Vices - The Wind I Walk Into
Vices’ first album is a rock and roll blockbuster. Beautifully produced by Jason Saltzman, song after song combines Californian bliss with driving rock beats. The three guitars weave artfully together over a backing bass and drums, each taking turns in the manner of a seasoned jazz ensemble. At times, the delicate guitar work is reminiscent of ‘Scar Tissue’-era Red Hot Chili Peppers – as on ‘Giving Cigarettes to Kids’. At other times, instruments combine in a sensual assault that disguises the thought and complexity which underlies the song – as on ‘Junk’.
Lead singer Lea, so extrovert on stage, here demotes himself to another instrumentalist, his voice adding another layer of complexity to the guitar work. The abstract lyrics are almost-comprehensible riffs on an enigma, which add to an air of affected privacy; one gets the feeling that these songs might have arrived fully formed in practice sessions, and that the band would be just as happy performing for one another as for the wider world.
The stand out track comes halfway through the album. ‘Jerusalem’ builds slowly to an ecstatic explosion of vocals and guitar. But in truth, the bitter appeals of ‘Younger’ or poppy, 70s-influenced ‘Dust Ghost’ vie for that title, and there are few weak links here.
The Wind I Walk Into is available on iTunes.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Hidden London 2: Coffee, Cake and Kink
Amid plush red sofas and art covered walls, customers sip from a remarkable range of fairly traded coffee, and nibble on genuinely heavenly cakes. CCK does exactly what its name suggests – it is a classy café with a kinky theme, and it is a marvellous place for the open minded to meet the like minded.
Admittedly, the prices are less than student friendly, but the experience is certainly worth it. This is a warm, friendly space in which no topic is off limits, and clothing and music tastes are not barriers to conversation. The art is beautifully done by some of the country’s best, and if you really fall in love with a piece, it’s all for sale.
One acquaintance worried that he would discover a flickering light bulb and a Nescafe at the back of a seedy sex shop; he could hardly have been further from the truth. Sure, it is a sex shop of sorts – all sorts of handmade kinky equipment and kinky books of photography are for sale – but this is not a place filled with sheepish looking men in anoraks. The crowd is, by and large, young, intelligent and welcoming.
Even when the café is empty, there is still fun to be had, because the staff mix easily with the customers, putting first time visitors at their ease and chatting away to old friends. For those that want a little more life and activity, there are regular events in the evenings.
CCK is precisely everything Starbucks, Pret and the rest are not – it is a café with soul, a place to hang out and chat, rather than simply top up your caffeine level. It is a little known corner of London, but one which should be better known.
CCK can be found at 61 Endell Street, just north of Covent Garden, or at http://www.whatsyours.com/
Admittedly, the prices are less than student friendly, but the experience is certainly worth it. This is a warm, friendly space in which no topic is off limits, and clothing and music tastes are not barriers to conversation. The art is beautifully done by some of the country’s best, and if you really fall in love with a piece, it’s all for sale.
One acquaintance worried that he would discover a flickering light bulb and a Nescafe at the back of a seedy sex shop; he could hardly have been further from the truth. Sure, it is a sex shop of sorts – all sorts of handmade kinky equipment and kinky books of photography are for sale – but this is not a place filled with sheepish looking men in anoraks. The crowd is, by and large, young, intelligent and welcoming.
Even when the café is empty, there is still fun to be had, because the staff mix easily with the customers, putting first time visitors at their ease and chatting away to old friends. For those that want a little more life and activity, there are regular events in the evenings.
CCK is precisely everything Starbucks, Pret and the rest are not – it is a café with soul, a place to hang out and chat, rather than simply top up your caffeine level. It is a little known corner of London, but one which should be better known.
CCK can be found at 61 Endell Street, just north of Covent Garden, or at http://www.whatsyours.com/
Hidden London 1: Brixton Jamm
Brixton Jamm is a small club and music venue in, predictably enough, Brixton. An unprepossessing building from the outside, inside it is a tastefully decorated haven for music lovers. The bar is well staffed (though not the cheapest), there are plenty of sofas for those early evening drinks, and at one end, a busy dancefloor is entertained by DJs playing a balance of the cutting edge and the classics. Perhaps most remarkable of all, the toilets are clean – a never before seen phenomenon at a gig venue.
Go through the door on the left, though, and you will discover what really makes the venue tick. At one end is the stage, and in a 200-odd capacity room – with another bar down the side – up and coming bands and DJs rock out. The sound system is excellent for a venue this small, and the bands generally are too. Nights are tightly themed, so you are sure to hear what you like (providing you’ve checked ahead), and only bands with real potential are invited to play. Regular nights feature 3 or 4 acts, although there are plenty of all-day or all-night specials, with as many as eight or ten different bands. There are also occasional well-known names playing there: Carl Barat of Dirty Pretty Things put on a marathon four hour DJ set a couple of weeks ago, to the delight of the crowd.
You’d probably never remark on it if you walked past, but Brixton Jamm is one of the best nights out in London. For relatively cheap entry (around £5-£7), you can party until 4am and jump (stumble) straight onto the buses opposite.
Brixton Jamm can be found at 261 Brixton Road, or http://www.brixtonjamm.org
Go through the door on the left, though, and you will discover what really makes the venue tick. At one end is the stage, and in a 200-odd capacity room – with another bar down the side – up and coming bands and DJs rock out. The sound system is excellent for a venue this small, and the bands generally are too. Nights are tightly themed, so you are sure to hear what you like (providing you’ve checked ahead), and only bands with real potential are invited to play. Regular nights feature 3 or 4 acts, although there are plenty of all-day or all-night specials, with as many as eight or ten different bands. There are also occasional well-known names playing there: Carl Barat of Dirty Pretty Things put on a marathon four hour DJ set a couple of weeks ago, to the delight of the crowd.
You’d probably never remark on it if you walked past, but Brixton Jamm is one of the best nights out in London. For relatively cheap entry (around £5-£7), you can party until 4am and jump (stumble) straight onto the buses opposite.
Brixton Jamm can be found at 261 Brixton Road, or http://www.brixtonjamm.org
Another old review
Sweeney Todd
Sweeney Todd has director Tim Burton in full Gothic Horror mode, complete with fog, monsters and fountains of blood. As ever with Burton, the picture looks magnificent; the scarlet of Todd’s victims leaps out amid a Victorian landscape in shades of grey. Again, though, as ever with Burton, the plot seems subsidiary to the look of the thing; there is a sense of searching for motivations, having already decided that Todd will kill people, and the sickly sweet love affair between Anthony and Joanna is an odd adjunct to a film which delights in its darkness.
The film is so over the top, though, that these quibbles hardly detract from the fun. The music, and the urgent, spoken singing style carry the audience along at a pace, and the fact that the exchanges approach dialogue excuses the lack of memorable tunes – with the notable exception of ‘Try the priest’, which is filled with delightful wordplay and a memorable chorus.
Helena Bonham Carter is magnificent, giving a simultaneously tender and cavorting performance as Mrs Lovett, the lonely pie shop owner who becomes Todd’s accomplice in the hope of getting her to love him. Depp also gives a solid performance in the lead role, although he has yet to rid himself of all of Captain Jack’s mannerisms, whilst Rickman enjoys playing a sinister Judge Turpin and Timothy Spall is convincingly brutal and simpering as Beadle Bamford. None of them are fantastic vocalists, but all are perfectly competent for the style.
‘Sweeney Todd’ is pure melodrama, and those unable to submerge themselves in the current of imagery and emotion will call this a silly and insubstantial film. It certainly is silly - but it is good fun.
Sweeney Todd has director Tim Burton in full Gothic Horror mode, complete with fog, monsters and fountains of blood. As ever with Burton, the picture looks magnificent; the scarlet of Todd’s victims leaps out amid a Victorian landscape in shades of grey. Again, though, as ever with Burton, the plot seems subsidiary to the look of the thing; there is a sense of searching for motivations, having already decided that Todd will kill people, and the sickly sweet love affair between Anthony and Joanna is an odd adjunct to a film which delights in its darkness.
The film is so over the top, though, that these quibbles hardly detract from the fun. The music, and the urgent, spoken singing style carry the audience along at a pace, and the fact that the exchanges approach dialogue excuses the lack of memorable tunes – with the notable exception of ‘Try the priest’, which is filled with delightful wordplay and a memorable chorus.
Helena Bonham Carter is magnificent, giving a simultaneously tender and cavorting performance as Mrs Lovett, the lonely pie shop owner who becomes Todd’s accomplice in the hope of getting her to love him. Depp also gives a solid performance in the lead role, although he has yet to rid himself of all of Captain Jack’s mannerisms, whilst Rickman enjoys playing a sinister Judge Turpin and Timothy Spall is convincingly brutal and simpering as Beadle Bamford. None of them are fantastic vocalists, but all are perfectly competent for the style.
‘Sweeney Todd’ is pure melodrama, and those unable to submerge themselves in the current of imagery and emotion will call this a silly and insubstantial film. It certainly is silly - but it is good fun.
A very old review, dug up
Linkin Park at O2, 28/01/08
The rejuvenated Dome certainly is impressive, with its cinema, restaurants and 17,000 capacity arena, and though negotiating security takes a while, it is a while worth waiting. Entering into a huge bowl which puts Earls Court and Wembley to shame, the excited buzz of fans surrounds the standing area.
It has been a couple of years since Linkin Park were the hottest band around, but they certainly had no trouble dominating this venue; bounding around with exuberant energy, their stage presence is impressive, and lead singer Bennington has the arrogance of a true frontman.
This energy was their saving grace in a set which included almost the entire new album. ‘Minutes to Midnight’ is passable enough rock, but hardly compares to the raw innovation of ‘Hybrid Theory’ – yet tracks like ‘Given Up’ and ‘What I’ve Done’ were carried off with aggressive, immaculately rehearsed skill, corny lyrics and all.
It was the old anthems which stuck out though. There was scarcely a drop in volume as Bennington allowed the audience to do the work for him on ‘Numb’, and a couple of years off the radio has certainly refreshed ‘In The End’, their standout track of the evening.
A misjudged drum solo (what drum solos are not?), and a cover of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’, in which Shinoda showcased his dubious skill as a pianist – and then forgot the words – are perhaps best forgotten, but this was an extremely professional performance, with slick changeovers, impressive lightshows and album-exact songs delivered by a mature band at the peak of their live performing skills. Wipe out the ‘Minutes’ material and it tips the balance into a great performance.
Support came from Biffy Clyro, who enhanced their reputation as an excellent live act. The new album has more crowd-pleasers, but they have managed to maintain the aggression and excitement which has seen them play T in the Park more times than any other band.
The rejuvenated Dome certainly is impressive, with its cinema, restaurants and 17,000 capacity arena, and though negotiating security takes a while, it is a while worth waiting. Entering into a huge bowl which puts Earls Court and Wembley to shame, the excited buzz of fans surrounds the standing area.
It has been a couple of years since Linkin Park were the hottest band around, but they certainly had no trouble dominating this venue; bounding around with exuberant energy, their stage presence is impressive, and lead singer Bennington has the arrogance of a true frontman.
This energy was their saving grace in a set which included almost the entire new album. ‘Minutes to Midnight’ is passable enough rock, but hardly compares to the raw innovation of ‘Hybrid Theory’ – yet tracks like ‘Given Up’ and ‘What I’ve Done’ were carried off with aggressive, immaculately rehearsed skill, corny lyrics and all.
It was the old anthems which stuck out though. There was scarcely a drop in volume as Bennington allowed the audience to do the work for him on ‘Numb’, and a couple of years off the radio has certainly refreshed ‘In The End’, their standout track of the evening.
A misjudged drum solo (what drum solos are not?), and a cover of Rihanna’s ‘Umbrella’, in which Shinoda showcased his dubious skill as a pianist – and then forgot the words – are perhaps best forgotten, but this was an extremely professional performance, with slick changeovers, impressive lightshows and album-exact songs delivered by a mature band at the peak of their live performing skills. Wipe out the ‘Minutes’ material and it tips the balance into a great performance.
Support came from Biffy Clyro, who enhanced their reputation as an excellent live act. The new album has more crowd-pleasers, but they have managed to maintain the aggression and excitement which has seen them play T in the Park more times than any other band.
Painfully accurate
Pains of Youth, The Cottesloe, National Theatre, 6/1/2010
Katie Mitchell's production of Martin Crimp's translation of Ferdinand Bruckner's play makes for electric viewing.
The premise has the mechanics of a farce: the self-involved characters are all sleeping with one another, as a rotating cast of lovers drift from one bed to another. In truth, there are few laughs. Instead, we get a parable on human relations which seems to have at its source Forster's "only connect."
The characters talk past one another, so wrapped up in their own concerns that they are utterly unable to listen. Desperate to avoid bourgeois moderation, they retreat into carefully constructed boxes. This is brilliantly evoked by Crimp's declamatory, disjointed writing, in which no statement seems quite to follow another. The speeches are not realistic; they are the epitome of theatricality.
Mitchell is never a passive director, and here she makes herself felt most clearly in the scene changes. Props are clinically bagged by anonymous, besuited investigators, harshly lit. This is set to uneasy, discordant music composed by Paul Clark. The two together provide a moral commentary on the actions onstage.
All the actors put in strong performances. Geoffrey Streatfield is perhaps the most outstanding, adding depth to manipulative, vicious Freder. Leo Bill's timid Petrell is a little lacking in definition, though it steers well away from cliche. Sian Clifford's besotted, naive Lucy is a remarkable creature.
This play is the result of brilliance in collaboration; the labours of Crimp, Mitchell, Clark and all the cast combine to create a memorable work.
Katie Mitchell's production of Martin Crimp's translation of Ferdinand Bruckner's play makes for electric viewing.
The premise has the mechanics of a farce: the self-involved characters are all sleeping with one another, as a rotating cast of lovers drift from one bed to another. In truth, there are few laughs. Instead, we get a parable on human relations which seems to have at its source Forster's "only connect."
The characters talk past one another, so wrapped up in their own concerns that they are utterly unable to listen. Desperate to avoid bourgeois moderation, they retreat into carefully constructed boxes. This is brilliantly evoked by Crimp's declamatory, disjointed writing, in which no statement seems quite to follow another. The speeches are not realistic; they are the epitome of theatricality.
Mitchell is never a passive director, and here she makes herself felt most clearly in the scene changes. Props are clinically bagged by anonymous, besuited investigators, harshly lit. This is set to uneasy, discordant music composed by Paul Clark. The two together provide a moral commentary on the actions onstage.
All the actors put in strong performances. Geoffrey Streatfield is perhaps the most outstanding, adding depth to manipulative, vicious Freder. Leo Bill's timid Petrell is a little lacking in definition, though it steers well away from cliche. Sian Clifford's besotted, naive Lucy is a remarkable creature.
This play is the result of brilliance in collaboration; the labours of Crimp, Mitchell, Clark and all the cast combine to create a memorable work.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Trying hard
Scouts in Bondage, The King's Head, 23/12/2009
This is a lightweight lark which seeks to lampoon Scouting and the Empire through filth and innuendo. The results are mixed.
Four scouts - one camp, one posh, one keen and one German - are flying to a jamboree in India. When their plane crashes in Afghanistan, they get into scrapes, and must outwit dastardly Afghans, dastardly Russians and dastardly Brits. Along the way, they learn about the true meaning of Scouting, and accidentally bend over in front of one another, in very tight shorts.
A miniscule audience - the same size as the cast - immediately puts the players at a disadvantage. From then on, they battle manfully along, little helped by an average script, without ever commanding outright hilarity. There is enthusiasm and energy from all the cast, but only Mark Farrelly, who is the most experienced of the actors, has genuine poise and comic timing. His soliloquies as the editor of Scouting Magazine are by far the most sophisticated and funny moments.
On a bustling Saturday night, with a tipsy crowd, this piece would be warmly received. As it was, it could never rise beyond the diverting, and never elicit more than a titter.
This is a lightweight lark which seeks to lampoon Scouting and the Empire through filth and innuendo. The results are mixed.
Four scouts - one camp, one posh, one keen and one German - are flying to a jamboree in India. When their plane crashes in Afghanistan, they get into scrapes, and must outwit dastardly Afghans, dastardly Russians and dastardly Brits. Along the way, they learn about the true meaning of Scouting, and accidentally bend over in front of one another, in very tight shorts.
A miniscule audience - the same size as the cast - immediately puts the players at a disadvantage. From then on, they battle manfully along, little helped by an average script, without ever commanding outright hilarity. There is enthusiasm and energy from all the cast, but only Mark Farrelly, who is the most experienced of the actors, has genuine poise and comic timing. His soliloquies as the editor of Scouting Magazine are by far the most sophisticated and funny moments.
On a bustling Saturday night, with a tipsy crowd, this piece would be warmly received. As it was, it could never rise beyond the diverting, and never elicit more than a titter.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
