You be the judge

From The Grauniad earlier this week:

"Russell Crowe has confirmed speculation that he aims to star as the comic Bill Hicks during an interview with the Sydney Morning Herald. Crowe, 44, is currently without a project for seven months due to a delay in filming Ridley Scott's alternative Robin Hood tale, Nottingham. He told the Herald: "I have another project based on the life of comedian Bill Hicks, which is going from treatment to draft stage with Kiwi writer Mark Staufer." The Herald says it understands Crowe would play Hicks, the outspoken US comedian who died at the age of 32 from pancreatic cancer."

Oh, dear.

If you go to the original Sydney Morning Herald scoop, however, you'll find the following:

"Crowe confirmed Nottingham would not go ahead until March next year because director Sir Ridley Scott wanted the leaves on the trees in England's Sherwood Forest to be the right colour."

Am I the only person in the room who finds that fucking hilarious?

Bull$#@% Bulletins

Here's something else I recently dug out from the archives. If you have no interest in comic books - or, for that matter, low humour - then I strongly suggest you look away now.

Some years' ago, during my ever-so-brief stint as a small-press comics creator, I used to write a page of made-up news stories in the style of Marvel Comics' old Bullpen Bulletins. Technically speaking, it was filler material. As Alphonse Karr would say: "Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

Be warned: there's plenty more where this came from...


This autumn, London's ICA will be hosting an exhibition dedicated to the notorious underground comix title, Outside Now!

Originally launched in 1964 by the now-defunct publishing house Bench Press Press, Outside, Now! featured cartoon interpretations of fact-based fights between the major comic creators of the day. As its former publisher Cornelius Numb recalls: "In those days, the comic industry was full of people from all sortsa different backgrounds. Like me, most of them started out on the bare-knuckle boxing circuit."

Holding up a 1960s Fantastic Four comic, Numb continues: "You only got to look at a page of Jack Kirby artwork to see for yourself. Take a look at that bold foreshortening and tough, no-nonsense linework. Just imagine the amount of muscle that went into each of those pencil strokes. Now, try to imagine the kind of damage the fist clenching that pencil could do to your face. It's no wonder we called him 'King'."

According to Numb, Kirby wasn't the only Comic Book Clobberer or Silver Age Scrapper. "These were stand-up guys who settled things the old fashioned way. Take [Steve] Ditko, a skinny guy to look at, but a real dirty fighter all the same. He never gave up. I watched him beat seven shades of shinola out of Carmine Infantino and Bill Everett after a Marvel vs DC baseball game turned ugly. He kept screaming: 'Submit to my will! Submit to my will!' He really knew how to psyche out his opponents.

"We ran that fight in our double-sized Christmas 1971 issues. Despite their injuries, Steve, Bill and Carmine [all] collaborated on the strip. Say what you like, but those guys were pros."

The magazine reached its peak in popularity during the 1970s, and Numb claims that mainstream publishers were quick to cash-in on the phenomena: "You ever see that Superman vs Muhammed Ali book that DC put out? I rest my case."

During the 1980s, however, Outside, Now! experienced a sharp decline in sales. A new wave of comic book artists went straight into the industry from art school or advertising. "Most of them were derivative little sons of bitches who just wanted to imitate their favourite comic artists," recalls Numb. "Those guys didn't know the first thing about fighting."

"I mean no disrespect, but most of these people were fans," says Numb bitterly. "If you ask me fans shouldn't be making comics, they should be reading them." By the time the 80s came around the only people in the industry who'd fight on a regular basis were the letterers. People like John Costanza, Ken Bruzenak and Tom Frame tried to keep the tradition alive, but without the involvement of 'hot' comic artists of the day, the days of Outside, Now! were numbered.

"Those guys tried their best," says Numb, "but what kind of chump wants to read a book that doesn't have drawings?"

Vexicon: Quadrilogy

Vexicon is a term that I coined a while ago to describe the body of words, phrases and language structures that irritate, annoy or perplex the damn hell out of me. Like a lot of people who maintain a blog, I suffer from a somewhat heightened sensitivity to the words wot we use. The contents of my vexicon, then, are those combinations of letters that invariably cause me neuro-linguistic palpitations and a bad case of irritable vowel syndrome.

I was browsing the Interwebs during my lunch break at work today when I noticed that Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is now available for pre-order from Amazon. For one reason or another this was the first Indy flick that I never got around to catching at the cinema, so no doubt I'll buy it when it comes out and add it to my monstro DVD collection.

I also noticed that there's going to be a new Indiana Jones DVD box set that'll include Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, but I've already got a box set containing of the first three films so I'll be skipping on that. Now, I'm well aware that the new Indy film received a fairly mixed reception from critics and the public upon release. Some claimed that the film's title itself was part of the problem, saying it was cumbersome, ungainly and had far too many syllables. Even it's abbreviated form - IJATKOTCS - was accused by some of looking suspiciously like an anagram of something you could catch from a toilet seat.

Just to clarify matters, I wasn't one of those people. If anything, I'm rather fond of cumbersome, ungainly film titles that have far too many syllables. No, I didn't have a problem with the film's title. What I do have a problem with is what they're calling the new DVD box set.

They're calling it The Indiana Jones Quadrilogy.

Not 'The Indiana Jones Saga' or even 'The Indiana Jones Legacy'... no, it's 'The Fucking Indiana Jones Quadrilogy'. Yes, Quadrilogy. It really is a grotesque word. To paraphrase an old insult, if your dog looked that ugly you'd shave it's arse and teach it to walk backwards.

It's not a proper word, of course. Something like that could only be spawned in the fetid bowls of some Hollywood marketing department. I imagine the filthy, denatured committee of bright young things who first coined the term probably got a nice fat bonus for their efforts. Of course, if a sequence of three films is a 'trilogy' then a sequence of four should really be 'quartet', but these little bastards always know better. "Market research tells us otherwise," they'll claim. "If you package a lucrative franchise property like the Indiana Jones, Alien or Die Hard series' as a 'quartet', a significant percentage of our target demographic will perceive this as a threat to genre convention. There's a very real concern amongst Middle Americans that Indy, Ripley and John McClane will pull out a pair of violins and a cello and do a Vivaldi recital."

Bill Hicks was right about these people.

Tom Waits, Le Grand Rex Paris, 24th July 2008: Gig Reconstruction

I'll eventually get around to writing a proper review of what will almost inevitably end up as My Favourite Gig of 2008. Yes, I know it's only August and I shouldn't be writing the rest of my year off already, but this was a Tom Waits concert, Goddamn it! It'd take something pretty spectacular to knock it off pole position. I suppose a surprise birthday festival in my living room might do the trick, but only so long as the organisers manage to get Jimi, Janis, Kurt & Elvis as the headliners. Even then I'd probably be late in writing a review.


Anyhow, what follows is a setlist for Tom Waits' 24th July gig at Le Grand Rex in Paris courtesy of the fansite The Eyeball Kid. What follows that is my first attempt at online gig reconstruction. Various public-spirited people have uploaded bits of the gig to YouTube, so I thought it might be fairly public-spirited of me to present it all in some kind of sequential order. I don't know if I'm the only person to think of doing this, but if I'm not then maybe some other public-spirited person can put all the various efforts into some kind of a sequential order, too.


I could only find a dozen songs from the night, and resisted the temptation to splice in material from other 'Glitter and Doom' tour dates. If other tracks turn up then I'll add them as and when. The songs in bold on the playlist are the ones that have been captured by cameraphone. Unsuprisingly, the sound and picture quality can vary quite dramatically, but I suppose that's kind of apt. It really was one of those you had to be there nights.


Lucinda/Ain’t Going Down To The Well
Raindogs / Russian Dance
Falling Down
All The World Is Green
I’ll Shoot The Moon
Cemetery Polka
Cold Cold Ground
Eyeball Kid
Way Down In The Hole
The Briar And The Rose
You Can Never Hold Back Spring
Lucky Day (aborted)
Tom Traubert’s Blues
Innocent When You Dream
Lie To Me
Hoist That Rag
Bottom Of The World
November
Hang Down Your Head
Get Behind The Mule
Dirt In The Ground
Make It Rain


Chocolate Jesus
Trampled Rose
Come On Up To The House


Lucinda/Ain’t Going Down To The Well from videodharma:


Raindogs & Russian Dance from Stunneddotorg:


Falling Down from videodharma:


All The World Is Green from Ragged Words:


Eyeball Kid (featuring the mirror-encrusted Glitterball Hat!) from Mr Percy:


The Briar and the Rose from lorusinaqua:


You Can Never Hold Back Spring from Rockerparis:


Tom Traubert’s Blues from Stunneddotorg:

Lie To Me from Rockerparis:


Hoist That Rag from lorusinaqua:


Make It Rain & Trampled Rose from Rockerparis:


Trampled Rose from Rockerparis:



Thanks to the various Raindogs who contributed clips. Maybe next time he plays I'll have a decent cameraphone.

The Gilded Palace of Cinema

I've never been a design nut, architecture addict or buildingophile, but when I first saw Le Grand Rex in Paris I was reduced to the state of a lovesick puppy.

It was years' ago (don't ask how many), during my first trip to Paris. I was staying at a far-from-swanky hotel just a few far-from-swanky streets from Gare du Nord station and, on the first day, went for a reasonably long walk. As someone who only started travelling abroad when I was all grown-up and could afford to pay for it myself, I was doing then what I still do now: getting intentionally lost as whilst immersing myself in the alien ambiance of it all.

I can't remember the specifics of the route, possibly because the route was far from specific. I headed in a vaguely southerly direction on the basis that I was pretty certain that the 'Nord' in Gare du Nord meant 'north'. By my standards, that's about as sophisticated as it's ever likely to get. Anyway, at some point I must have ended up wandering down the Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière because, when I reached the point where it intersects with Boulevard Poissonnière, I saw it:



It stopped me in my tracks. I didn't need to be a design nut, an architecture addict or a buildingophile to know that I was looking at one Goddamned sexy building. For one thing, it couldn't have looked more outrageously French if it tried. It was so quintessentially cool, so effortlessly elegant and so proudly Parisian that I half expected it to light up a Citannes, raise a pair of eyebrows and shrug. I was captivated. I couldn't take my eyes off it. I might even have fallen in love.

The fact it was very obviously a cinema probably had a lot to do with it. I've been embroiled in a long-term and occasionally tempestuous love affair with the cinema for most of my life. ever since I first saw Star Wars at the Birmingham Gaumont at the tender age of seven. The Gaumont - in case you don't already know - was a grand, two-tiered, Art Deco picture palace that once boasted the largest screen in Europe. I spent many a Saturday afternoon there, feeding my growing celluloid addiction by greedily devouring movies, often indiscriminately. I can still remember the walnut panelled foyer, the huge velvet curtains and the ladies selling ice cream in the aisle. There was something almost sacred and ritualistic about it all. It will always be one of my favourite places in the world.

The Gaumont, like so many of its kith and kin, was closed in 1983 and bulldozed out of existence in 1986. Others didn't even last that long. Located a mere ten minutes' walk from my family home, the magnificent Kingstanding Odeon might have been a serious rival for my affections if it wasn't for the inconvenient fact that it was turned into a bingo hall eight years before I was born. As you drive through the suburbs you'll often catch a glimpse of other, long-abandoned cinemas, now nothing more than fossilized remains of splendour. In Birmingham, they are a thing of the past. In this part of the world ornate picture palaces and movie temples are about as rare as rocking horse shit.

But not in Paris, it seems. As I looked at Le Grand Rex I was reminded of those Saturday afternoons at the Gaumont. The buildings, after all, were of similar age: the Parisian cinema first opened its doors in December 1932, some 18 months after its Brummie counterpart. Like the Gaumont, the facade of Le Grand Rex was bold and classically Art Deco, while the Haussmann-endorsed pan coupe corners gave it a distinctly Parisian flavour. And while the Gaumont once had the largest screen in Europe, Le Grande Rex was (and still is) the current holder of that title.

Inside, the scale of the main auditorium - 2,800 seats with two balcony levels - left me in the same state of awe I felt as a child. The baroque decor, the otherworldly elegance and the vaulted ceiling festooned with stars transported me to another place and another state of mind, somewhere that I thought no longer existed. This was somewhere special, somewhere sacred, somewhere timeless. This was something else.

I can't think of a better place in the world to see a Tom Waits concert.

What Clare Did

My gorgeous girlfriend Clare has a blog. You can find it here.

I guess that means I'd better behave myself.

Latitude Diary, Day 4

So here I am, nearly three weeks after we finally packed up our tents, and I'm still writing about the Latitude Festival. Haven't quite grasped the concept of live blogging, have I?



Anyhow, we've now reached Day 4 or - as it was more commonly known back in those days - Sunday, 20th July 2008. It was the last day of the festival and, without hesitation, my undisputed highlight was seeing Grinderman perform at the Obelisk Arena. Grinderman, in case you don't already know, is a band Nick Cave formed with erstwhile Bad Seeds Warren Ellis, Martyn P. Casey and Jim Sclavunos. They released an eponymous album last year and their raw and raucous guitar-based sound been compared in some quarters with Cave's post-punk band The Birthday Party. Not in these quarters, mind: I think they sound more like the early-Bad Seeds. Other people in other quarters think that the early-Bad Seeds sound a lot like the late-Birthday Party, while other factions maintain that the early-Birthday Party sound a lot like the late-Boys Next Door. That's just being awkward, though.



Whatever the case, I make no secret of my musical allegiances: I'm a huge Nick Cave fan and have been for many a year. I saw him play with his long-time cohorts The Bad Seeds as recently as May and wrote about it here. Elsewhere, I've said that he "kicks arse so hard it farts out of its nose." Overall, then, I'm of the opinion that Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are one of the greatest live rock-and-roll bands in the world. After seeing the Grinderman gig at Latitude, though, I feel as though they're facing some stiff competition from themselves.



With menacing swagger and no shortage of humour, Cave captivated the crowd. He's very good at crowd captivation. The band opened with Depth Charge Ethel and most of the set came from the Grinderman album, with the addition of a new song called Dream ("Like when you're fucking asleep," clarified Cave, before edging himself into a verbal cul-de-sac by misquoting Shakespeare: "To dream, perchance to... to... to... ah, fuck it.").



Here they are. Watch them rock.






Other highlights of the day included:



14.00(-ish) Wordtheatre: The Affairs of Others. I caught this by chance and was captivated. David Soul - the artist formerly known as Hutch, Ben Mears and Jerry Springer - read the Tobias Wolff short story 'Bullet in the Brain.' Black as anthracite humour, powerfully delivered.


14.45 Frankie Boyle. Glaswegian panel show regular surprised me by being a lot funnier than I expected.


15.50 Noah & The Whale. They of the criminally catchy summer hit 5 Years Time. Clare wanted to see them; I'm glad I went.






16.30 Otis Lee Crenshaw. Wah-hey! More Rich Hall!

17.30 Stewart Lee. Sublime. A routine that consisted of riffs and meditations on a 1970s comedy album called 'I'm a Comedian.... Seriously' by Franklyn Ajaye (yes, I had to look him up, too) became a ruthless deconstruction of comedy technique. It shouldn't have been anywhere near as pant-wettingly funny as it was. But it was.


18.35 Breeders. I saw them in April but, mercifully, this time around was spared the insane ramblings of a speed garage freak from Northampton. They were great, of course, but probably would have been better in the more intimate Uncut tent.


20.00 Grinderman. See above.


21.15(-ish) Blondie. More guilty pleasures. We caught them from a distance, but didn't have a choice (and, yes, I meant to say 'them': as Clare pointed out at the time, Blondie is a band. People seem to forget that).


21.45 Tindersticks. I've never really listened to the Tindersticks, but they've often been mentioned in the same breath as bands I really like. Thought I'd give them a try; wish I didn't.

Latitude Diary Day 3: Fromage Fray

At some point between the blistering Mars Volta set and the 2am Buzzcocks gig we stumbled off into the woods. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Like pack-a-mac clad moths to a flame we were drawn to the gaudy disco lights of the Club de Fromage. This, as the name suggests, was an open air Bacchanalian knees-up dedicated to synth-soaked, drum machine-drenched music of a Cheddary nature. With its heavy rotation of retro floor-fillers, it put me in mind of one of those god-awful 80s theme bar chains like Reflex, except it was good. For one thing, it was packed full of trees: from my experience these tend to be in short supply at your average 80s theme bar. Of course, a conspicuous lack of trunks, leaves and branches has never stopped the average Reflex patron from getting spectacularly out of their tree. That's what I call a testament to human ingenuity.

Besides the verdant ambiance, Club De Fromage was also packed full of nice people having a good time. From my experience, these tend to be in short supply at your average city centre 80s theme bar, too. I for one welcomed the noticeable lack of pinch-faced, dead-eyed, manic aggressive, "Don't-do-It-Mate, She's-Not-Worth It" types. Who knows? Maybe they were knocking back the red sambucas and getting into fights over at the poetry tent.

As Dolly Parton belted out "9-to-5", I leaned against a tree and endeavoured to be witty and articulate. but fatigue was taking hold. Clare, however, was on top form: "They should call it Treeflex," she said.

Wish I'd thought of that.

Latitude Diary, Day 3: Another Music in a Different Tent

Buzzcocks, in the wee small hours of 20th July (approx 3am, can't be sure), courtesy of some YouTube and some good natured soul with a camcorder. Clare rather unkindly said that they looked like a pub darts team. I reckon they played like a force of nature.





Brother Younger and I were taking care of business in the mosh pit. It may be undignified, but it's fun. If you see someone in the crowd jumping up and down in a mad pork pie hat it's probably him.

Latitude Diary, Day 3

On Latitude Saturday (otherwise known as 19th July), Sigur Rós were the headlines. They were good, but I don't like them as much as I feel I ought too. There's something about that finely-crafted, Icelandic, plinky-plonky minimalism that makes me feel as though I've stepped into a mobile phone commercial. I guess I can only take minimalism in small doses.

It was just after the Sigur Rós set that we encountered the Parachute Man. We were sitting on the field when some guy tripped over my foot, flew through the air and landed on a patch of grass nearby, face first. He remained motionless for quite some time and I was torn between genuine concern for his well-being and genuine concern for mine. He was wearing a rucksack, which led my brother to blurt out the line: "Maybe his parachute didn't open."

Eventually, he got up and stumbled off. He seemed confused; I felt relieved.

Other stuff I saw (or partially saw) that day included:

11.00 Marcus Brigstock's Early Edition. Now Show regular Brigstock was on fine form. Like Newsnight's review of the papers, but with dick jokes.
15.00 Bill Bailey. A similar set to lat year's. Just as funny.
15.40 Captain. Breezy.
17.00 Jeremy Hardy. Reassuring.
18.15 Rich Hall. Genius. His Buckingham Palace anecdote and musings on the phrase "At the end of the day" made me laugh so hard I nearly burst my appendix.
19.30 Guillemots. I'm not convinced. Neither is Clare. We'll leave it at that.
20.45 Mars Volta. Fucking awesome. They rock.
(?) Club de Fromage DJs. More late-night cheese.
02.05 Buzzcocks. A highlight of the weekend.

Stuff I missed (or wish I'd seen more of) include:Kategoes, Kabeedies, Seasick Steve & Mark Thomas.

Maybe next year...