Because I know you were curious: the ceramic masterpiece, repaired (can YOU spot the two damaged fronds?) and revealed.
And before you say anything (because someone already has): no, we haven’t become smack dealers in our spare time. Really! What do you take us for?
(Image via K’s moblog, still going strong, even if I have to make up my own descriptions every time he’s afflicted by Blogger’s Block, which at this early stage of the game is frankly a little previous, don’t you think?)
With nine out of twelve (or 75%) of last week’s nominations penned by female bloggers, this is the first time that the gender split has been anything other than more or less equal. God, that’s not an easy sentence to write at 8:30 on a Monday morning. Let’s quickly crack on, shall we?
From the under-represented male wing, we’ve had sharp and timely political metaphor, a raddled former beauty-queen, and a football hero with feet of clay.
Meanwhile, from the ladies (hello ladies!), we’ve had cellos pushed into sternums (enigmatically), pianos dragged into the jungle (heroically if uselessly), rages so fierce that they have seen off tropical storms, murders in the neighbourhood and drugs busts in the home. We’ve eloped to London with lesbians, we’ve woken up with toddlers in Paris, and we’ve been out on a photo shoot with a disorienting new lens (discovering in the process what the word “bokeh” means).
All of which leaves the only post this week to have picked up votes from all three of our judges (myself, Anna and Green Fairy). Yes, this week’s winner – the fourth out of four from a female writer, and a piece which speaks for itself, without need of further justification – is:
Baghdad Burning: Conventional Terror.
Please leave your nominations for this week in the comments box below. Rules of engagement are here.
Patita will be helping with the judging, but there is still room for one more judge: if interested, please e-mail mikejla@btinternet.com. All applications welcome.
Post withdrawn: background here.
From the magnificent “Favourite John Peel quotes” thread on I Love Music, shortly after Peel’s untimely passing:
Autumn 78: after playing the debut Undertones EP in full for the second (?) time that week (I know it wasn’t the first time, ‘cos I heard that as well), he went into an extended speech along the lines of “People sometimes ask me what I do this show for. I don’t do it for the credibility or the cool, I don’t do it for the major record labels, I don’t do it for the music industry, I don’t do it for (etc etc)… I do it for people like (pause) The Undertones.” It was all very impromptu and impassioned and emotional, and had quite an impact on me.— mike t-diva (mikejla@btinternet.com), October 27th, 2004.
A rough paraphase to be sure, but the general gist and thrust of it certainly accords with my memory, and I’d wager that it was about 75% accurate, word for word.
From page 312 of the even more magnificent Margrave Of The Marshes – Peel’s unfinished autobiography, completed in fine style by his widow Sheila after his death – which has had me alternately fighting back tears of laughter and emotion most lunchtimes for the past fortnight:
“People sometimes ask me what I do this show for”, John said. “I don’t do it for the credibility or the cool. I don’t do it for the major record labels. I don’t do it for the music industry … I do it for people like The Undertones.”
Nice one, Sheila! (And there are several other quotes from the same “dimly lit corner of the Internet” – heh! – dotted around her splendidly written half of the book.)
I always knew I’d make it into hardback one day.
First, the disappointment: no Clor! To be honest, it was Clor that I was most looking forward to seeing last night: they made a likeable debut album this year, with a couple of ace singles. In their place, I was faced with the prospect of slogging through two completely unknown support bands. On my own. With naught but draught cooking lager and guilty fags for company. Suddenly, I had a flash of empathy with Pete Ashton, and his noble Going Deaf For A Fortnight project. This could be tough going.
First up, Ralfe Band (note the lack of “the”). A five-piece outfit, with a drummer and four multi-instrumentalists, all neatly lined up along the front of the stage. From left to right:
Consequently, every number they played in their short set featured a different instrumental line-up, with band members sometimes swapping instruments mid-song. This worked extremely well, not least because all the band members turned out to be fine, skilled musicians. In particular, there was a fantastic snare drum & cowbell/mandolin break in the middle of one of the faster songs, which earnt the band their first whoops from the audience. (Audience whoops when you’re third on the bill being a pretty impressive achievement round these parts.)
Influences? Hmm, very difficult to pin down. There was an overall Celtic/folky feel, à la Waterboys/Levellers, which made me feel that the band would do particularly well in the south-west of England – but thankfully, they didn’t overdo the raggle-taggle-gypsy-oh crusty-isms (or else they would have quickly lost me). There were also elements of country and blues, a smidge of Bad Seeds/Kurt Weill theatricality, and even a hint of early Cockney Rebel here and there. Without wishing to damn them by association, I could easily imagine a Ralfe Band track on a cover-mounted CD for Uncut or The Word. The readers of Mojo would definitely like them.
They were also being street-teamed to death: promotional postcards quite literally everywhere, and a bunch of Nice Young People wandering round the venue with clip-boards, collecting names and e-mail addresses in return for badges. (Unfortunately, the Nice Young Person I spoke to, having thoroughly enjoyed their set, knew next to nothing about them – which slightly spoilt the effect.)
Ralfe Band, then. Not what you might call bleeding-edge, but they could potentially do very well. A likeable bunch, who clearly love what they do, but perhaps they need to work a bit more on their stage-craft if they’re going to raise their game. (F**king hell, I’m starting to sound like Louis Walsh.) Hope they don’t get chewed up and spat out as nice safe corporate indie-lite; they’re too good for that.
During in the interval, I bumped into two former colleagues – I & J – whom I have often hung around with at gigs over the past few years. Hooray for company! Billy lots-of-mates!
Vincent Vincent & The Villains were on next: a cheerful bunch of piss-takers, whose refusal to take themselves seriously made them impossible to dislike. Sure, the songs themselves were pretty daft – fast and snappy new wave power-pop, with comic lyrics and distinct rockabilly influences – but this didn’t stop the band performing them as if they were stars in their own private universe, whilst also being well aware of the absurdity of their preening and posturing. In particular, the be-quiffed lead guitarist (playing in his home town, with his family in the audience) seemed absolutely convinced that he was some sort of hugely shaggable Rock God – and hence, because he believed it, he sort of was.
God, I’m making them sound like The Darkness. They were nothing like The Darkness. Got that? Good.
The singer was one of those unlikely looking types who often make unexpectedly effective front men. Think 1970s Howard Devoto crossed with 1970s Tom Verlaine, with a cross-strain of 1970s Wreckless Eric. Bulging eyes, high forehead, a Dave-Hill-out-of-Slade fringe (with some suspicious evidence of an incipient comb-over), and bearing a home-made logo on the back of his jacket, which spelt out THE VINCENTS in what could easily have been white gaffer tape. I liked the way that, straight after the first number, he called for the sound engineer to turn down the volume on the lead guitarist. Ooh, power struggle! We like!
Earlier on, I & J had witnessed one hapless member of the band being refused entry to the venue, and actually being chucked out of the front door by the bouncer. This gave them a perfect opportunity to dedicate a song to him – which turned out to be a scathing, sarcastic attack on the pathetic nature of the existence of all bouncers everywhere. So witheringly apt that it could almost have been made up on the spot, this had the band grinning from ear to ear throughout at its startling appropriateness.
Over on the merchandise stand, Ralfe Band had CDs, 7-inch singles, more badges and more postcards. Meanwhile, Vincent Vincent & The Villains had… combs. Yes, combs. Which kind of says it all.
And finally, onto Sons & Daughters – a band whom I had last seen supporting the Fiery Furnaces, at one of the best and most enduringly memorable gigs of 2004. I had a lot of time for last year’s Love The Cup mini-album, which I played incessantly for several months – but having heard both singles from their latest album The Repulsion Box, had felt rather let down. Gone was their distinctive gothic country rockabilly, and in its place was something which sounded a little too close to bog-standard, NME-friendly, typically 2005-style garage-rock. It all struck me as rather short-term, opportunistic, and a waste of the band’s potential – and so I was there to give them one last chance.
Well. I stand corrected. Yes, Sons & Daughters are quite a different proposition now than in 2004 – but in a wholly positive way. There’s a new energy and focus to their sound and to their stage presence: having sharpened up their act, they’re now performing like a proper rock and roll band, as opposed to a nervous bunch of indie under-achievers. There’s confidence there now, and a real sense of attack.
This was especially apparent in lead singer Adele Bethel, who stalked the stage like an avenging fury. Constantly rocking herself backwards and forwards, looking and sounding fantastic, she still managed to hold just enough of herself back to retain that vital sense of mystique.
And guess what: the new stuff sounded spot-on, and a perfectly logical progression from the old stuff; everything blended together seamlessly, with the Love The Cup songs toughened up a bit, in order to match the rockier Repulsion Box material. In fact, the highlight of the whole set was one of the newer singles: “Taste The Last Girl”, which came across like The Au Pairs covering “What Difference Does It Make”. Yes, that good.
Sons & Daughters, then. I sense that this is a band who are now ready for larger stages, and who will know what to do once they’re on them. Next time they play Nottingham, I’ll be less apologetic about going to see them, and more determined to drag my gang of regulars out with me.
Ah, good old-fashioned guitar bands. They may not inspire quite so much semi-intellectualised purple prose as certain other musical genres, but on a freeze-your-bollocks-off Wednesday night in Nottingham, I can think of no better way of spending an evening.
Now for the Big Climb.
The last time we scaled the incline on the south side of Ashford, it was high summer, and we were sweltering and struggling. It’s a long ascent, whose true length only gradually reveals itself over time – but the diligent climber is amply rewarded by stunning views back over Ashford, and the fields, hills and dales beyond.
A couple of hundred yards short of the summit, we settle ourselves on the sloping grass and have our packed lunch. Whilst munching, we amuse ourselves by spotting the aeroplanes coming in and out of Manchester airport, another thirty miles or so beyond the horizon, over to the far left of our field of vision. With the clear, cloudless skies and the particular quality of the autumn afternoon sunlight, each vapour trail is unusually easy to spot. At one point, we can count a full ten planes ahead of us – and that’s not counting the ever-widening vapour trails left by earlier flights, criss-crossing the sky in spectacular fashion.
Falling into an awe-struck reverie – punctuated only by occasional murmurs of “wow”, and “so beautiful” – my gaze falls upon a group of three birds, flying around in the near-side fissure with the A6 at its base. Mesmerised, I continue to trace their path as they swoop up, down, and off above the high ground over my shoulder. By now, my neck is craned right round to the left – and as I keep gazing, my eyes meet those of an elderly lady, beginning her descent on the path which we have just climbed.
As I am smiling, and as I am turned awkwardly in her direction, she takes this as a form of greeting, and approaches us. Her smallish, friendly-looking dog trots ahead of her, making straight for K.
“Can Charlie come and say Hello?”, she inquires. “He seems to prefer men. I don’t know why.”
By now, Charlie is all over K, and K is all over Charlie.
Charlie doesn’t give me a second look. Clearly, he is well acquainted with the difference between friend and foe.
We chat briefly about the lovely weather, before the old lady calls Charlie to heel and sets off again down the hill. Charlie keeps gazing fondly back at K, who is returning his gazes with equal fondness.
Two or three minutes later, another dog appears to our right, on the upward path. This one is of an indeterminate breed, with a demeanour which suggests a bright friendliness, and an alert perceptiveness. Once again, it makes straight for K’s lap, walking straight past me without so much as an acknowledgment.
The dog’s owner comes into view, head stooped, climbing up the hill. Another elderly lady, again with something of a “county” air about her. She smiles over at us, every bit as genial as her predecessor. K calls over to her.
“We were just wondering what breed of dog he is?”
“No idea, I’m afraid! I was rather hoping you’d tell me!”
“He looks a bit like a German Shepherd, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, a lot of people have said that. I think there must be some German Shepherd in him somewhere. Glorious afternoon, isn’t it? You’ve picked a lovely spot for lunch…”
Her cheeks are flushed with enormous patches of vivid crimson: either a result of her sustained uphill exertions, or of a stiff gin-and-dubonnet after the morning service. Or maybe a bit of both.
“He’s from Animal Rescue! Third one I’ve had! I went to Bakewell Market to buy a cabbage, and came back with a dog in a cardboard box! Oh well!”
As the two of them disappear off to the left, I hiss seditiously at a still beaming K.
“What’s going on here, then? Is this another one of your carefully staged I-want-a-dog ploys? I’m going to have Sharp Words with the script-writer, I’m telling you…”
He beams back at me, in that particular bare-gummed way of his which I always take to signal smug triumphalism.
“Come on then, you devious bastard. Next stop, Sheldon.”
To be continued.
I do hope you’ve all been enjoying my colourful new image borders. Having noticed them first on Dooce, and second on Blogjam, I quickly twigged that these were this season’s “must have” blog accessories – and so spent chuffing ages working out how to code them.
(Don’t ask. Very boring, and I’ve been told off for talking Tech before. Trial and error, basically. Probably lots of better ways of doing the same thing – but now I’ve got it working, I’m sticking with it.)
Anyway, in the course of a recent comments box discussion, I foolishly referred to my border colour as “mauve”. Not so, apparently.
Which, I have to say, bears no resemblence to any “mauve” which I’ve ever seen before – but who am I to question the wisdom of Wikipedia?
qB of frizzy logic – by now my official colour consultant – posited that the colour might be closer to lavender. Which would make it even more pouffey than mauve, but no matter.
Not to be thwarted in her colour matching quest, qB then suggested the rather more old-lady-ish lilac.
However, having consulted the full Wikipedia colour list, I have concluded that my borders most closely resemble thistle.
“Thistle” it is, then. Or at least, “faded thistle”. (Dried thistle? Pressed thistle? Wilted thistle?)
In the meantime, qB was busy developing and naming a brand new shade – a process which she discusses in mind-boggling detail on her own blog. Thus honoured, I can now present the first ever image border in the exciting new colour for Fall 2005…
… frizzy diva!
You can all wake up again now – we’ve finished pissing around with pouffe-assed palettes for today. Keep it pastel, blogpals!
Er, I don’t suppose anyone reading this is going to the Sons & Daughters/Clor gig at the Nottingham Rescue Rooms tonight, are they?
I’d hate to give you the impression that I have no social life, but none of the usual gig-going gang could be persuaded to come along to this one, and I do prefer a bit of company at these things.
God, that sounds tragic.
Well, if you’re down there this evening and you spot me – down the front, left hand side of the stage as you look at it, somewhere around the far corner of the bar, pint in hand, guilty fag in mouth (they’re my only company!) – then please do feel free to march up and introduce yourself.
(Please note that the preferred form of address is: “Oh my God you’re TROUBLED DEEE-VA you blog is AMAAAA-ZING I read you ALL THE TIME!” I shall then graciously acknowledge your presence, dipping my head bashfully as if to bury my face beneath a non-existent Lady Di fringe. Them’s the rules. Don’t get out a pen and paper, though; that would just be unseemly.)
“I want to walk the forest path. And then – if it’s within my range – I want you to walk it with me.” (Peter @ Naked Blog, August 2002.)
As we leave the cottage, I craftily start the Madonna album at Track 6: just where the pace calms down a bit, after the opening salvo of gay-as-f*ck thumpers. Perhaps that way, I could ease K into the album gradually.
Ten minutes down the road, and still no reaction. I try the conversational approach.
“It’s fascinating: while the album was being recorded, the producer – who’s a club DJ in his own right – would take demos of the backing tracks out with him, to incorporate them into his DJ sets. That way, he could precisely gauge the dancefloor reaction to each track, and then go back and make tweaks to the… you’re not remotely interested in any of this, are you?”
“Not even remotely.”
“I could tell by that stony-faced expression. Puh. Thanks for taking a f**king interest. I mean, you could have pretended. Remind me to do the same thing back, next time you start blathering on about bloody proteomics…”
He doesn’t take the bait. I fall silent. God, I need this walk. Clear away a few cobwebs.
As we turn a corner, the music softens to a light trotting pulse, overlain with sweet, simple melodic phrases. Right on cue, a group of horse riders come into view, causing K to slow the car down to a quiet crawl. The up-and-down movement of the horses and riders synchs in perfectly with the tempo of the track. Clip-clop, clip-clop.
“Actually, this is a good one.”
He’s smiling. We’re getting there.
With the large car park at Monsal Head already filled up by the Bright And Early/Can’t Park Efficiently For Shit brigade, we find one last roadside space down at Little Longstone. Which is actually more convenient, now that we think about it. As we change into our walking boots, the CD switches back to the beginning – thus ensuring that “Hung Up” will stay looping round and round my head for the next however many hours. Extended remix, and then some.
It’s only the second time I’ve worn gaiters, and I’m having a hard time working out how to put them on. K assists, but I’m in a brittle mood. Why can’t I do anything practical? Also, the straps are too long: flapping out either side of each boot, dangling in the mud, swishing annoyingly against the side of my trousers with every footstep. I try to tuck them in, but the gaiters aren’t designed that way and so they keep popping out again.
“God, I hate these gaiters. What’s the point of them anyway?”
“Look: as soon as we get to Ashford-in-the-Water, we’ll stop at the shop and buy a pair of scissors. Then I can cut the straps down for you.”
Patience of a saint. But I’m still stomping through the thick mud, failing to fall into an easy step, making heavy weather of it all.
“My f**king boots look like f**king Cornish pasties! How can I walk in these!”
K looks down at my clag-caked soles, and giggles. I giggle back, the drama-queeniness softening just a touch.
To be honest, I’m still upset with myself over last night. I should have left the unwrapping of the ceramic bobble-fruit-and-pillows to him, like I usually do. You know, get a grown-up to do it for me. But instead, I only had to Challenge the Assumption of Incompetence, didn’t I? Stepping Outside The Comfort Zone, like I’m supposed to be doing, on a day-by-day basis.
Which would have been fine, until the moment that I lowered the bobble-fruit into the special dimple on the top pillow. Well, how was I to know that it would only fit one way? Stupid bloody thing.
And now there are two fragments of green china frond sitting in the top drawer of the sideboard, waiting until we get some glue, which we’ll NEVER DO, because we ALWAYS FORGET that sort of thing, and it will be MONTHS before we even, in fact we’ll probably NEVER, and it’s all my fault because I’ve DESTROYED A MASTERPIECE, and I DON’T DESERVE NICE THINGS, and now I’m over-reacting because I CAN’T COPE, I mean f**k’s sakes nobody’s DIED, and…
“Time goes by / so slowly / time goes by / so slowly…”
In no time at all, we’re in Ashford. It’s a neat, well-heeled place, with a character all of its own: quite at odds with the surrounding villages, with its smart Georgian sandstone facades and its almost Cotswolds-like feel. All of which is marred by the constant roar of traffic from the busy A6 at the bottom of the village. Perhaps they all learn to tune it out. Handy for commuters, though: Bakewell, Sheffield, Derby. And you can sense there’s old money here.
The village store is quaint, but crowded and claustrophobic. I wait outside while K queues, kicking my muddy heels against the kerb, dodging the passers-by on the narrow pavement, feeling in the way no matter where I place myself.
The store owner has kindly lent K his own pair of scissors. The straps are snipped, the scissors returned, the walk resumed, a new spring in my step.
Now for the Big Climb.
(But first, this.)
It is the first time that K and I have taken Mrs “Bob” out shopping for Lovely Things For The Home. Looking at her now, trapped motionless in front of the exquisitely turned chinaware, I realise that Mrs “Bob” may never have had Gentleman Friends Who Shop quite like us before. Perhaps it is all rather a lot to take in for one afternoon.
She was absolutely fine in the Gorgeous Kitchenware Shop at Hathersage (whose other branch is in Sloane Square, don’t you know), coming away with a nice little raft of kitchenalia. (Meawhile, I bought a beautifully turned birch tray – along with a Swedish milk jug, co-designed by a professor of ceramics and no less than five of her students.) However, now that we have unexpectedly fetched up in the Gorgeous Ceramics Gallery at Rowsley, I sense that a certain trepidation may be threatening to cloud her enthusiasm.
Her eye has fallen upon a trio of tiny little china receptacles, in a sort of grey-green. Supportively, I draw myself towards her. This is no time to be faint-hearted.
“Nice, aren’t they?”
“They’re gorgeous. But Mike, what are you supposed to do with them?”
“Oh, you just have to love them.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Good answer. I’m going to remember that.”
She’s looking thoughtful. I smile to myself. Already, I sense that she has commenced her journey towards becoming a fully-fledged snapper-upper of the Beautiful But Useless. This is what we do to for people. It is a noble calling.
In the centre of the gallery, facing you as you walk in, some exciting new work from a promising young ceramicist is prominently displayed. It’s surreal, vibrantly coloured stuff. Bold, witty, more than a touch whimsical. To the left, a battered pink sofa perches on top of a desert island, complete with palm tree. To the right, a “bobbly fruit”, rather resembling a pineapple, squats on top of three pinky-blue pillows. As K points out, there are strong similarities with the work of the celebrated (and highly collectable) Kate Malone – but at a tiny fraction of the cost. Frankly, this stuff’s a steal. We’d be daft not to.
Fetching the gallery owner over to the display, I point decisively towards the bobbly fruit/pinky-blue pillows composition.
“That one’s our favourite. In fact, all three of us independently came to the same decision”, I explain – beaming with pride at our connoisseurial unanimity, gaily unaware of any troubling subtext.
The gallery owner is too much of a professional to betray his feelings – but as he reaches for the selected objet, I sense the merest flicker of confusion dancing across his fractionally creasing brow.
A-hum. Well, he’s not been there long. His colleague has been selling to us for years. She’ll put him straight. Perhaps I need to work in a few more loud remarks to Mrs “Bob”. “Look, over here! Your HUSBAND would LOVE THESE!”
After a few more conspiratorial circuits of the gallery space (“Tell Bob about the coffee spoons, boys!”), we drain our wine glasses, pick up our goods, and head for the door.
Back over at the till, the gallery owner can contain himself no longer. As the door opens, he calls over to us.
“So, er, who is the bobbly fruit for exactly?”
“Oh, it’s for us”, I beam, wiggling my index finger back and forth between myself and K. “Thank you so much!”
As the last of the sun sets beneath the blood red sky, the three of us giggle all the way through to the B5056.
…and, judging by the two pages of handwritten notes which I made last night, it will be very long, and very rambling. Unless I hire an editor between now and this evening, that is.
In the meantime, here is a picture of some cows.
(Image taken from K’s moblog – oh, did I not say?)
Bloody hell, Monday mornings. This is another Breakfast Time Special post, written at precisely that time in the week when my mental processes are at their foggiest. (It’s that 6:25 am start what does it. Not natural, I’m telling you.) Still, there’s work to be done, so let’s crack on with this week’s results.
In this absence of an obvious show-stopper this week, it has been more difficult to predict which way the votes would fall. Consequently, we’ve had the widest spread of opinion so far, with most posts picking up votes along the way, and only two posts receiving votes from all three of us (myself, JonnyB and Zinnia Cyclamen).
In this week’s batch of nominees, we’ve sampled the cuisine of East Dulwich, feasted ourselves upon The Gayest Cake Imaginable (with pictures!), and investigated the properties of albino ketchup (not a euphemism, but a Soho burger joint reality).
In our international section, we have photographed morgues in Kyiv (eww!), and gone for wee-wees in rural Zambia whilst being covered in termites (double eww!).
We’ve examined our priorities in life, had a damned good rant about NaNoWriMo, and have surveyed the visual evidence of what too much love can do to a neon-coloured bear.
At this point, it’s worth giving a special mention to an entry which, realistically, was never going to qualify – as it’s actually a series of fourteen consecutive posts in which Pete Ashton attends fourteen consecutive gigs by small bands in his home town of Birmingham. The resulting “Going Deaf For A Fortnight” project is a wonder to behold, and I commend it to anyone with a bit of time to spare.
This leaves just two posts, separated by just one vote. In the runner-up position, we find Mimi in New York, “dodging the slap” in the strip joint. As one judge said:
This is a beautifully written post. It writes of important issues and writes of them well, brings them to life. It’s also a fascinating glimpse into an alien (to me) lifestyle.
But nudging ahead by a whisker, we have this week’s winner:
The Marvelous Garden: THE ART OF SEDUCTION: A Short True Story.
As one judge commented:
This does something I think blogs do best: it documents a few minutes of someone’s life from an unusual angle in an entertaining, thought-provoking way.
Speaking for myself, I’m pleased to see something lighter and more amusing/observational sitting at the top of the pile this week, after two winners from the heavier end of the spectrum. I’m also pleased that, for the third week running, the winning post comes from a blog which I wasn’t reading before.
Here we go again, then. Please place your nominations for Week Four in the comments box below. Rules of engagement are here.
Our judges for this week are Anna out of little.red.boat, and Green Fairy out of Green Fairy.
But after a few more drinks he’s crossed the line. Instead of being funny, he’s just being rude. He’s bumping into people and spilling drinks. People start to peel away from the group. “It’s getting a bit late”; “Gotta be at work tomorrow.” But Tony hasn’t noticed, he still thinks the party is in full swing.
I’ve decided it’s not worth the trouble to score a little weed. Besides, the adrenalin rush ought to last for at least another week.
How I found out it was murder: One of the detectives asked me whether I’d heard anything that sounded like someone playing with a cap gun. I looked at him for a moment in polite disbelief, then said, “You mean, someone popping off with a .22.”
He ducked his head and mumbled that yes, that was what he’d meant. “We recovered a fragment,” he said—that’d be the bullet lodged in the tongue—then added, “We still haven’t ruled out suicide.”
Marianne said we would never live apart after we left London, and we’d tell everyone we were sisters. I said that would never wash because we looked so different. No problem, she said, we’ll say I take after father and you take after mother. She always had an answer for everything.
When will I stop marking out my territory like a cat on heat?
When will I be able to share a breakfast table without clenching my teeth?
It so happened that the Captain was a family friend so always greeted me by name. If the term ‘street cred‘ had existed in the early sixties, mine would have shot off the graph every time this happened. Despite the fact that I could have got his autograph whenever he visited my parents, I still made him sign my book at the Players’ Entrance every Saturday afternoon. It was as rigid and meaningless a ritual as going to church on Sunday.
They play it for a while, but in the end, the piano sit silent in the wooden church at the top o’ the hill. Some folks in Guyana now call it a white elephant, a big useless thing, sitting silent and deaf, can’t sing, can’t hear, can’t do nothing.
In 1932, she was crowned Miss England and was the toast of London’s high society when she came out at that year’s annual debutante’s ball. Two years later she’d married a South African doctor, my grandfather, and was living in Livingstone, Zambia, a colonial backwater. What a grande old bitch she was – I loved her unreservedly!
I flame-thrower those I care about like kebabs, caught in the electric frazzle of this fury. All f**ked up, screwed, twisted beyond redemption – you’re losin’ ’em, but you can’t explain this suicidal hell-bent mission of destruction. It’s not personal, you gotta understand. Not about you anymore.
Few Iraqis ever doubted the American use of chemical weapons in Falloojeh. We’ve been hearing the terrifying stories of people burnt to the bone for well over a year now. I just didn’t want it confirmed.
Familiar knots tighten in my stomach as my mind predictably turns to the office. Will it be a neutral day, or a stormy one? Weather map symbols swim before my eyes. Where once every day was dry with light cloud and sunny intervals, nowadays there are, at best, ominous grey clouds gathering; at worst, a violent storm.
Should I just carry around the contents of my under-sink cupboard so I can clean the living hell out of anyone who has the audacity to cough in my vicinity?
(Sorry: Anna’s a judge this week, so I’ve had to disqualify this one.)
Today, back at work, I was buried by an onslaught of tasks and demands. Late afternoon, sitting at my desk and writing, I suddenly came to. There I was, sitting there, looking at my hands as they wrote. What were they ? Who was I ? It was one of those awful, disorienting moments of Sartrean nausea, keener than usual. I felt poised and teetering on an abyss; a small panic fluttered inside. The Big Lens — the wild, wide, all-seeing, goitrous eye of the Beast — had turned inward.
As part of Stylus magazine’s special B-sides week, the UK Singles Jukebox team (of which I was once a member) were asked to cast aside the new releases for once, and to turn their attention instead to a bunch of recent-ish B-sides. More specifically: cover version B-sides.
Having resigned from the team earlier in the year, I was delighted to be asked to re-join it as a Special Guest, for one week only. (This made me rather feel like Farrah Fawcett-Majors re-joining Jaclyn, Kate and “new girl” Cheryl Ladd for a “special episode” of Charlie’s Angels.)
Settling down to review all fifteen tracks last night, I was quickly reminded of just what a tough gig it is, producing reviews for such an intimidatingly music-savvy readership. (They’re not like you lot. I can’t just toss out semi-informed drunken bitchy rants and hope to get away with it. Oh no.) Painful memories re-surfaced, reminding me of just how much blood I used to sweat over those damned singles reviews, perched over the kitchen table for hours at time on Sunday afternoons, snapping whenever the phone rang, or if friends dropped round, or if K had the temerity to walk in on me. (“How dare you try and boil a kettle! I AM CONCENTRATING!“)
However, five hours later, and just ten minutes before the submission deadline, I was rather pleased to discover that, for the first time ever, I had managed to bash out reviews for every single track. And this morning, I was absolutely thrilled to discover that, also for the first time ever, Stylus had seen fit to use every last one of them. Ding dong, full house!
(You do need to remove the first “effortlessly” from the Sophie Ellis Bextor review, though. How slapdash.)
I cannot remember a time when life (inner, outer, same difference) felt so frustrating, and yet also so full of possibility. I could be approaching a crossroads. It is all very… interesting.
I embrace change, I embrace change. Based on past experience: do I heck as like. But keep saying it, and it might start sticking.
Something within me is slowly being unlocked; the rusted mechanism creaking, as the shiny new key turns.
Ooh, DEEP.
Oh dear. As this was the first date of Dylan’s UK tour, and as the concert finished less than two hours ago, I might very well be in the awkward position of Scooping The World with this little report. Never have I felt so ill-equipped for the task in hand.
Because, you see (and random Googlers might want to stop reading right here), I’ve never been what you might call a Dylan fan. Oh, I fully respect his position in the iconography of popular music, and I recognise his vast contribution to blah-di-blah-di-blah… but, well, I’ve just never been able to form any sort of meaningful emotional connection to his oeuvre. It’s the voice, you see. And what I perceive as an unfathomable aloofness. His work kind of intimidates me, what with its Immense Cultural Significance etc etc… and the sheer reverence in which he is held doesn’t help much, either.
Maybe it’s because I’m a child of Punk, forever kicking over the statues.
Or maybe it’s because I’m just too damned shallow. Where’s the fun, the wit, the sexiness? By rights, I should stick to being waspish and flippant about the new Madonna album. Hey, I know my place.
Also, I’ve had a few.
But here goes, anyway. Don’t say you weren’t warned.
I had primed myself for two possibilities. Based on what I had been told about his past form, either Dylan was going to be electrifying, incandescent, converting me in an instant… or else he was going to be an embarrassing sloppy mess. And I was ready for both. Hey, at least embarrassing and sloppy could be interesting, right? Heroic failures often can be. I’ve seen enough past-it wrecks in my time to know that.
But what I wasn’t prepared for was polite, efficient, bloodless blandness. Bar-room boogie. Pub rock. The sort of stuff that might have been all right down the Hope & Anchor in 1975. Think Eric Clapton. Think Dire Straits. Well, quite.
It wasn’t just me, either. Everywhere I looked in the Arena, people just seemed to be sitting there, slightly absent half-smiles on faces, occasionally popping out for pints from upstairs. No-one looked engaged, ignited, transported. Even the nostalgia factor wasn’t really kicking in. Lukewarm applause, even at the end.
(A predictably bitchy word about the audience, because I can’t help myself. Never in the past half decade have I seen so much high-waisted denim gathered together in one place. And I swear that every teacher and social worker within a fifty mile radius was in there tonight. If they had dropped a bomb on the venue, then all Pastoral Care in the East Midlands would have been wiped out in a trice. I know, I know. The comments box is that-away, folks.)
He’d started well enough: a rousing, rocking Maggie’s Farm (Thatcher Out! Say No to the Poll Tax! Ah bless, he knows what country he’s in!), followed by a stirring The Times They Are A-Changin’ – the latter bringing tears to my eyes, as I connected with the collective shared histories in the room, and remembered the song’s profound and enduring generational significance.
Oh, but then, but then. Was it just unfamiliarity with the material (quite possible, I fully admit), or did dull album track really follow dull album track, in a stodgy wash of “tasty licks” and snooze-inducing noodling? By the time we got to the interminable “jam session” that was Highway 61 Revisited, my eyelids (and those of my merchandising manager Rob) were drooping.
At which point, admittedly, things did start to pick up, as the band expanded their repertoire to include some more delicately worked country blues, playing around with the basic template at long last. At the same time, there was a discernable intensifying of emotional focus – a shift in the dynamics, which lifted me out of the Land of Nod and even got me vaguely twitching, so far as the unpleasantly cramped seating would allow.
I should do my duty, and furnish you with some specifics. Dylan played the entire set seated sideways on at his keyboard, in a black suit with red trimmings and a wide-brimmed black gaucho hat. He didn’t play guitar at all, and I think he only used his harmonica the once (mercifully, I must confess). His five-piece backing band wore matching beige suits, not terribly well fitted, with some of them sporting similar headgear to Bob. The drummer was the weakest link, we thought: too perfunctory, too mild.
Dylan’s voice sounded great, though. Never a fan of his 1960s folky whine, I like the cracked quality that age has bestowed; it lends a expressive range (well, comparatively speaking). Diction: good. Not excessively drawled, but surprisingly clearly enunciated, and delivered with a pleasing intensity. Why, I could even make out whole phrases at a time. This helped.
About ninety minutes in, after an unexceptional mid-set filler (I was miles away), the music abruptly stopped. Blackout, silence. Then the lights came back on, revealing Bob and the band lined up at the front of the stage. Huh, that’s it? Interval time maybe? (Rightly or wrongly, I had expected a marathon.) Comprehensively wrong-footed, the crowd were slow to cotton on that this was in fact Encore Time.
Encore Time, then. Like A Rolling Stone had us on our feet, but still the atmosphere fell several yards short of Exultant Mass Communion. (Of course, Dylan had long since ceased to sing anything so predictable as the actual melody line, preferring instead to deliver virtually the whole song in the same low-to-high interval, like an obscure Anglican psalm.) Ooh, All Along The Watchtower, MUCH more like it! This was genuinely great. I beamed, I wiggled, I bobbed, in the zone at last.
Blackout, bow, exit, applause, house lights still down, expectations high.
House lights up. Oh well, that’s that. Another icon to be ticked off the list. Glad I went, honestly. Because now I know. Dylan’s just not for me, never has been, never will be.
OK Googlers, do your worst. “There’s something happening here, but you don’t know what it is, do you, Mister Diva?” My shoulders are broad.
Update: Some other reviews of the Nottingham concert:
1. Tim Anderson, a serious Dylan fan, offers up a considered, detailed, respectful song-by-song breakdown. True “Bobheads” should head there immediately.
2. Tony Roe from BBC Nottingham was far from impressed… and the same goes for the bulk of his commenters.
3. Quick, before the article disappears behind pay-per-view: Andy Gill at The Independent thought he was OK. Four stars.
The new Madonna album is, essentially, and provided you edit out all the usual aren’t-I-just-so-uniquely-fascinating fame-is-such-a-headf**k me-me-me-ness of the lyrics, one great big, non-stop-segued, spangly-disco-balled, glad-rags-on, hands-in-the-air, yo-DJ-pump-this-party, we’re-all-in-this-crazy-ship-together, ooh-these-are-good-ones, Christ-he’s-smiling-back-have-I-pulled-or-what, sod-the-attitude-let’s-SCREAM, (well-OK-just-a-little-bit-of-attitude-then), most entrancingly transiently transcendentally meltingly beltingly everything-just-SO, sometimes-life-is-just-like-the-movies, move-over-losers-Miss-THING-has-come-to-town Saturday Night Out of the year.
(Meanwhile, my partner K finds it all a little bit “full-on”. Quod erat demonstrandum.)
It immediately makes me want to doll myself up, squeeze myself into something irresistible, and go out on the razz. Preferably in 1994, if that could be arranged. I used to be a Great Beauty! My dance card was permanently marked! Gentlemen used to queue up outside my door!
(Or else my Oh What A Lovely Midlife Crisis! nostalgia glands are being expertly manipulated by one of popular culture’s most adept operators, who has recognised that now is the time to quit with the f**ed-if-I-care experimentalism, and explicitly target her core demographic of slightly past-it party boys d’un certain age. But hey, I’m cool with that.)
If I have a criticism – and, really, it ain’t much – it’s that the opening four tracks are just so deliriously, mega-tastically TISH-TISH SWOOSH, CHUG-CHUG THUD, UNHHH-UNHHH, WALLOP-WALLOP WHEEEE, that what follows must inevitably suffer by comparison. But it’s only a slight sag. The plateau after the rush, or something. I feel no need of further elaboration.
A prediction. At around 8pm this coming Saturday, every unattached, urban-based gay man in Western Europe and Northern America between the ages of 25 and 40 with Plans For Later On will be playing this as they get ready to go out, hula-dancing as they towel-dry, jiggling their tushes as they whip an iron over their disco tops.
Go on, ring round on the night, see if I’m wrong.
Disaster averted! With Pam’s votes having mysteriously gone astray over the weekend, a last minute plea for a substitute was kindly answered by Ann Pixeldiva. Having pooled her votes with mine and Clair‘s, I can now reveal that the new Post Of The Week is…
Coming up after the break.
But first, let’s look back at last week’s other nominees.
We visited karaoke bars in North Korea and Saharan vomitoria (not to mention damp sand-pits) in Tokyo.
We learnt about gold carving in Guyana, and acts of altruism in Jordan, over cups of coffee in Washington DC.
We left answering machine messages in New York, swapped broken German with Swedish chefs, and inadvertantly flashed our bits at VIPs.
There were meditations on peace, angry rants at Texan voters (more background here), and – following directly on from last week’s winning post – an intensely moving personal testimony of the hurt that families can mete out over the decades.
In the midst of so much internationalism, this week’s winning post comes from closer to home. From North London, to be exact – where a survivor of the 7/7 tube bombings voices her opposition to the recent attempts to detain terrorist suspects without charge for up to 90 days, and lays into the idea that the Blair government were somehow acting in her name. As one of the judges put it:
…saying something that really really needed to be said, and saying it a way that will hopefully make people pay attention.
The second Post of the Week therefore goes to:
Rachel from north London: 90 days and 90 nights.
Please leave this week’s nominations in the comments box below, by Saturday morning at the latest. Rules of engagement are here.
This week’s esteemed judges are JonnyB and Zinnia Cyclamen.
Despite living entirely in the dark he has not become pale and etiolated. Quite the opposite. He has retained an enviable youthful vibrancy and vigour. So much so that, were he called upon to make an entrance, he would give a very unconvincing performance.
Nov 08, 2005: The Burial At Thebes (Sophocles’ Antigone translated by Seamus Heaney), Nottingham Playhouse.
Classical Greek drama in contemporary relevance Shockah! Heaney’s unstuffy new translation strikes all the right notes, and the deceptively simple staging looks great when viewed from the Circle. A tightly staged production, with almost every movement choreographed with precision; even the folds on each actor’s robes somehow complement each other. It’s only short – not much more than an hour and a quarter, no interval – but this serves to heighten the sense of concentration, from players and audience alike. Proper drama, proper acting, proper art. For once. Highly recommended, particularly if (like me) you’ve not been to the Playhouse in a while and need your confidence restoring.
Nov 06, 2005: Steak & Chips, The Cottage.
In which, under K’s expert tutelage, Mike actually cooks a proper meal for once in his life Shockah! One of the undoubted highlights of the critically acclaimed Doing At Least One Thing Each Week Which Breaks Through Mike’s Comfort Zone season, the results were little short of spectacular: succulent steak (medium rare), crisp chips (washed, drained, dried, deep fried once, drained, deep fried twice), with peas and baked tomatoes forming a simple yet effective accompaniment. Can’t cook? WILL cook! (Repeated this Sunday, 19:00.)
Nov 05, 2005: Someone You May Have Heard Of’s Bonfire Party, three or four villages away, Derbyshire.
Last year, the assembled mix of political/media types (there were a lot of fearfully earnest, distressingly handsome young men in black sweaters and tight jeans, up from London for the weekend) and stout-hearted county folk (flat caps, rosy cheeks, sensible outdoor clothing in clashing colours) burnt an effigy of Robert Kilroy-Silk; this year, inevitably, it was the turn of George Galloway. Who, it has to be said, went down fighting. As the winds gathered force around him, so the great man’s flames (burning with a violent orange to match his permatanned skin) veered ever more dangerously sideways and up-field, towards the merrily jeering throng. A few minutes later, the transubstantiation from bonfire to flame-thrower now complete, the effigy was spitting hot fireballs above the heads of the rapidly retreating guests, and sending showers of sparks flying all over them, as they cowered in a huddle near the top fence. Standing safely below and behind, K and I could almost hear his self-righteous roar above the crackling timbers. “Yer lily-livered lickspittle popinjays, I’ll take the lot of yer down with me!”
Way back in the mists of time, when I was an eager-to-please and obsessively completist young blogger with an exciting and fast-moving sidebar (oh, we all had them!), I made a habit of providing brief descriptions of the albums in my we listen chart, which would pop up as mouseover text for each individual link.
After Firefox came along, with its pleasure-denying limit on the maximum number of characters for mouseover text, the fun ceased. (Also, to be honest, the code was a right old faff to maintain. So I’m not complaining or anything.)
However, if I were still providing these “pithy capsule reviewlets”, as I skittishly dubbed them, then they might have looked something like this.
1 (2) Tender Buttons Broadcast
Although initially abrasive/austere/unyielding, repeated listens (and a superb live show) have revealed an unexpected inclusive warmth buried at its heart. Sparse, fractured space-age-gone-wonky pop songs, as picked up by a dodgy shortwave radio from a parallel universe.
2 (5) Supernature Goldfrapp
Starts off as pure electro-glam pop, but it’s by no means not all pop. Mingling the best elements of the first two albums, Goldfrapp are finally ready for the mainstream; and I for one respect their all-too-rare lack of unseemly haste.
3 (6) Held on the Tips of Fingers Polar Bear
Energetic yet tightly focussed drummer-led contemporary jazz, scored rather than improvised, discreetly innovative.
4 (-) Feels Animal Collective
The first half is as gleefully bull-in-a-china-shop bonkers as their previous Sung Tongs; the second half is quieter, dronier, more expansive, and (in the nicest possible way) vaguely prog.
5 (10) Coles Corner Richard Hawley
Old-fashioned orchestrated balladry (Roy Orbison & The Bad Seeds?) with a lugubrious, tender-hearted sentimentality; texturally fantastic, even when the songs wear a little thin towards the end.
6 (29) The Magic Numbers The Magic Numbers
Having largely left me cold for months (they promised me warm California sunshine, not dour indie-lite Camden drizzle), something is finally clicking. Maybe it’s the sheer class of the songcraft, as it emerges, shaking its mane, from that woolly heap in the corner.
7 (3) Chavez Ravine Ry Cooder
Its first half affectionately celebrates the vibrancy of a long-vanished Los Angeles community, now buried by bulldozers; its second half is an extended elegy for it. Both halves are equally ravishing.
8 (8) Ceasefire Emmanuel Jal & Abdel Gadir Salim
North Sudanese veteran meets South Sudanese rebel rapper, in the name of national unity. Initially disappointing (I’m so over African hip-hop), but this is now slowly sneaking up on me.
9 (13) Noah’s Ark Cocorosie
Sorry, got to say “fractured” again. Like a faulty musical box from a Victorian penny dreadful, as exhumed by a pair of New York arthouse Wyrd Sisters. Features Antony from the Johnsons, if that’s any indication.
10 (7) The Rough Guide to Franco Franco
You can’t have a serious African music collection without a bit of Franco for historical perspective, you know. Them’s the rules.
11 (9) You Could Have It So Much Better Franz Ferdinand
It’s all a bit routine, isn’t it? But not without its charms. Then again, I’m biased (sigh).
12 (28) In the Heart of the Moon Ali Farka Toure & Toumani Diabate
Despite being more than a tad Incidental Music In New Age Gift Shop, these improvised guitar/kora noodlings are beginning to find their place – even if that place is mostly in the background, over a nice piece of chicken, with puy lentils and an agreeable tangy reduction.
13 (1) Orientation Thione Seck
Recorded in Dakar, Paris, Cairo and Bombay over several years, this ambitious spiritual cousin to Youssou N’Dour’s Egypt is nothing short of a masterpiece. Best heard loud, through bloody good speakers.
14 (22) Clor Clor
Herky-jerky-quirky power-pop, of the Futureheads/early-XTC variety. I’m seeing them in a couple of weeks, supporting Sons & Daughters.
15 (-) Without You Masters of Persian Music
A perfect atmosphere-enhancer for the Monday morning drive back to Nottingham, as dawn breaks over Carsington Water and the dark silhouettes of the geese rise over us in airborne shoals. You wouldn’t think it, would you?
16 (16) Stars Of CCTV Hard-Fi
Ee, there’s hope for the younger generation after all. All across the land, fortysomething dads with Jam and Specials albums in the attic are beaming with approval as they pass their sons’ bedroom doors. And why not.
17 (-) Come & Get It Rachel Stevens
Frisky, intricate, sophisticated electro-pop, all but wasted on dull FHM-babe cipher.
18 (11) Kitty Jay Seth Lakeman
Foxy twentysomething dude from Dartmoor breathes fresh new life into boring old folk Sensation! Recorded in bedroom! Mercury nominated! (See also Spiers & Boden.)
19 (18) Legends of East Africa Orchestra Makassy
Twenty years old, still sounds marvellous, contains first African track I ever bought (Mambo Bado).
20 (25) Ruby Blue Roisin Murphy
Her out of Moloko, as produced by Matthew Herbert. Some have slagged this off for being a bit Smooth Jazz Wine Bar, but I beg to differ.
21 (17) Crying at Teatime Alfie
Just as I finally get round to buying one of their albums, they go and split up on me, due to “lack of interest”. Bah. Lightweights. They’ll be wanting a living wage next.
22 (4) Dimanche à Bamako Amadou & Mariam
Proper pop stars in France, where Manu Chao’s production influences must have helped nudge them into the mainstream. Sure it’s Crossover, but “authenticity” has always been overrated. Unquestionably the soundtrack to our Summer, and still on light rotation even now.
23 (19) The Understanding Röyksopp
It hasn’t made the same waves as its rather more stylistically unified predecessor, but there’s plenty of goodness here none the less.
24 (12) Humming By The Flowered Vine Laura Cantrell
I wouldn’t normally go for this sort of thing, but she was great live, like Nanci Griffith before she went Cheesy Showbiz; 14th Street is especially lovely.
25 (21) A Certain Trigger Maxïmo Park
“Solid” guitar band, who have hooked me in a way that so many of their 2005 contemporaries have failed to do. (Hello Bloc Party!) There’s nothing wrong with “solid”, you know. Same goes for the Doves, if you must know.
Jeepers, you guys! On launching the “Post of the Week” wheeze last Monday, I was certainly hoping for at least a modest amount of reader participation… but never in my wildest dreams did I expect for us to end up with 18 nominated posts by Saturday morning. Not that I’m complaining; you came up with some stunners, both from names which are already familiar to me, and from blogs which I’ve never heard of before.
We had below-stairs revelations from transatlantic liners in the early 20th century. We had exposed genitals on the London Underground. We had flirtatious glances over the organic vegetables (the latter two posts combined into one, for the purposes of voting). We had mythical beasts and holy grails, patently shit strippers and questionable intimate hygiene. We had bewildered kiddies at the door, and dizzy Miss Lizzies on the tube.
Over here, a token straight man attends a Eurovision party. Over there, a single man tries to assess whether or not the grass is greener on his side of the relationship divide. And way over yonder, a good-natured orgy in the middle of an industrial estate makes for the first blog post ever to give me the horn, good and proper. (But then, I lead a sheltered life.) Oh, and there was something which I think was about boats, only having read it three times I’m still not quite sure. (Anyone?)
And then there was Anna from little.red.boat, who earnt herself no less than three nominations. (I’d say “record breaking”, if it didn’t feel a little previous.) Which did we like best? The bossy crisp packet, the sneaky hour-thieving bastards, or the lovingly “prepared” birthday meal? Or would we all feel differently, thus fatally splitting the little.red.boat vote?
As it turned out, my fellow judges (Karen and asta) and I all plumped decisively for the birthday meal post, making it a clear runner-up to…
A worthy winner indeed. Here’s what one of the judges said about it:
“The history of a relationship summed up in a few raw and yet stylistically elegant paragraphs. Staggering.”
And here’s what another judge said:
“It reminds me of the famous Frizzy Logic post, The hurt of not-knowing. I know it’s sad and most of the nominees are more light-hearted, but it is rare to find a from-the-heart post that is also well-written, and this is it. I like it.”
Now, who’s going to tell the author? After such a moving, intensely personal piece of writing, I scarcely like to bounce into her comments box, whooping and shrieking and waving my hands. (“CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE A WINNER!!! MIKE AT TROUBLED DIVA IS GOING TO LINK TO YOU ON THE TOP OF HIS BLOG FOR THE WHOLE OF THE NEXT WEEK! THINK OF THE TRAFFIC! ISN’T IT FABULOUS?!!“)
No, methinks not. But Jean, if you do find your way here, then your post was much appreciated by all three of us, and hopefully by quite a few more besides.
Right then. On with the nominations for Week Two. The rules of engagement are here, and this week’s judges are Clair and Pam. Nominations in the comments box please, and all nominees will be appended to this post as they appear.
Primarily for the benefit of the attendees, this is a brief memory-jogging précis a near-as-dammit transcription (I just can’t help myself) of the talk which I gave to the Creative Collaborations “Your writing sucks” conference on Thursday morning.
“I am a blogger.” From guilty grubby little secret, to something which wins “networking opportunities” at boutique hotels.
What is blogging?
Impossible to answer concisely (“dead air” on the Radio Nottingham breakfast show) – as for every rule an exception – BUT:
– reverse chronological
– short articles
– usually a single author
– frequently updated
– most recent article at top, older in archives
– most link to other blogs – “community” or loose network of overlapping communities
– most allow readers’ comments
Produced via standard software:
– free, easy (no tech know-how, can get started in 10 mins), portable (no special software, just need browser and line)
Background.
Term dates to late 90s.
Started appearing from 1999 onwards – small self-contained group
cf. bursting of dot-com bubble
– “ants scurrying amdist the rubble of the dot-com crash”
– loss of original spirit of web (egalitarian/pioneering/enabling) – attempt to redress the balance
– Need To Know: “THEY STOLE OUR REVOLUTION/NOW WE’RE STEALING IT BACK”
Defining moment: 9/11
– bush telegraph (“so and so is safe, such and such is sealed off”)
– oral history (“we were there, this is what it felt like”)
“Big” media/old media interest – endless “discoveries” of blogging – mixed +ve/-ve reaction
Audience/reach.
Technorati says 20.5 million
…but most are “dead” sites
Better estimate of “active” sites: 3 or 4 million?
Vast majority have tiny readership, c.3-20 regulars
Big media says “you’re failures” BUT these sites are INTENDED this way
– online diaries, cf. letters, round robins, Xmas newsletters
– small ring-fenced network of buddies, eg. Livejournal/Myspace, teens/early 20s, “my parents don’t understand/school sucks/Green Day rules“, bad Gothic angst poetry
Other end of scale: tiny number with readership in thousands
Especially in US – phenomenon more mainstream
Top few have 100,000+
Rest of us float around somewhere in the middle
Troubled Diva (TD) has 650-750 visitors a day
(notably less at weekends: I’m your coffee break/water cooler moment)
c.30% through search engines
c. 200-300 regulars who “follow” the blog
Quite high for UK – BUT – successful UK blog = #39 in Albanian singles charts
Subject matter.
95% online diary/journal, but few of the big hitters
Next most popular: political.
– reaction to 9/11
– few left wing or party political
– many libertarian or “hawk” re. US foreign policy
– politicians (Boris Johnson)
– commentators: journalists (Stephen Pollard/Melanie Phillips) & many wannabe journos!
– can be dense/complex/difficult to plot on trad left/right axis
Celebrities (Moby/Streisand/Paul Daniels/Scott “Dilbert” Adams), but cannot engage with readers due to remote status – so in “blogosphere” perspective, marginalised figures
Special interest: music, MP3, hand-drawn, photo, sports, creative writing, business/marketing, web design, web punditry, sex, food, knitting, God…
Confessional aspect.
– depression/divorce/sexual misdemeanours etc etc
– cathartic for writer, car crash rubbernecking for readers?
– “online disinhibition effect”
– liberating effect of screen: confession booth/heart to heart with friend/therapist
– “I’m insignificant”/”no one will find me”
– OH YES THEY WILL!
Many, many examples
– people have been sacked (“Dooced”)
– sites closed abruptly
– own experience (unfairly bitchy account of posh lunch party, found by friend of the hosts)
– assume that they WILL find what you’ve said, don’t say anything wouldn’t say to face
– stick to being rude about politicians/celebs: that’s what we pay them for!
OR… stick to YOURSELF as subject
– hence criticism “bloggers are self-obsessed”
– goes with the territory
My own category… “personality” bloggers.
Not usually categorised as such
Sink or swim on attributes of writer’s personality
That’s what hooks readers & brings them back
Not always WHAT we write about but the WAY we say it
Can you take a day where nothing happened, and still make it interesting?
My own blog – background.
Started 4 years ago by accident/curiosity/desire to imitate (Single White Female)
No clue what to do with it at start
Friends & family not interested
Started getting comments, leaving comments, others reading my comments, checking my site, if they like it they stick around
Unexpected alternative audience of strangers, small but growing
Dsicovered “blogrolls” (lists of favourite blogs, kept on sidebar)
My defining moment: 40 in 40 days project
Autobiographical 40 day series
Established a readership
Found my voice – or had I? – considered, “writerly”, literary aspirations
As time went on, relaxed this voice
– more pseudo-conversational, immediate, rough & ready
– “first draft”, doesn’t HAVE to be polished (written in gaps during the day, time pressure)
– may look crap in print, but not intended for that – immediacy part of charm
Discovered blogging heirarchy, “A list”, blogging awards (The Bloggies)
– horrified – against egalitarian principles – “they’re not all that”
– or jealous?
– then nominated myself this year
– volte-face, “so glad my dear friend so and so is nominated”, like pigs at end of Animal Farm
– but we evolve!
Success of blog – mentions in press etc – largest pressure – stage fright/”stats vertigo” – visualise 3 or 4 people in room, now a whole crowd
Finding of own voice.
Whole medium geared towards it
INSTANT – INTERACTIVE
Idea for post – one hour later it’s published – one hour later there’s comments – instant feedback
Know exactly how people are reacting, all the time
Can monitor stats – like stock exchange index – can dip, then strong content makes them rise again (we all check them!)
Can see when blog is linked by others
– or individual posts are linked
– or when added to/removed from blogrolls
I engage my readers
– talk to them, e-mails with them
– read their own blogs
…I KNOW WHO MY READERS ARE
Therefore can precisely target content, BUT more sub-consciously than overtly
You simply learn to write with your audience in mind
Not all bloggers take this approach
NME indie band: “we just do what we do & if anyone else happens to like it, that’s a bonus”
I’m the opposite!
BUT… at the same time, write with YOURSELF as audience
– the sort of blog YOU’D want to read
so a kind of happy serendipity at work
also… ITERATIVE.
Most blogs don’t hook you in at first read
Takes time, repeated visits, build up picture of writer, want to know more about them.
AUTHENTICITY valued highly in “blogosphere”
(even if content filtered through persona – jokey, drama-queeny etc)
– blog readers are constantly sifting/evaluating – making quick judgements
– sharp antennae, can easily spot fakes/wannabes
– remember: not in it for the money, so motives are “pure & noble” / untainted by commerce
(even if we’d all jump at chance of book deal/offer of newspaper column…!)
blogs as fair online representations of personality…?
but… you tease, you don’t give it all away, people never quite feel they know you?
TD thrives on unpredictable/erratic/rough around the edges/what’s coming next?
no need for “brand consistency”
– ok to experiment/fail – failure can still be interesting
therefore FREEDOM to write what you want – no commercial pressure
“Edited” vs. “Unedited”
No editors in blogging
A freedom, but a mixed blessing?
– TD tends towards verbosity – but my favourite stuff often in the cracks/digressions/parentheses
– Written style which tends to the over-stuffed, chaotic, sentences running away with themselves/being reined back in the nick of time
Blogging as presenting UNEDITED version of self
– spend a lot of time in real life holding back
– at work, in social situations with people who don’t share my interests/pre-occupations/world-view
– blog is where I can say what I want, without being interrupted
– eg. musical interests / interests not shared with partner
Thus blog audience is self-selecting
– virtual social life?
– differences between real/virtual friends
– can be loyal, can be fickle, come and go
– cocktail party analogy: mingling, forming/dissolving groups/cliques
– “darling it’s been wonderful talking to you, but there are some interesting people over there whom I simply MUST meet!”
– good strategy for absorbing rejection!
We THINK we know each other, but do we really?
– building a strictly controlled (idealised?) image of self – witty / urbane / fascinating etc
– Walter Mitty syndrome? (bored office worker vs personality blogger)
Thus is it fairer to say we’re presenting EDITED versions of self?
Conclusion.
Blogging as obsession
– constant voice in head / inner tabloid journalist on own life
– “ooh, can I blog this?”
– friends: “Mike, you’ve got to blog this” / “Mike, please don’t blog this!”
But if you can harness obsession, rewards can be great
Blogging has made me – 43 yr old office worker – successful on my own terms for first time ever
– reconnection with ability which lay dormant for years
– re-configuration of sense of identity
– has given much needed confidence
So… having started at random four years ago… I’ve ended up standing here this morning… slightly mystified… but hugely grateful.
Footnotes:
1. To read some more points of view regarding “finding your voice” as a blogger, take a look at the comments box at the end of Wednesday’s post.
2. During the Q&A session, I was asked to recommend some other blogs. These were: little.red.boat – JonnyB’s Private Secret Diary – Guyana Gyal – Naked Blog.
3. Towards the end of the afternoon session, I mentioned an recent instance where corporate creative writing had spun out of control: the Barry Scott/Cillit Bang incident. You can read more about this incident here, with a follow-up here.
4. Further reading (didn’t mention this on the day, but it’s really excellent, and relevant to the whole day) – gapingvoid: how to be creative.
5. Here’s a guide to the most linked UK weblogs (from within the blogging community) in May 2005.
Update: 6. Here’s a write-up of the whole day, written by Jess (who I met at lunchtime).
troubled diva 