academy: making Marty cry. Every. Single. Time. Although he did laugh. I guess they want him to be like Kubrick…
Best Picture: Million Dollar Baby. Boo again.
So, the Curse of Marty strikes once more. Boo and hiss, even if The Aviator wasn't his best film.
Right, off to bed.
The Windmill is tiny. It's just a pub really, A small bar section, a few tables, and a little stage. Probably about enough room for fifty people. A cozy venue.
The concert was organised by a London-based magazine, Unpeeled. This had something of an unfortunate side-effect: everybody seems to know each other. Now, going to a concert by yourself is bad enough. Seeing that practically everybody else knows each other - a whole new layer of soul-destruction. Also, the bar doesn't use Coca-Cola to mix vodka and coke, which I find unforgivable (especially when they have bottles RIGHT BEHIND THEM!).
But, after about ten minutes of wishing the ground would swallow me whole, I headed to the stage section, and waited for the bands to come out on stage.
First up, Strange Idols. They were the only English group of the evening, and sadly, they weren't up to much, sounding exactly like any random indie band from Sarah Records (i.e. quite twee, a bit jangly, lots of 'ooh oohs"). But they were pleasant enough, and didn't stay too long, so I can't complain too much.
Sweden then makes an appearance in the form of Speedmarket Avenue, proving that every indie band sounds better when a trumpet is involved. Actually, they weren't bad at all, and the female singer had a lot of fun with the two drunk guys that were in front of me (and to the side, when the alcohol proved too much for them).
Whenever I talk about Saturday Looks Good To Me, I always say that they're "thift store Motown". And I don't mean this in a derogatory way at all. After all, what is a thrift store but a chance to take old things, repackage them, combine them with other things, and make something new, exciting, and unique. That's how I feel about this band.
Fred Thomas, (the Kevin Rowland of the group) is wearing a Factory t-shirt. That's a quick way to my heart. Betty Barnes is dressed in a short yellow dress straight from the 1960s, with red leather go-go boots and a ladder in her tights (and that probably tells you how close I am to the band). They start playing Lift Me Up, and the first two rows of the audience go nuts. I find myself dancing with the girl singer of Speedmarket Avenue, which is a plus point for small gigs, I think (okay, so it was more alongside, but hey, let me have my moment). They mostly play songs from the recent two albums, which is fine by me, because I don't have the first yet. Meet Me By The Water is an transcendent live as it is on record, melting hearts in the first five rows even as the first chords begin to play, then launching into a storming version of Underwater Heart straight afterwards. I want them to play Ultimate Stars, and they do, complete with the Be My Baby drumbeat (when you have something as perfect as that, you might as well use it), and there's fun boy-girl interplay during The Girl's Distracted (eye-covering! Mock slaps!).
It's so much fun. The band plays really well, and they're loving the crowd's excited reactions to them. We get dance moves during Ulitmate Stars! Fred delivers an odd version of Dialtone, telling us that some people think the world will end in 2010 (silly Fred, everybody knows it's 2012), and alters the lyrics to celebrate being in Britain; there's something charming about the way American's say "pint", as if it's some quaint word from a Shakespeare play. They even swap singers with SpeedMarket Avenue at one point. It's a shindig. Or a hootenanny. I can never remember the difference.
It ends with a song that I don't know, but the band says that we should have "a dance party, because that's what we're here for". So we do. I've saved the pint of the other singer of SpeedMarket Avenue, am back dancing with them, and a girl is sweeping a XL-1 digital camera across the audience. Meanwhile, on stage, Betty is sticking her microphone into a saxophone and dancing around. It finally comes to an end; they apologise, so that they've had a wonderful night, perhaps the best of the tour, but there's a curfew and they have to stop. But the bar lets them have one more song: Until The World Stops Spinning, with more Be My Baby steals and more dancing from all concerned.
The embarrassing bit of the evening: they're coming off stage, and I go up to Fred. I first discovered this band two years ago, just before I went to Washington D.C. for a week. While I was away, they played Chapel Hill. And just before I went back this October, they played again. I had been in email contact with him as well; I bought a tour CD, and asked if they were touring Europe soon (that was a year ago). So I went up to him last night, introduced myself, and said how glad I was that they'd made it over. It came out more like "IwasinChapelHillandmissedyoutwicegoodtoseeyouinEurope!" He said that he was glad I finally got to see them, and didn't run away screaming from the mad fan in front of him. So hurrah!
EDIT: The last-but-one song was most likely Girl of Mine, which, having heard it again tonight, makes me realise why I walked down Brixton last night thinking that I had just seen the American equivalent of Dexy's Midnight Runners…
Some things will never change. The North can suffer from huge snow drifts and nobody bats an eyelid, but as soon as a few centimetres fall in London and its environs, all hell breaks loose. Mad panic in the streets, lions and lambs lying together, and the lashing of the Apocalypse Horses in their stables. I got into Oxford with minutes to go until I had to catch my bus to London, because the Bicester-Oxford route was delayed by an hour (and there was no snow on the roads either, so I'm just going to blame Stagecoach and be done with it).
Oxford Tube buses have plugs by every seat. I approve of this. I don't approve of batteries that last for 15 songs, however (I left the iPod at home, because I thought the hard drive might freeze in the cold weather. I am as much part of the problem as anybody else concerning the weather).
Anyway, London! Lots of fun. I wandered around Camden for a while, buying some belts which, thinking about it, are almost definitely supposed to be worn by women, but I like them so I don't care. Then, to Regent Street. And the Apple Store.
Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
The Mac Mini is so cute! It's the size of a fat CD case, and so lovable! If I ever manage to get a job that'll give me the opportunity to spend £350 on a new computer, I'm so going to be spending it on the Mini.
I pulled myself away from the joys of Apple, and headed off to Oxford Street, where I went into a clothes shop that I was certain sold men's clothes as well as women's, but after a minute or so, realised that this wasn't the case, and so beat a hasty retreat into the more manly world of a bookshop. Oh yes. Okay, so not that manly, really.
Then, it was time to find The Windmill. I went off to Brixton, and started walking down the road towards the venue. Only I chose the wrong road, and walked past housing estate after housing estate for twenty-five minutes as the light faded away. After getting a little worried, I looked at a helpful map (did I bring a map? Of course not! I knew where I was going!), I discovered I had made a little mistake. Luckily, a bus back to Brixton Station shortly turned up, and I was back on my way, discovering The Windmill at half-past-five. Which meant that I was only two and a half hours early. I think that's a record.
(My idea of turning up fashionably late is to arrive ten minutes early. If I'm running horribly late, I might turn up at the exact time when the event is supposed to start. It's a curse.)
Deciding that I wasn't doing to spend two hours sitting outside on my own, I went back to Oxford Street to get something to drink. I know Starbucks are evil and all, but they do good chocolate cookies. And I'm totally up for selling my soul to the corporate world for a hot chocolate and a cookie. Eventually, I thought about heading back to Brixton. But there's a slight problem.
The Underground seemed to have given up. There were huge queues at all the Oxford Circus entrances, and nobody was going inside. I started to panic - it was almost half-seven now, and the doors opened at eight! I might miss something! I stood in the queue for about ten minutes, before I had the idea of catching a bus.
And now a public announcement: remember that the old Routemaster buses WILL pull away from you, even if you are stepping onto the bus as they do so. I learnt this the hard way, picking myself up off the road as the bus rolled past. But, eventually, I made it back to The Windmill, and thus, to the concert…
(at ten-past eight! HORRIBLY LATE!)
Expect a quiet couple of days here, as I'm off to London tomorrow to see Saturday Looks Good To Me (having sorted out overnight accommodation). So no access to a computer for over 24 hours! How will I cope!?
I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me.
One of the great things about the Internet is the lovely group of people known as scanlators. They take foreign comics that aren't available outside of the host country (usually Japan), scan them in to a computer, and translate them into another language (usually English). Then they stick them up on the Internet for everybody to download. It's a good way of discovering comics from other countries. Completely illegal of course, but the scanlators have a code of honour which means they take down scans once a title is released commercially in the translated language, so the comic companies don't bother them too much (and indeed, they keep tabs on the scanlation scene to see what's popular). Anyway, most scanlations are epic Japanese manga series, and not really suitable for casual reading, but every once in a while, there's a few one-shots which are worth the three minutes or so it takes to read. Today's discovery is a one-shot tale about a girl who gets turned into a fridge.
Yes. A fridge.
As you might expect, it's quite bizarre, including almost obscene descriptions of a boy putting beer into the cooler, and it also shows you just why you shouldn't annoy a fridge.
You can download it using BitTorrent from the scanlator, Kotonoha, but if you want a direct download, I'm hosting a zip archive of it as well:
Oh, and remember, manga is read from right-to-left, not left-to-right. You'll get used to it, I promise.
If anybody is in an urgent hurry to contact me via email, you can reach me at ianpointer@gmail.com. Hopefully, my poor excuse for a webhost will have sorted out their problems by the time the weekend begins, but I'm not optimistic…
John Negroponte's greatest hits! Definitely a person I'd trust with running all of American's intelligence services. By 2008, I'm fully expecting Oliver North to be the head of the CIA, with Henry Kissinger and the Ghost of Richard Nixon on Foreign Policy…
Oasis sells out Madison Square Garden in less than an hour. Not bad for a band that "never broke America" (™ and © the British press, disregarding facts as usual).
Aluminium cases for the iPod shuffle.
That would be the record industry dedicated to paying the artists, then.
Alan Keyes (last seen being slaughtered by Barack Obama in November), being completely understanding: by throwing his daughter out of his house, and halting her college payments. Classy.
This is not the greatest love song of the 1980s. That title would have to go to Dexy's Midnight Runners, with either their cover of Jackie Wilson Says (I'm In Heaven When You Smile), or This Is What She's Like; two pitch-perfect love songs, one describing the concentrated thrill as a crush walks by, the other an eleven-minute epic that manages to capture an almost indescribable feeling, and does it using no words. And yet you can tell exactly what it means.
This is not the greatest love song of the 1980s, because I don't think New Order were ever capable of writing such a thing. To indulge in a little indulgence, Love Tore Them Apart. But, of course, to say that is to ignore Temptation, which perhaps is the greatest love song of the 1980s; "oh you've got green eyes / oh you've got blue eyes / oh you've got grey eyes" Eight minutes of Factory heaven and the memories of picking up yellow tapers five floors off the ground.
This is not the greatest love song of the 1980s. And that's fine, because, despite the title, it is not a love song. It is, instead, a song for mending a heart. Stitching back together something that no longer works. 12 inches (and it must be twelve; 7", in this case, is an edit too far, a course of antibiotics that you never finish, allowing the infection to grow back) of care.
It begins, with the forming of a beating heart, the drum. But something's wrong; it skips, it jumps. It needs help. Which is where the synth comes in, dancing in and out of the left and right channels, hopping like a butterfly, whispering sweet thoughts to those who will listen to its charms. The drums chime in appreciation, allowing the synth to settle, and play its tune for all to hear.
Every time I think of you
I feel shot right through with a bolt of blue
It's no problem of mine
But it's a problem I find
Living a life that I can't leave behind
But there's no sense in telling me
The wisdom of the fool won't set you free
But that's the way that it goes
And it's what nobody knows
well every day my confusion grows
Then there's the bridge. The synth just glides over the beat, gleaming in its perfect shimmer, before another synth swoops in to introduce the chorus.
Every time I see you falling
I get down on my knees and pray
I'm waiting for that final moment
You say the words that I can't say
And it's just perfect. How wonderful does the backing sound here? Why does every chord sound as if it's moulded to Sumner's voice? Then the drums and the synth play against each other to head back. Back to the verse. Back to the real world. Back to hurt and suffering and loss and why does it have to continue? The drums clatter, as if something's still not right.
I feel fine and I feel good
I'm feeling like I never should
Whenever I get this way
I just don't know what to say
Why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday
I'm not sure what this could mean
I don't think you're what you seem
I do admit to myself
That if I hurt someone else
Then I'll never see just what we're meant to be
Resuscitation, An extended synth and drum piece. Effects bounce all over the studio walls, simple ideas becoming complex harmonies. Building up, then stripping back down to drums, real mixed with the drum machine. But can you tell the difference? Glitches stop and start. Then, something magical happens.
At 5:32, the song gives up. It accepts failure. And with that, it is cured. With that, it can live.
The song comes to life. The synth sings for us. Primitive Fairlight technology, but the merging of man and technology is complete. The synth, female, of course, sings the chorus for us, heart cured. It then duets with Sumner for a final encore, before it opens the door the outside world.
Every time I see you falling
I get down on my knees and pray
I'm waiting for that final moment
You say the words that I can't say
Every time I see you falling
I get down on my knees and pray
I'm waiting for that final moment
You say the words that I can't say
This is not the greatest love song of the 1980s.
It is a 12" band-aid for the heart.
While talking with audience participants, the president met Mary Mornin, a woman in her late fifties who told the president she was a divorced mother of three, including a 'mentally challenged' son.
The President comforted Mornin on the security of social security stating that 'the promises made will be kept by the government.'
But without prompting Mornin began to elaborate on her life circumstances:
MS. MORNIN: That's good, because I work three jobs and I feel like I contribute.
THE PRESIDENT: You work three jobs?
MS. MORNIN: Three jobs, yes.
THE PRESIDENT: Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that. (Applause.) Get any sleep? (Laughter.)
Whatever that was, I hope I don't get it again anytime soon. Today is the first day since Saturday night that I feel like a human. And I can eat things again! Let's not under-estimate the fun of being able to eat…
Having said that, I'm still not back completely. So, how about a few links just to be going on with?
Google Maps! It's probably useful, but it's also great fun!
Because…well, I guess somebody thought it was necessary - the 5.25" disk sleeve archive!
I'm not entirely convinced by the new series of Look Around You. In both episodes so far, there's been a few points where I've smiled (the Spectrum loading signal sound effect in the Health episode, for example), but it's just not as funny as the 10-minute first series. Or funny at all, in places. A shame. However, the website is worth a visit; it has quizzes, extra information, and, of course, the countdown to the live finale.
Off to blow my nose again for the 500th time today…
I've been thinking about Kenickie a lot this week, mainly due to a post on No Rock 'n' Roll Fun which has an article by Emmy-Kate Montrose (which includes the discovery that her real name is Emma Jackson), discussing the fun of being in a band that the record company didn't fully understand. I remember seeing them play at the end of 'Fully Booked' one Sunday, Lauren's face screaming "why are we here?!" as she mimed to "I Would Fix You". And then the Chris Moyles interview, which is the source of my long-held dislike for him. Marie and Emmy-Kate did their best, but he obviously didn't want them there, leading to a few pointed exchanges (and as a tenth-rate clone of Chris Evans, it's not hard to imagine who came off worse). I do remember enjoying most of their print interviews, though, especially the ones where Lauren proclaimed her love for Dennis Skinner, MP. I do wonder if it's more of a UK problem. While Sleater-Kinney, for example, have had their share of "ooh! look! girls playing guitars! how extraordinary!" interviews and articles, it doesn't seem to have affected them as much, perhaps because their record label wasn't trying to make them something they're not (it also helps that the US can support independent record labels; the UK indie scene flourished in the late 70s and early 80s, but died out as the 90s progressed).
Anyway, there's a bigger discussion to be had about Kenickie at a later point this year (after all, it is the tenth anniversary of Catsuit City!), but for now, I'll leave you with a track from one of their sadly-not-available-on-CD Mark Radcliffe sessions, a cover of The Pixies Letter To Memphis. And, in a stroke of luck, some kind soul has put it up on the Internet, so download and enjoy!
(Thank you NTL. Please don't cut me off again NTL. I NEEEED INTERNET.)
I gave some serious thought about covering the State of the Union address live tonight. But I've decided to save myself the anger, and spend the time doing something useful instead. You may get some reference tomorrow if he says something particularly inane, but I'm a little busy this week (working at a play at my old school and so forth), so don't expect much…
Has anybody been to a gig at The Windmill in Brixton before? I'm looking to go to the Saturday Looks Good To Me concert towards the end of February (yay cheap tickets!), and I'd be interested to know what time they close up, so I can get a bus back to Oxford, and then…spend seven hours there until the buses to Bicester start up again. There might be a flaw in this plan somewhere, you know.
(but still! I missed them twice in Chapel Hill, so must go!)