Ahead of next Saturday’s Eurovision Song Contest final, Sir Terry Wogan tells Michael Deacon why poor old Royaume-Uni may never triumph again...
Sir Terry Wogan must have ears of steel. The day before our interview, he watched the videos of every single entry for this year’s Eurovision Song Contest. All 43 of them. It’s a test of endurance that would have reduced Hercules to a sobbing heap, but the BBC’s indefatigable commentator is in cheerful mood. “They say it isn’t over until the fat lady sings,” he says. “So the Portuguese entrant had better be on last. I thought Russia might win this year since Putin’s got nasty and we need the oil. Then I heard the song and thought, ‘...No’.”
He seems particularly amused by the French entry, Divine by Sébastian Tellier. There’s been uproar in France because its entry, for the first time, has English lyrics. The singer, Wogan notes, has a suspiciously large beard and long hair: “You see, he’s having to do it in disguise for his own safety.” Wogan has been providing the BBC’s commentary on Eurovision since 1971 – first on radio, then (since 1980) on BBC1. Next Saturday he’ll be in Belgrade in Serbia to cover the final; on Tuesday and Thursday this week, viewers of BBC3 can watch the semi-finals. These feature all the entrants except the holders Serbia, plus Spain, Germany, France and “Royaume-Uni”, ie the UK. Those four are Eurovision’s biggest financial contributors, so they go straight to the final. You see what integrity the competition has.
It’s hard to imagine Eurovision without Wogan’s dry (but, he says, affectionate) narration: he introduced the presenters of 2001’s contest in Denmark by crying, “Look, it’s Doctor Death and the Tooth Fairy.” Wogan is such a Euro-institution that he’s mentioned in this year’s Irish entry, Irelande Douze Pointe by Dustin the puppet turkey: one verse begins, “Drag acts and bad acts and Terry Wogan’s wig.” Wogan, I’m afraid, isn’t impressed: he says it’s daft to do a novelty song, as the joke will be meaningless to viewers “east of the Danube”, and because “you shouldn’t try to be funnier than the contest itself”. The “wig” reference clearly doesn’t delight him either: “That’s old hat,” he says.
Last year, the UK’s representatives Scooch finish 23rd out of 24. Wogan, who thought Scooch were terrible, says our song this time, 'Even If' by Andy Abraham, is “the best we’ve had in years”. But he adds that we shouldn’t necessarily expect it to do much better. “It would be a great result to finish in the top 10,” says Wogan. “Just to try to make up for the UK doing so badly in recent years.” He thinks the chances of a win for the UK – or any country in Western Europe – have become remote since the contest was expanded to include so many new states from Eastern Europe. Moldova, Belarus, Estonia, Lithuania... their viewers are bound to vote for each other’s countries. The last winner from the west was Denmark in 2000.
“What we need in the voting is an Iron Curtain,” he says, looking half-serious. “All the big countries in Western Europe – France, Germany, Spain, the UK, San Marino… They should unite just to give one of us a chance.” But even though the block voting frustrates him, he still loves the contest itself. He’s never once considered giving up the job because, he says, there’s always “some silly new thing that makes it worthwhile”. The ridiculousness of the local presenters, for example: one pair of hosts – funnily enough, it was “Doctor Death and the Tooth Fairy” – spoke solely in rhyming couplets. “A great idea,” says Wogan. “For the first link.”
Then there are the variety acts who perform during the interval. One year, it was a mime troupe. “I was doing it for the radio,” says Wogan. “Can you imagine? Fifteen minutes of clowns miming. Not a lot to talk about.” Thankfully, he always has sustenance to hand. “My producer and I used to have a rule: ‘No drinks until song 12’,” he says. “Now it’s song seven. Anyway, I only have Bailey’s Irish Cream – it’s not an alcoholic drink, it’s a dairy product.”
He’ll be 70 in August, but has no plans to retire: he says he’ll do so only when his family tell him he’s passed his peak, if they say, “Your timing’s half a beat off.” Timing is everything to him. He says he’d quit if Radio 2 were privatised and started running ad breaks: “The adverts would ruin my timing.” But, while he’s adamant that the BBC should never go private, he has his criticisms of it. “The BBC needs to contract,” he says. Contract how? By axing BBC3, say? “There would be a case for that – BBC3, BBC4, perhaps some of the digital radio stations, because the audiences aren’t discernible.”
Which is something you certainly can’t say about Eurovision. Nearly 11million in Britain watched last year’s final. And you can be sure they’ll keep watching, for as long as that warm but withering voice is there to guide them through Royaume-Uni’s latest debacle.
The Eurovision Song Contest 2008 is on BBC1 next Saturday, 24 May, at 8.00pm. The semi-finals are on BBC3 on Tuesday and Thursday of this week, at 8.00pm
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Music. Show all posts
Saturday, 17 May 2008
Friday, 16 May 2008
Where a little awkward whimsy can take you
As if by decree, the fans who came to Town Hall in Manhattan on a Tuesday night to see the comedy-music duo Flight of the Conchords arrived in pairs, one with glasses and one without. Among them were two sisters, Janice and Erica Jim. Seated in a front row, Erica (with glasses) was holding a hand-painted sign, shaped like a hot dog, bearing the band’s name, while Janice (without) toted a bag of tacky sweatshirts. (Both items were elaborately specific references to the Flight of the Conchords television show.)
The sisters expected a more animated audience — maybe people in costume? — but were still excited to be among the more clued-in members of the crowd. “It’s a nice little secret,” said Janice Jim. “If you know about them, you know about them.” It was an appropriately low-key reception for a low-key band, reports Dave Itzkoff. Its two laconic, hirsute New Zealanders — Jemaine Clement (glasses, sideburns) and Bret McKenzie (no glasses, beard) — are emblematic artists for an age of diminished expectations. On their HBO series they play a novelty pop-music team striving to make it big — or medium, or small — on the New York scene, and they muddle through performances at tiny, mostly empty clubs and airport lounges. In real life they are big enough that their two shows at Town Hall sold out almost immediately, yet small enough that they can inspire ritualistic loyalty in their fans.
When Flight of the Conchords was first shown on HBO last summer, it was a modest hit, infrequently drawing more than 1 million viewers an episode. In a post-Sopranos, post-Sex and the City era, however, the hip but little-seen show delivered badly needed buzz for the cable channel. Unlike the recent HBO misfire John From Cincinnati, which drew more scrutiny (and more viewers), Flight of the Conchords was renewed for a second season, though no date has yet been set.
Similarly, the band’s new album, also titled Flight of the Conchords (Sub Pop), sold only 52,000 copies in its first week when it was released last month, according to Nielsen SoundScan. But measured by the ever-constricting yardstick of the music industry, that was enough to make it a success; Flight of the Conchords made its debut at No. 3 on the Billboard chart, placing it ahead of new releases by more, shall we say, omnipresent acts like Ashlee Simpson.
On Tuesday, following a stand-up set by Todd Barry, a comedian whose deadpan delivery was drier than an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, Mr. McKenzie and Mr. Clement took the stage, seated on stools, acoustic guitars on their laps. Their unrepentantly Caucasian efforts at funk, soul and R&B often pretended to address a specific topic or tell a single story, but wandered off on comedic tangents: a plea for social justice becomes a rant about the high cost of sweatshop-produced sneakers; a conversation between two ex-lovers veers into a critique of the Weekend at Bernie’s movies.
Between songs the two men bantered with self-conscious, Bob Newhartesque clumsiness, often about the clumsiness of their banter. (When Mr. McKenzie lamented feeling “out of kilter,” Mr. Clement asked, “What kilter are you usually in?”)
Though most of their music was created for the stage show, the songs came across more vividly on the HBO series, where they provided the soundtracks for music videos and fantasy sequences. (It’s hard to hear The Prince of Parties without thinking of the “Magical Mystery Tour”-style LSD trip that it accompanied on the television show.) Still, most audience members laughed along, even when they knew the punch lines that were coming.
“They’re not even trying, it’s so natural how awkward they are,” said Jennifer Gardiner, an appreciative fan (no glasses) who had come to the show with a friend, Crissi Bariatti (glasses). Both women were gazing adoringly at merchandise bearing the likenesses of Mr. Clement and Mr. McKenzie.
Nothing makes Flight of the Conchords more flustered than the opposite sex. When, in songs like “Ladies of the World,” they drool lustily over all manner of women — Caribbean, Namibian, amphibian — the facetiousness is obvious. Their outlook on male-female relations is more accurately reflected in the satirical slow jam “Business Time,” in which sex is merely a mechanical activity, something to do on a Wednesday night when there’s nothing good on television.
And sometimes sex is best avoided altogether. After boasting about their kissing skills, they performed “A Kiss Is Not a Contract,” which includes the lyric, “Just because you’ve been exploring my mouth/Doesn’t mean you get to take an expedition further south.”
There probably should be limits to the intimacy between the performers and their fans. During lulls between songs, when Mr. McKenzie and Mr. Clement were not bantering, audience members were relentless in shouting out titles of songs they wanted to hear, whether they were actual Flight of the Conchords tunes or the perennial Free Bird. When these requests went unheeded, they shouted the names of characters from the television show.
“Where’s Murray?” someone asked, referring to the hapless band manager played by the comedian Rhys Darby. “Murray’s not here,” Mr. Clement replied. “Murray’s doing a movie. But we’re here.” Apparently there are associates of Flight of the Conchords more famous than the band itself. “Murray blew up,” Mr. McKenzie said.
The sisters expected a more animated audience — maybe people in costume? — but were still excited to be among the more clued-in members of the crowd. “It’s a nice little secret,” said Janice Jim. “If you know about them, you know about them.” It was an appropriately low-key reception for a low-key band, reports Dave Itzkoff. Its two laconic, hirsute New Zealanders — Jemaine Clement (glasses, sideburns) and Bret McKenzie (no glasses, beard) — are emblematic artists for an age of diminished expectations. On their HBO series they play a novelty pop-music team striving to make it big — or medium, or small — on the New York scene, and they muddle through performances at tiny, mostly empty clubs and airport lounges. In real life they are big enough that their two shows at Town Hall sold out almost immediately, yet small enough that they can inspire ritualistic loyalty in their fans.
When Flight of the Conchords was first shown on HBO last summer, it was a modest hit, infrequently drawing more than 1 million viewers an episode. In a post-Sopranos, post-Sex and the City era, however, the hip but little-seen show delivered badly needed buzz for the cable channel. Unlike the recent HBO misfire John From Cincinnati, which drew more scrutiny (and more viewers), Flight of the Conchords was renewed for a second season, though no date has yet been set.
Similarly, the band’s new album, also titled Flight of the Conchords (Sub Pop), sold only 52,000 copies in its first week when it was released last month, according to Nielsen SoundScan. But measured by the ever-constricting yardstick of the music industry, that was enough to make it a success; Flight of the Conchords made its debut at No. 3 on the Billboard chart, placing it ahead of new releases by more, shall we say, omnipresent acts like Ashlee Simpson.
On Tuesday, following a stand-up set by Todd Barry, a comedian whose deadpan delivery was drier than an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, Mr. McKenzie and Mr. Clement took the stage, seated on stools, acoustic guitars on their laps. Their unrepentantly Caucasian efforts at funk, soul and R&B often pretended to address a specific topic or tell a single story, but wandered off on comedic tangents: a plea for social justice becomes a rant about the high cost of sweatshop-produced sneakers; a conversation between two ex-lovers veers into a critique of the Weekend at Bernie’s movies.
Between songs the two men bantered with self-conscious, Bob Newhartesque clumsiness, often about the clumsiness of their banter. (When Mr. McKenzie lamented feeling “out of kilter,” Mr. Clement asked, “What kilter are you usually in?”)
Though most of their music was created for the stage show, the songs came across more vividly on the HBO series, where they provided the soundtracks for music videos and fantasy sequences. (It’s hard to hear The Prince of Parties without thinking of the “Magical Mystery Tour”-style LSD trip that it accompanied on the television show.) Still, most audience members laughed along, even when they knew the punch lines that were coming.
“They’re not even trying, it’s so natural how awkward they are,” said Jennifer Gardiner, an appreciative fan (no glasses) who had come to the show with a friend, Crissi Bariatti (glasses). Both women were gazing adoringly at merchandise bearing the likenesses of Mr. Clement and Mr. McKenzie.
Nothing makes Flight of the Conchords more flustered than the opposite sex. When, in songs like “Ladies of the World,” they drool lustily over all manner of women — Caribbean, Namibian, amphibian — the facetiousness is obvious. Their outlook on male-female relations is more accurately reflected in the satirical slow jam “Business Time,” in which sex is merely a mechanical activity, something to do on a Wednesday night when there’s nothing good on television.
And sometimes sex is best avoided altogether. After boasting about their kissing skills, they performed “A Kiss Is Not a Contract,” which includes the lyric, “Just because you’ve been exploring my mouth/Doesn’t mean you get to take an expedition further south.”
There probably should be limits to the intimacy between the performers and their fans. During lulls between songs, when Mr. McKenzie and Mr. Clement were not bantering, audience members were relentless in shouting out titles of songs they wanted to hear, whether they were actual Flight of the Conchords tunes or the perennial Free Bird. When these requests went unheeded, they shouted the names of characters from the television show.
“Where’s Murray?” someone asked, referring to the hapless band manager played by the comedian Rhys Darby. “Murray’s not here,” Mr. Clement replied. “Murray’s doing a movie. But we’re here.” Apparently there are associates of Flight of the Conchords more famous than the band itself. “Murray blew up,” Mr. McKenzie said.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Wogan's wit lost on Eurovision director
Terry Wogan has two explanations for the British public's enduring fascination with the Eurovision Song Contest. Firstly, the acerbic sage of the camp euro-pop extravaganza calls it "post-modern irony at its most effective". Perhaps more accurately, he says it is also a chance to "have a jolly good sneer at Johnny Foreigner". But while millions look forward once a year to settling down in front of the television on a Saturday night in May to snigger at the annual showcase of glittery polyester costumes, saccharine-sweet Mediterranean ballads and Nordic death metal, it seems the organisers' tolerance of Britain's traditional irreverence to their event is wearing thin, reports Cahal Milmo.
The BBC has been forced to underline that it "celebrates the variety ... and fun side" of the contest after the Danish director of Eurovision TV, the Swiss-based company that produces the competition watched by 300 million people worldwide, complained that neither the broadcaster nor its audience treats the gala performance with the seriousness it receives in other countries. Bjorn Erichsen, the former managing director of Denmark's national broadcaster, went so far as to suggest that Sir Terry, whose wry observations about the tenor, tone and dress sense of contestants helped draw nearly 11 million viewers to the BBC's coverage last year, was making Eurovision look "ridiculous".
Speaking ahead of next week's annual musical jamboree in the Serbian capital, Belgrade, Mr Erichsen said: "The UK has double standards in the contest. It is something you love to hate. It's something to laugh at. It's something continental. It's a scam. It's ridiculous. The British like to distance themselves from it."
The Dane, who founded a respected film college in Copenhagen before joining the European Broadcasting Union, which runs Eurovision TV, said he accepted that Wogan's caustic scepticism about level of musical talent on display at the contest was what made the show popular in the UK but added he was worried about the long-term effects of the Irish-born commentator's scorn.
Mr Erichsen said: "Terry Wogan is a problem because he makes it ridiculous. I know he is very popular, and maybe that is the reason why a lot of people watch. But one day he will have to retire and the BBC will have to find someone else. It will be interesting to see if that attitude changes. The BBC gets a very large audience but it chooses to represent the contest in a certain way. They take it far more seriously in Sweden. They have a genuine love and respect for it."
Mr Erichsen said he had raised his concerns with the corporation but the BBC said it was unaware of any contact. After a dip in its popularity during the 1980s, the contest has enjoyed increasing popularity in Britain, with 10.9 million viewers tuning into last year's show broadcast from Finland.
A spokeswoman said: "The BBC has always fully supported Eurovision and celebrates the variety of the performances and the fun side of the contest. The fact that it got nearly 11 million viewers last year shows how popular Eurovision is in Britain."
A Eurovision TV spokesman insisted that Mr Erichsen was primarily concerned at how the BBC would ensure the popularity of its coverage after Wogan retires. Speaking last week, Sir Terry said: "I don't make the mistake of thinking it's a major musical event. I love the Eurovision Song Contest and it will continue long after I'm gone. Just, please, don't ask me to take it seriously."
Sir Terry's Eurovision quips:
"The music lover's Hamlet." - On the contest as a whole.
"Doctor Death and the Tooth Fairy." - Description of the hosts for the 2001 contest in Copenhagen, sparking outrage in Denmark.
"Strangely enough, Eurovision grows in popularity year on year. There was a period in the mid-1980s when I thought it was definitely losing some popularity. Then the penny dropped and people realised it was post-modern irony at its most effective."
"There's not enough silliness in the world. Eurovision helps to keep it balanced."
"Who knows what hellish future lies ahead? .... Actually, I do. I've seen the rehearsals." - Opening remark for the 2007 show in Finland.
"Every year I expect it to be less foolish and every year it is more so." - On the Finnish "horror rock" band Lordi winning the contest in 2006.
The BBC has been forced to underline that it "celebrates the variety ... and fun side" of the contest after the Danish director of Eurovision TV, the Swiss-based company that produces the competition watched by 300 million people worldwide, complained that neither the broadcaster nor its audience treats the gala performance with the seriousness it receives in other countries. Bjorn Erichsen, the former managing director of Denmark's national broadcaster, went so far as to suggest that Sir Terry, whose wry observations about the tenor, tone and dress sense of contestants helped draw nearly 11 million viewers to the BBC's coverage last year, was making Eurovision look "ridiculous".
Speaking ahead of next week's annual musical jamboree in the Serbian capital, Belgrade, Mr Erichsen said: "The UK has double standards in the contest. It is something you love to hate. It's something to laugh at. It's something continental. It's a scam. It's ridiculous. The British like to distance themselves from it."
The Dane, who founded a respected film college in Copenhagen before joining the European Broadcasting Union, which runs Eurovision TV, said he accepted that Wogan's caustic scepticism about level of musical talent on display at the contest was what made the show popular in the UK but added he was worried about the long-term effects of the Irish-born commentator's scorn.
Mr Erichsen said: "Terry Wogan is a problem because he makes it ridiculous. I know he is very popular, and maybe that is the reason why a lot of people watch. But one day he will have to retire and the BBC will have to find someone else. It will be interesting to see if that attitude changes. The BBC gets a very large audience but it chooses to represent the contest in a certain way. They take it far more seriously in Sweden. They have a genuine love and respect for it."
Mr Erichsen said he had raised his concerns with the corporation but the BBC said it was unaware of any contact. After a dip in its popularity during the 1980s, the contest has enjoyed increasing popularity in Britain, with 10.9 million viewers tuning into last year's show broadcast from Finland.
A spokeswoman said: "The BBC has always fully supported Eurovision and celebrates the variety of the performances and the fun side of the contest. The fact that it got nearly 11 million viewers last year shows how popular Eurovision is in Britain."
A Eurovision TV spokesman insisted that Mr Erichsen was primarily concerned at how the BBC would ensure the popularity of its coverage after Wogan retires. Speaking last week, Sir Terry said: "I don't make the mistake of thinking it's a major musical event. I love the Eurovision Song Contest and it will continue long after I'm gone. Just, please, don't ask me to take it seriously."
Sir Terry's Eurovision quips:
"The music lover's Hamlet." - On the contest as a whole.
"Doctor Death and the Tooth Fairy." - Description of the hosts for the 2001 contest in Copenhagen, sparking outrage in Denmark.
"Strangely enough, Eurovision grows in popularity year on year. There was a period in the mid-1980s when I thought it was definitely losing some popularity. Then the penny dropped and people realised it was post-modern irony at its most effective."
"There's not enough silliness in the world. Eurovision helps to keep it balanced."
"Who knows what hellish future lies ahead? .... Actually, I do. I've seen the rehearsals." - Opening remark for the 2007 show in Finland.
"Every year I expect it to be less foolish and every year it is more so." - On the Finnish "horror rock" band Lordi winning the contest in 2006.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Don't call us: the cult of the actress rock stars
Scarlett Johansson's decision to record an album, when she's barely started as a movie star, seems at first glance capricious. Making it a record of Tom Waits songs, with help from David Bowie, adds a thin veneer of credibility, though the "vanity project" stink remains strong. But the news that Minnie Driver, too, is releasing a second album, this time with alt.country's tarnished king Ryan Adams, and his band the Cardinals, helping out, along with Juliette Lewis's continuing, and very successful career-switch from actress to provoking punk-rock star, suggests a more substantial trend, writes Nick Hasted.Johansson's album, Anywhere I Lay My Head, has been bolstered by production from TV On the Radio's David Sitek, fresh from working with critically adored bands such as Foals and Liars. Her presence at last year's Coachella, singing "Just Like Honey" with the reformed Jesus and Mary Chain before greedily soaking up the atmosphere backstage, and her cameo in a Dylan video, adds to her hipness by association.
In part this reflects how glamorous rock and movie stars' worlds seem to each other. The chance of any of these ageing male rock icons refusing the attentions of a young, blond, Hollywood actress must also be counted as slim. Johansson, though, sees a deeper connection, suggesting the roles of singing and acting can be interchangeable. "Some of my favourite vocalists are acting in themselves," she notes. "Music is often about bringing characters to life."
"The only problem," Uncut magazine points out reviewing Anywhere I Lay My Head, "is that Johansson, no matter how much double-tracking Sitek uses, can't really sing." In this, though, she echoes perhaps the most famous singing blond actress of them all, Marilyn Monroe. Monroe is the most complete example of how minor details such as vocal limitation can be transcended.
Of course, she existed in a different time, when actresses were regularly called upon to star in musicals, as she did with Jane Russell in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953). Her breathy sexiness nevertheless reached a sort of apogee when singing "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" or, infamously, "Happy Birthday, Mr President", to her reputed lover JFK at a celebration of his 45th birthday. Bonnie Greer used her this year, in the Theatre Royal Stratford East's production of her play Marilyn and Ella, to explore the enmeshed longings of singers and actresses. In it, Monroe aches to be taken seriously as a jazz singer, and Ella Fitzgerald wants to break out of her black jazz-club ghetto, into the mainstream of the movies. Each perceives opportunities for credibility and seriousness in the other's existence, forging a lasting friendship.
Johansson and Lewis, growing up at a time when rock'n'roll is an omnipresent attraction no matter how focused one may be on acting classes, are exploring an updated version of the same desires. Johansson's lurking backstage among bands, and even singing with them to rock crowds, gives her a whiff of something more dangerous-seeming, earthy and direct than her long, isolated months on-set, even as musicians see her as a cinema-screen-sized, superhuman beauty, walking among them.
Lewis has taken things still further. Though she broke through in a notoriously uncomfortable scene in Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear (1991), as Nick Nolte's schoolgirl daughter, subtly molested by Robert De Niro's killer on a dolls-house stage-set, and followed it with punishing roles in the likes of Natural Born Killers (1994), Hollywood has finally left her unsatisfied. Playing a futuristic, PJ Harvey-singing grunge star in Kathryn Bigelow's Strange Days (1995) showed her an exit. She has now all but abandoned acting to become lead singer in Juliette and the Licks.
Though this was initially assumed to be a sideshow, like the dreadful vanity bands of Keanu Reeves and others, early UK audiences soon found an actual catsuited movie star crowd-surfing over their outstretched hands at tiny club venues. Once they had gotten over the somewhat perverse thrill, it was obvious that Lewis was going all-out. Her second album, Four on the Floor (2006), saw Foo Fighters' Dave Grohl on drums, while Lewis's immersion in the proto-punk of the MC5 and the Stooges seemed viscerally real.
Driver sits somewhere between Johansson and Lewis. Part of the utterly obscure Milo Ross Band early in her career, as her life as a minor movie star has faltered, she has settled back into music. At 38, Hollywood's unforgiving sexism almost certainly dooms her to scrabbling for roles in future. But in winning over audiences at Texas's South by Southwest festival, or working seriously on tracks late at night in a New York City studio with Adams, such indignities can be ignored. She can think like an artist again, not a mannequin deemed past its prime.
It can work the other way, of course. Kylie Minogue's game, if not very good, turn as Charlene Mitchell in Neighbours was the highlight of an early acting career in Australia that included several feature films. But when she parlayed the soap's UK popularity into a career as a 60-million-selling pop star, her permanent, depthless grin as she modelled skimpy clothes through a succession of modestly risqué videos was entirely mannequin-like (albeit one who co-wrote a few songs). Returns to acting were either dismal (1994's Street Fighter saw her deemed "the worst actress in the English-speaking world" in the Washington Post) or dependent on her pop stardom, as with Moulin Rouge! (2001).
The traditional showbiz world of Marilyn and Ella, meanwhile, has re-emerged in the wake of American Idol and its ilk. The patina of rebellion and social challenge that attracted Lewis to rock'n'roll has been swamped by a revived idea of the pop star as all-round entertainer. This can be seen most clearly in R&B, where the likes of Rihanna stumble through off-Broadway musical set-pieces. Like their male hip-hop counterparts, these singers now also feel ready to meet Johansson and co halfway, by breaking into films.
Beyoncé Knowles is the best, and worst, example of why this can be an awful idea. Early roles, such as Mike Myers' blaxploitation-style sidekick in Austin Powers in Goldmember (2002), required little more than flashing a smile and some skin, which her videos made her well-versed in. The excruciating faux-Motown musical Dreamgirls (2007), however, in which she played a Diana Ross figure, starkly showed the limitations her singing always suggested.
The contrast between Madonna and Courtney Love, on this side of the actress-singer divide, is marked. Madonna bluffed her way through one film success (Desperately Seeking Susan [1985], in fact carried by Rosanna Arquette), and was a passable, Monroe-styled, femme fatale in her then-lover Warren Beatty's Dick Tracy (1990). Everything else has been a cumulative, career-long embarrassment of unerotic nudity and unexpressed humanity. Love, meanwhile, though a haphazard mess of an artist these days, gave everything she could find inside herself to her fine early albums with her band Hole, Pretty On the Inside (1991) and Live Through This (1994). This ability, the one Madonna and Knowles lack, let her roar through Milos Forman's Man on the Moon (1999).
The authenticity Love couldn't help expressing at her best is what actresses and singers seek in each other's worlds. It is what we can hear in Monroe's warm, breathy sex-singing. It is the reason Lewis tore down the cinema screen between herself and her audience and leapt into their arms, and Johansson stepped onto the stage at Coachella, and sang with two old Scottish punks. Other actors might do a stage-play. But the fumble towards talent they don't quite have, and another's art that seems more real, keeps the two-way traffic alive.
So the next question is: How does a girl born into a real-life of rock'n'roll soap opera (Sex! Drugs! Paternity tests!) make the reverse journey her into film and television? By becoming this year's hottest model and the star of her own reality TV show, that's how...
Daisy Lowe belongs to a very modern breed of London It-girl. It's a role you have to be born into suggests Alison Jane Reid. While their predecessors were the daughters of aristocrats – the Tara Palmer-Tompkinsons and Lady Victoria Herveys, whose pedigree was determined by how many acres their family owned in Gloucestershire and how closely related they were to the Queen – these days, it's more a question of rock'n'roll royalty than blue-blooded veins.
A quick inspection of the surnames of the current crop of girls-about-town is telling. From Peaches Geldof to Lizzie Jagger, Leah Wood to Kelly Osbourne, the latest generation to grace the gossip pages are more likely to have spent their early years on a tour bus with their rock-star parents than competing at pony-club gymkhanas.
Although Lowe's name may lack the instant wow factor of her starry peers, the 19-year-old model's genetic make-up has secured her place in the rock firmament. The eldest daughter of Pearl Lowe, the fashion designer and former singer with Britpop band Powder, and step-daughter of Supergrass drummer Danny Goffey, her indie Primrose Hill upbringing alone would have been enough to ensure vicarious celebrity status later in life.
In 2004, however, a DNA test which revealed that her biological father was not her mother's first husband, as she had previously believed, but Bush frontman Gavin Rossdale, placed Daisy at the centre of a real-life rock'n'roll soap opera. Old friends, Lowe and Rossdale had enjoyed a fling so brief in the late-1980s that neither suspected Daisy might be his child. A doting godfather to Daisy for 15 years, his reaction to the news, according to Pearl, was to sever all contact with the Lowes, seemingly ploughing his energies into saving his marriage to the American singer Gwen Stefani.
Although the subject remains strictly off-limits, it is hard not to interpret Lowe's fierce loyalty to step-dad Goffey as an indirect condemnation of Rossdale. "Danny is a brilliant dad," she says. "He is father to my brothers and sisters, who I never for a second think of as anything less than whole; I just think of them as my brothers and sisters. He will be there for me when no one else will. Plus, of course, he's a creative genius. I'm proud to call him my father."
It would be easy for Daisy, a supporting player in the media drama, to have remained exactly that, forever known as little more than Gavin Rossdale's love child. But like many It-girls before her, Lowe has greater aspirations than just being a socialite. "If I'm going to be famous, I want to be famous for doing something good – having talent," she declares. What sets her apart is that she actually looks likely to make good on that desire.
At the beginning of this year Lowe, a model in Britain from the age of 15, was signed by the powerful New York agency IMG, which looks after supermodels Giselle and Naomi Campbell – a reliable indication that international stardom is on the cards, since it is in the US that the major campaigns that will put her on billboards around the world are booked.
The producers of the upcoming BBC2 fly-on-the-wall documentary Class of 2008, which charts the early push for fame and fortune of a group of trendy young things, are similarly confident she has what it takes to become a huge star, which is why they have made Lowe the focus for the series.
While her fellow subjects look set to achieve considerable success, including Lowe's on-off boyfriend Will Cameron, lead singer of The Blondelles, it is clear who is the star of the show. (Her relationship with Cameron, incidentally, is very much on right now – despite recent tabloid stories suggesting Mark Ronson is more than just the good friend she claims.)
Lowe has already graced the catwalk for Chanel – hand-picked by Karl Lagerfeld, no less – and stepped into Kate Moss's stockings in a campaign for luxury lingerie brand Agent Provocateur. With her doll-like face, mussed-up hair and slender but curvy body, she strikes a unique balance ' between an edgy, catwalk-friendly look and a more commercial appeal that could see her do very well indeed.
Were it anyone but Lowe, the prospect of such fame and fortune at such a young age might be worrying, but it's hard to imagine anyone better equipped to deal with the inevitable circus that will surround her. Her own childhood provided ample preparation for dealing with the excesses of celebrity; after all, not many people can say they grew up in a house where Pete Doherty was once a lodger.
Regulars on the 1990s Britpop party scene, Pearl and Danny were part of the Primrose Hill set that included Kate Moss, Sadie Frost and Jude Law. At one stage they were dubbed "the Posh and Becks of the indie world", although it would be fair to say that they lived a little more dangerously than Mr and Mrs Beckham. In her recent autobiography, All That Glitters, Pearl describes her descent into cocaine and heroin addiction with incredible candour, recounting the day-to-day struggle of trying to hold things together and care for her three children.
During a particularly difficult period of depression following the birth of her third child, Frankie, Pearl describes Daisy as her "saviour" and recalls how, at 10 years old, Daisy would change the nappies of her younger siblings and warm bottles while her mother lay paralysed in bed.
While some children might have cracked under the strain and developed their own wild-child ways, Lowe's instinct took her in exactly the opposite direction as she assumed responsibility for keeping the family functioning as Pearl slowly fell apart. "The only way to rebel against my mother was to be totally normal," she explains. "There's a huge element of Saffy from Ab Fab in me – just because I always tried to be my mother's mother. Obviously, she takes huge care of me, but I always felt it was my duty to help her too, being the oldest, especially as she was doing drugs. She was always really depressed and I'd want to be there and help her."
Going against the grain of the chaotic, bohemian household, Lowe became ultra-practical and mature beyond her years. At seven she insisted on looking after the family passports on holiday, and at 13 she was more interested in being a forensic scientist than following either of her parents into show business. Even now she confesses that caring for others has become something of a reflex for her: "I've spent my whole life looking after my little brothers, I've got a really strong maternal instinct."
If it was a tough childhood, Lowe does not portray it that way. "I never took it as a burden," she says cheerily. Meanwhile, her devotion to her mother – who has now been clean for several years – is absolute: "She is an amazing ' mother. We steal each other's clothes and talk on the phone every day – she is my best friend. It's all about Danny and my mum; we are a very close family."
The close physical resemblance between mother and daughter is striking too, although Lowe is candid about why her mother never pursued a similar career in modelling: "She got too pudgy because she was always stoned!" she giggles.
When Pearl decamped to Hampshire to escape the temptations of the London party circuit, Daisy initially stayed with her grandparents to continue her studies at her old school. Bright and articulate, she excelled in chemistry and art and was predicted to get good A-levels, but the separation from Pearl proved too difficult, and she abandoned her education in favour of modelling. "I couldn't handle being away from her," she says. "I just felt lost, so lost. So, it was my ticket out of school. Of course I could go back any time. Modelling's not forever, is it?"
While it may not be forever, for the moment at least it seems that Lowe is enjoying the new world it is opening up for her. She describes the decision to leave boyfriend Will in London while she spends much of her time working in New York as "really hard". Nevertheless, there is a sense that Lowe is relishing the new-found freedom that has come with her own pad in the Big Apple's East Village, and that she is at last getting the chance to shed the adult concerns she has dealt with for so long and indulge herself like any other 19-year-old. "I love being able to eat what I want, go where I want and walk around naked and sing to myself without anyone telling me to shut up," she confesses.
There have already been some notable career highlights, too. A shoot with in-demand American photographer Steven Klein was particularly memorable. "He's so quiet – a tortured genius," she says admiringly. He returned the compliment by dying her blue for a shoot – giving her a life-threatening allergic reaction in the process – hanging her off a giant crane and making her jump into a tub of green slime, naked, in the dead of winter. Lowe doesn't seem to have minded: "I am up for anything with Steven – he makes me feel like a beautiful piece of art when I work with him; he sees things no one else sees."
But it was modelling for the grande dame of British fashion, Vivienne Westwood, that she enjoyed most of all. "She is a huge muse of mine," admits Lowe. "I've never seen a designer get so involved in a show before. She was running around with a make-up palette saying, 'You all look too similar' and putting random eyeshadow here and there. Then she ran around with the eyeliner going, 'Who wants a moustache?' She was just so full-on and creative."
Despite the glamour of it all, Lowe still seems to have her heart set on a quiet life. It is safe to say that she has no interest in living the itinerant rock-chick lifestyle that her mother once enjoyed; her one experience of touring with her boyfriend's band failed to ignite any passion for life on the road: "I've never been so ill in my entire life," she groans. "We were travelling around Germany and all there was to eat was schnitzels; I need vegetables and sleep."
Perhaps it's the effect of seeing her mother so happily settled in the countryside with her vegetable patch and ethical clothing range, or perhaps it's just that maternal instinct kicking in once again, but Lowe's ultimate ambitions are a world away from her current career path. At the top of the agenda seems to be marrying her boyfriend and having children. Lowe says that she fell for Cameron when he confessed that "he just wanted to be a really good dad".
So what, then, is this would-be homemaker doing stalking the catwalks of Paris and New York? "I want to have money so I can spend it having children," she says simply. "I want to have three or four and be a really good mother and make sure they have a really brilliant life with parents who are not struggling." It may not be very rock'n'roll, but it sounds like a nice plan.
Class of 2008, an eight-part series, begins on 17 May at 12.45pm on the BBC Switch zone on BBC2
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
A new tape of love
Over the past two years, the parodists from New Zealand, Flight of the Conchords, have scored with a hit HBO show (in which they play a hapless struggling band whose mundane adventures are punctuated by song) and won a Grammy award with their debut U.S. E.P. (seriously, a Grammy, and seriously, for an E.P., which must have made all those losers who wrote full albums feel like suckers). One half of the group even had a moderately successful indie film, Eagle vs. Shark. While Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement may not be household names, they are getting there.
Another step in that direction is the release today of Flight of the Conchords’ self-titled full-length album. The group had self-released some recordings in New Zealand, recorded a BBC radio series, and even had that award-winning E.P. last year, but this is its first proper studio album and their first major U.S. release.
Of course, it's a soundtrack, a selection of songs performed on the band’s HBO series. And like most soundtracks it's by no means a comprehensive catalogue of the show’s songs: at 15 tracks it would have been hard to include more. Yet it’s missing some of the band’s best tunes, like the flawlessly funny and well-written “Tape of Love.” The song exemplifies the central conundrum of the band. The mix of overwrought earnestness that begins the song is straight out of Mike + the Mechanics’ iconic “The Living Years,” pondering “Love is like a roll of tape/ It’s real good for making two things one/ But just like that roll of tape/ Love sometimes breaks off before you're done” before the triumphal, “Bittersweet Symphony”-like chorus kicks in with “Brown paper, white paper/Stick it together with the tape, the tape of love.”
The thing is that the song, in addition to being hilarious, is also nearly as catchy as those smash hit referents and that makes Flight of the Conchords stand out in the crowded genre of musical comedy: These dudes don’t just spoof songs, they can write songs. Somewhere between Weird Al’s groan-worthy punning and Randy Newman’s wry auteurship, these guys force the ultimate identity crisis: am I singing along to these songs and repeating the lyrics because they’re catchy, great tunes—because it’s music—or am I just another moron endlessly repeating lines from Chappelle’s Show?
It’s a thin line, to be sure.
Adding to this vague sense that Flight of the Conchords may actually be “good” is the company they keep on their label and a resurgence of audio-focused comedy. This isn’t some HBO afterthought of a soundtrack album, but a release in conjunction with Sub Pop records, onetime breakers of Nirvana and Mudhoney and latter-day fablers of indie reconstruction, thanks in part to, yes, comedy albums. Alongside recent label successes like the Shins and the Postal Service have been releases from David Cross, Patton Oswalt, and Eugene Mirman—and falling aesthetically somewhere in the middle of all that you get Flight of the Conchords.
Sub Pop’s Steve Manning said, “The comedy records were really inspirational to us here; they have sold quite well and helped redefine the label at a time when we were really struggling. David Cross came out near the Shins and Postal Service and really helped turn the label around.”
Other labels are following suit, like Matador with its upcoming release of Earles & Jensen’s “Just Farr a Laugh.” So given the push toward reviving the comedy album market (not a little influenced by Internet sensations like Tom Scharpling’s “The Best Show” on WFMU), it makes sense to capitalize on bands blending humour with an indie-rock sensibility and the musical ability to send up more genres than just indie rock. For other examples, look at the phenomenal success of SNL short “Lazy Sunday,” helped plenty by the song’s beat being pretty well done, or the music-comedy work of hipster comics Zach Galifialakis, Demetri Martin and others. Even Will Oldham and Cat Power have experimented with comedy (with varying degrees of success).
To sweeten the deal, these comedy releases are getting the star packaging treatment, from detailed booklets to, in the Conchords case, a poster-sized illustration of the band, and some frogs, and maybe a space shuttle. It’s a move to appeal to the age-old function of the comedy album: lifestyle accessory.
What distinguishes the band further from the history of cheesy spoof songs is its attention to genre. McKenzie and Clement are pop chameleons. They employ falsetto, they get dolled up in ridiculous accents (and acknowledge that their natural accents are pretty ridiculous too), and they even don robot voices on “Robots,” singing “The humans are dead/We used poisonous gasses/And we poisoned their asses.” They ape French lounge (“Foux du Fafa”), dancehall (“Boom”), hip-hop (“Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerous”), and offer plenty of their seemingly signature blend of soft rock and smooth jams (“A Kiss is Not a Contract,” “Prince of Parties,” “The Most Beautiful Girl (In the Room),” “Business Time”). There’s an homage to David Bowie, called “Bowie,” that traverses from Major Tom to Let’s Dance, with queries like “Hey Bowie, do you have one really funky sequinned space suit? / Or do you have several ch-changes? / Do you smoke grass out in space, Bowie?/ Or do they smoke Astroturf?/ Ooh!” Then there’s also the amazing interpretation of the Pet Shop Boys—its utter nerdiness betraying a love of source material absent in, say, “Like a Surgeon”—using the gothic synthy dance-pop of “West End Girls” to inspire “Inner City Pressure,” “Neon signs, hidden messages/ Questions, answers, fetishes/ You know you're not in high finance/ Considering second hand underpants/ Check your mind, how'd it get so bad?/ What happened to those other underpants you had?"
And such adoration of the various incarnations and personalities of pop is what led inexorably to a proper studio album. One wonders if, having worked with a real producer, Mickey Petralia, (Beck, Ladytron) and packaged their music just like any other album, the boys will want to keep going back to the small screen.
HBO will be sticking with the Conchords’ program, now working on its second season. It’s interesting to note that HBO was also the channel of Tenacious D, a musical comedy duo featuring Jack Black that fared far worse. Yet Conchords probably have more in common with Ricky Gervais’ Extras (and not just for having songs in the show centred around David Bowie), which speaks to the intellectual depth of the humour and the project. “Maybe it’s okay to hum these tunes after all!”
Another step in that direction is the release today of Flight of the Conchords’ self-titled full-length album. The group had self-released some recordings in New Zealand, recorded a BBC radio series, and even had that award-winning E.P. last year, but this is its first proper studio album and their first major U.S. release.
Of course, it's a soundtrack, a selection of songs performed on the band’s HBO series. And like most soundtracks it's by no means a comprehensive catalogue of the show’s songs: at 15 tracks it would have been hard to include more. Yet it’s missing some of the band’s best tunes, like the flawlessly funny and well-written “Tape of Love.” The song exemplifies the central conundrum of the band. The mix of overwrought earnestness that begins the song is straight out of Mike + the Mechanics’ iconic “The Living Years,” pondering “Love is like a roll of tape/ It’s real good for making two things one/ But just like that roll of tape/ Love sometimes breaks off before you're done” before the triumphal, “Bittersweet Symphony”-like chorus kicks in with “Brown paper, white paper/Stick it together with the tape, the tape of love.”
The thing is that the song, in addition to being hilarious, is also nearly as catchy as those smash hit referents and that makes Flight of the Conchords stand out in the crowded genre of musical comedy: These dudes don’t just spoof songs, they can write songs. Somewhere between Weird Al’s groan-worthy punning and Randy Newman’s wry auteurship, these guys force the ultimate identity crisis: am I singing along to these songs and repeating the lyrics because they’re catchy, great tunes—because it’s music—or am I just another moron endlessly repeating lines from Chappelle’s Show?
It’s a thin line, to be sure.
Adding to this vague sense that Flight of the Conchords may actually be “good” is the company they keep on their label and a resurgence of audio-focused comedy. This isn’t some HBO afterthought of a soundtrack album, but a release in conjunction with Sub Pop records, onetime breakers of Nirvana and Mudhoney and latter-day fablers of indie reconstruction, thanks in part to, yes, comedy albums. Alongside recent label successes like the Shins and the Postal Service have been releases from David Cross, Patton Oswalt, and Eugene Mirman—and falling aesthetically somewhere in the middle of all that you get Flight of the Conchords.
Sub Pop’s Steve Manning said, “The comedy records were really inspirational to us here; they have sold quite well and helped redefine the label at a time when we were really struggling. David Cross came out near the Shins and Postal Service and really helped turn the label around.”
Other labels are following suit, like Matador with its upcoming release of Earles & Jensen’s “Just Farr a Laugh.” So given the push toward reviving the comedy album market (not a little influenced by Internet sensations like Tom Scharpling’s “The Best Show” on WFMU), it makes sense to capitalize on bands blending humour with an indie-rock sensibility and the musical ability to send up more genres than just indie rock. For other examples, look at the phenomenal success of SNL short “Lazy Sunday,” helped plenty by the song’s beat being pretty well done, or the music-comedy work of hipster comics Zach Galifialakis, Demetri Martin and others. Even Will Oldham and Cat Power have experimented with comedy (with varying degrees of success).
To sweeten the deal, these comedy releases are getting the star packaging treatment, from detailed booklets to, in the Conchords case, a poster-sized illustration of the band, and some frogs, and maybe a space shuttle. It’s a move to appeal to the age-old function of the comedy album: lifestyle accessory.
What distinguishes the band further from the history of cheesy spoof songs is its attention to genre. McKenzie and Clement are pop chameleons. They employ falsetto, they get dolled up in ridiculous accents (and acknowledge that their natural accents are pretty ridiculous too), and they even don robot voices on “Robots,” singing “The humans are dead/We used poisonous gasses/And we poisoned their asses.” They ape French lounge (“Foux du Fafa”), dancehall (“Boom”), hip-hop (“Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerous”), and offer plenty of their seemingly signature blend of soft rock and smooth jams (“A Kiss is Not a Contract,” “Prince of Parties,” “The Most Beautiful Girl (In the Room),” “Business Time”). There’s an homage to David Bowie, called “Bowie,” that traverses from Major Tom to Let’s Dance, with queries like “Hey Bowie, do you have one really funky sequinned space suit? / Or do you have several ch-changes? / Do you smoke grass out in space, Bowie?/ Or do they smoke Astroturf?/ Ooh!” Then there’s also the amazing interpretation of the Pet Shop Boys—its utter nerdiness betraying a love of source material absent in, say, “Like a Surgeon”—using the gothic synthy dance-pop of “West End Girls” to inspire “Inner City Pressure,” “Neon signs, hidden messages/ Questions, answers, fetishes/ You know you're not in high finance/ Considering second hand underpants/ Check your mind, how'd it get so bad?/ What happened to those other underpants you had?"
And such adoration of the various incarnations and personalities of pop is what led inexorably to a proper studio album. One wonders if, having worked with a real producer, Mickey Petralia, (Beck, Ladytron) and packaged their music just like any other album, the boys will want to keep going back to the small screen.
HBO will be sticking with the Conchords’ program, now working on its second season. It’s interesting to note that HBO was also the channel of Tenacious D, a musical comedy duo featuring Jack Black that fared far worse. Yet Conchords probably have more in common with Ricky Gervais’ Extras (and not just for having songs in the show centred around David Bowie), which speaks to the intellectual depth of the humour and the project. “Maybe it’s okay to hum these tunes after all!”
Monday, 21 April 2008
Taking it to the limits
Their sound is synonymous with The Sopranos, and yet the Alabama 3's hard living would make Tony himself blush. They tell No 1 fan Irvine Welsh that they're amazed to still be alive...
More than 10 years ago, a friend from Brixton came to stay in my Amsterdam apartment and brought me a tape of the sessions that would become the bulk of the Alabama 3's incendiary debut album, Exile on Coldharbour Lane. Its fusion of techno with country and western was astonishingly bold, combining the most radical and reactionary genres of popular music. I started to check out the band's gigs and found that Jake Black (aka D Wayne Love), one of the band's founding members, and I had many mutual friends from our raving days in Glasgow, stretching back to the punk era. So I became one of the band's aficionados, known collectively as the "bammies": we're the punters who help make A3 gigs the best party in town.
I can't understand why the Alabama 3 aren't one of the biggest bands on the planet. "Woke Up This Morning", which plays over the opening credits of The Sopranos, remains their best-known song, but you would expect at least one of their albums to have gone platinum on the leg-up from that alone. Over the course of seven albums - from Exile, through Power in the Blood (2002) and last year's MOR, to their latest retrospective, Hits and Exit Wounds - the A3 have turned a crazed mirror on the UK's mainstream cultural influences, parodying derivative and genre-based music through the lens of what the band call their "sweet muthafuckin' acid house country music", with a leavening of dirty rock'n'roll.
I'm wondering how they'd cope if it all suddenly went mega. I settle down with D Wayne and Rob Spragg (aka Larry Love), the other founding member, in a dark corner of Dublin's Clarence Hotel, the smart, corporate, U2-owned enterprise, in front of a tray of our favourite blended margaritas. Does it concern them that lesser lights are fawned over, while they remain on the margins, albeit the exciting, interesting ones? "As long as we do good work," Larry says, "we know there will be a payback time."
Larry is as cadaverous as ever, a man who still looks as if a ray of sunlight will combust him. D Wayne, though, is a more substantial figure than the skeletal, spectral one I've seen grace stages, couches and floors over the years. But these boys are proper rock'n'roll stars. If they wear shades indoors, it's because they're covering up strung-out eyes and brawlers' bruises. Glancing at the tape recorder I've slipped on to the table, Larry asks me: "Do you feel guilty that you haven't had a rock'n'roll death yet, and are still bounding down the highways and byways of self-destruction?" Death is such a cheerful presence in the A3 canon, it's easy to think of the Grim Reaper as a band member. "We've got a lottery in the band about who's going to die first," Larry says. "We're amazed we're all still alive."
D Wayne comes from the Possil area of Glasgow and I'm from Muirhouse, in Edinburgh, so when we get together we talk about art and politics, with all the pomposity, pretentiousness and guilt of true Scottish schemies. Playing back the tape of us rapping is like listening to two 80s Marxist polytechnic sociology lecturers vying to seduce an impressionable fresher. He tells me, touchingly, about my debut novel's influence on the band. "Trainspotting was iconoclastic for us. It introduced a whole disenfranchised generation to literature - a generation that had been informed literature was the possession of an elite. It delineated the complex inner lives of the housing estates and communities people lived in. We've been trying to do the same with our music, trying to show young people that they can make music based on their own lives, using genres like country and blues that they probably considered the territory of their dads and grannies."
But writing novels is a lonely business, and release is often difficult. That's what I envy about these boys: they can hit that stage and perform together; the communication and catharsis is instant, and there's an immediate connection with their audience. "That's the end of the process - the performance," Larry says. "But we're constantly looking for new experiences, new people to bounce off, new shades of reality to reflect our twisted US accent-based view of life. We're always collecting experiences to use as songwriters. But you can write everywhere," he suddenly accuses me. "You used to sit on the Circle line in London with your laptop and knock them out."
I ask them what music kicked off their warped but exhilarating vision of the world. "House affected us deeply," says D Wayne. "But punk rock liberated people like me and those I knocked around with in Glasgow. For the first time, we were able to come out of the scheme, dress up and hit the city centre, talk about Rimbaud and Baudelaire, mix with Jim Kerr and Charlie Burchill [of Simple Minds] and get shagged. It opened up a brand new lifestyle for us."
In practical terms, the band grew organically out of its members' acid house DJing activities. Larry explains: "We were doing a gig in Italy, me and D Wayne in the early days, with two turntables and a load of acid house records and some obscure blues LPs. It was run by the Italian Communist Party. There were lots of punk bands. We played our house, the room was full, it was kickin'. Then this guy from the CP came in and said we had to prepare and read out our manifesto. Someone tore a page from an Italian comic book and we read it out. It started, 'The techno warriors will save the Martians.' It made me think about the veracity of political manifestos. The crowd loved it. I often wonder if there are still a few addled Italian CP members trying to live by the code we outlined that night."
Things seem a lot blander now, in the age of Simon Cowell. "Alabama 3 live in this world," Larry says. "We reflect and comment on it. But we're trying to cut through the distortions of people who peddle popular culture as a series of Pop Idol-type creations." So are they speaking to the old punks and house heads, those of us who should know better but just can't quite stay indoors and behave? "Yes," Larry says, "But not exclusively. The last album was called MOR. Some say it stands for Middle of the Road, but it's based on those gorgeous California west coast sounds like the Eagles, and it maybe widened our audience. With the new collection, we just thought we'd offer up a reminder of how we got there."
One of the Eagles' most famous tracks is "Take It to the Limits". Rest assured, the A3 will continue to do just that. It would be nice if the mainstream caught on and this retrospective brought them their just rewards. Yet for selfish reasons, I enjoy being part of a cult who can access the best party around.
More than 10 years ago, a friend from Brixton came to stay in my Amsterdam apartment and brought me a tape of the sessions that would become the bulk of the Alabama 3's incendiary debut album, Exile on Coldharbour Lane. Its fusion of techno with country and western was astonishingly bold, combining the most radical and reactionary genres of popular music. I started to check out the band's gigs and found that Jake Black (aka D Wayne Love), one of the band's founding members, and I had many mutual friends from our raving days in Glasgow, stretching back to the punk era. So I became one of the band's aficionados, known collectively as the "bammies": we're the punters who help make A3 gigs the best party in town.
I can't understand why the Alabama 3 aren't one of the biggest bands on the planet. "Woke Up This Morning", which plays over the opening credits of The Sopranos, remains their best-known song, but you would expect at least one of their albums to have gone platinum on the leg-up from that alone. Over the course of seven albums - from Exile, through Power in the Blood (2002) and last year's MOR, to their latest retrospective, Hits and Exit Wounds - the A3 have turned a crazed mirror on the UK's mainstream cultural influences, parodying derivative and genre-based music through the lens of what the band call their "sweet muthafuckin' acid house country music", with a leavening of dirty rock'n'roll.
I'm wondering how they'd cope if it all suddenly went mega. I settle down with D Wayne and Rob Spragg (aka Larry Love), the other founding member, in a dark corner of Dublin's Clarence Hotel, the smart, corporate, U2-owned enterprise, in front of a tray of our favourite blended margaritas. Does it concern them that lesser lights are fawned over, while they remain on the margins, albeit the exciting, interesting ones? "As long as we do good work," Larry says, "we know there will be a payback time."
Larry is as cadaverous as ever, a man who still looks as if a ray of sunlight will combust him. D Wayne, though, is a more substantial figure than the skeletal, spectral one I've seen grace stages, couches and floors over the years. But these boys are proper rock'n'roll stars. If they wear shades indoors, it's because they're covering up strung-out eyes and brawlers' bruises. Glancing at the tape recorder I've slipped on to the table, Larry asks me: "Do you feel guilty that you haven't had a rock'n'roll death yet, and are still bounding down the highways and byways of self-destruction?" Death is such a cheerful presence in the A3 canon, it's easy to think of the Grim Reaper as a band member. "We've got a lottery in the band about who's going to die first," Larry says. "We're amazed we're all still alive."
D Wayne comes from the Possil area of Glasgow and I'm from Muirhouse, in Edinburgh, so when we get together we talk about art and politics, with all the pomposity, pretentiousness and guilt of true Scottish schemies. Playing back the tape of us rapping is like listening to two 80s Marxist polytechnic sociology lecturers vying to seduce an impressionable fresher. He tells me, touchingly, about my debut novel's influence on the band. "Trainspotting was iconoclastic for us. It introduced a whole disenfranchised generation to literature - a generation that had been informed literature was the possession of an elite. It delineated the complex inner lives of the housing estates and communities people lived in. We've been trying to do the same with our music, trying to show young people that they can make music based on their own lives, using genres like country and blues that they probably considered the territory of their dads and grannies."
But writing novels is a lonely business, and release is often difficult. That's what I envy about these boys: they can hit that stage and perform together; the communication and catharsis is instant, and there's an immediate connection with their audience. "That's the end of the process - the performance," Larry says. "But we're constantly looking for new experiences, new people to bounce off, new shades of reality to reflect our twisted US accent-based view of life. We're always collecting experiences to use as songwriters. But you can write everywhere," he suddenly accuses me. "You used to sit on the Circle line in London with your laptop and knock them out."
I ask them what music kicked off their warped but exhilarating vision of the world. "House affected us deeply," says D Wayne. "But punk rock liberated people like me and those I knocked around with in Glasgow. For the first time, we were able to come out of the scheme, dress up and hit the city centre, talk about Rimbaud and Baudelaire, mix with Jim Kerr and Charlie Burchill [of Simple Minds] and get shagged. It opened up a brand new lifestyle for us."
In practical terms, the band grew organically out of its members' acid house DJing activities. Larry explains: "We were doing a gig in Italy, me and D Wayne in the early days, with two turntables and a load of acid house records and some obscure blues LPs. It was run by the Italian Communist Party. There were lots of punk bands. We played our house, the room was full, it was kickin'. Then this guy from the CP came in and said we had to prepare and read out our manifesto. Someone tore a page from an Italian comic book and we read it out. It started, 'The techno warriors will save the Martians.' It made me think about the veracity of political manifestos. The crowd loved it. I often wonder if there are still a few addled Italian CP members trying to live by the code we outlined that night."
Things seem a lot blander now, in the age of Simon Cowell. "Alabama 3 live in this world," Larry says. "We reflect and comment on it. But we're trying to cut through the distortions of people who peddle popular culture as a series of Pop Idol-type creations." So are they speaking to the old punks and house heads, those of us who should know better but just can't quite stay indoors and behave? "Yes," Larry says, "But not exclusively. The last album was called MOR. Some say it stands for Middle of the Road, but it's based on those gorgeous California west coast sounds like the Eagles, and it maybe widened our audience. With the new collection, we just thought we'd offer up a reminder of how we got there."
One of the Eagles' most famous tracks is "Take It to the Limits". Rest assured, the A3 will continue to do just that. It would be nice if the mainstream caught on and this retrospective brought them their just rewards. Yet for selfish reasons, I enjoy being part of a cult who can access the best party around.
Saturday, 12 April 2008
The infamous TV career of The Who
Along with the Beatles, the Stones and, rather less charmingly, the Sex Pistols, few bands have made such entertaining TV as The Who. Sure, they are famous for their music but with a mischievous - OK, near-certifiable - drummer to seize the limelight, their TV appearances could be as madly ridiculous as most modern pop shows are soul-numbingly bland.This week's rock-doc Amazing Journey: The Story of The Who (released on DVD late last year to glowing reviews) shows that the surviving pair of Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend have lost little of their amusing frankness in interviews, even if the days of brandy-soaked mayhem are long past. Time, then, to rewind and revel in The Who's most memorable TV moments...
- Smothers Brothers Show 1967- By some distance their most infamous TV appearance. Unbeknown to anyone, Keith Moon had bribed a stage-hand with alcohol to pack his bass drum with a surfeit of explosives. As the band ended My Generation with their trademark stage-destruction, the cameras were momentarily blinded by the blast. As the smoke cleared, Moon lay on the floor, his arm sliced open by cymbal shrapnel, Townshend's hair was on fire and, it is said, his hearing damaged for ever. Waiting in the studio's wings, Bette Davis fainted in Mickey Rooney's arms. Naturally, the band was banned from further US shows.
- Talkin' 'bout my religion 1969/1971- After the success of Tommy, Townshend had to get used to explaining its spiritual ideals. On the German show Beat Club he was out-philosophised by a presenter asking perhaps the most pretentious questions seen on a pop show (seek it out in The Kids are Alright). In other interviews, spirituality and his drug experiences were a recurring theme, not least during this rarity we found from 1971 (“I became obsessed by the fact I felt my consciousness was expanding”).
- The Russell Harty Show 1973- Harty braved out-of-control antics from Moon, who stripped to his pants, bit his bandmates, began a shirt-ripping contest with Townshend and taunted the then-in-the closet host about how long he had been married. They did find time to play on the show as well.
- Top of the Pops 1973- This ill-tempered performance of 5.15 on Top of the Pops ended not just with a mass instrument trashing but a grumpy Townshend flipping V signs towards the audience. They hurled wigs at him in return. All this, plus a tussle backstage, resulted in a ban from TV Centre. It lasted until a recent Later with Jools Holland.
- Keith Moon the TV host 1974- Acting as guest host on an American live-music TV show, Moon, with cat's whiskers painted on his face, broke off to offer a drum solo not far removed from the Muppets' Animal. In answer to an audience member asking why his tom drum contained live goldfish, he replied: “Well, even the best drummers get hungry ...”
- Townshend and Moon on Good Morning America 1978- A surprisingly searching and poignant rock interview for a cheesy breakfast show. It turned out to be the 31-year-old Moon's last (he died less than a month later). Looking shockingly old and overweight, he admitted that most days he is “quite out of control. I mean ... amazingly drunk”.
- Daltrey on Tiswas 1981- Roger Daltrey and new drummer Kenney Jones appeared on Compost Corner and endured being gunged while wearing green-leotard flower outfits. Chris Tarrant, Maggie James and Lenny Henry (as David Bellamy) cheerfully ignored the presence of rock royalty as they went about their shtick. A frankly bizarre spectacle.
- Live Aid 1985- The only people to see the whole performance were those in Wembley Stadium thanks to the TV feed failing halfway through the band's first song. The technical hitch was fixed in time for the world to see a ring-rusty Townshend fall flat on his back after trying one of the high kicks of old.
- The Concert for New York City 2001- Amazing Journey makes a big deal of The Who's performance at Madison Square Gardens in the wake of 9/11. (Eddie Vedder, of Pearl Jam, declares: “That could be one of the best illustrations of the power of music.”)
Thursday, 3 April 2008
Later Live launched
Proving the extent of the BBC's paranoia about the fakery scandals, Jools Holland began the first edition of Later Live (BBC2) standing under the Television Centre clock as it ticked past 10pm. As further evidence, he held up the final edition of Tuesday's London Evening Standard.
The devotedly suspicious, though, will point out that the newspaper shows only that the show could have been recorded no earlier than about 6pm: the 22:00 clock could easily have been run up by props, observes Mark Lawson. And this keenness to establish the actuality of proceedings made you wonder if viewers truly care whether their music programmes are on tape or on the hoof.
There was also a strong suggestion that the line-up may have suffered from the timing. Trails had hinted strongly at the appearance of Gnarls Barkley, but they were absent on the night. One advantage of pre-recording music shows is that you can catch a band between Heathrow and the Birmingham NEC. When they have to suit your schedule, you get who can be in west London late on a Tuesday.
So, if Later Live ever becomes so successful that the identity of its first guests merits a pop trivia question, the answer will be that numbers one and two were performed by mono-monicker songstresses: Estelle and then Adele.
The justification for transmitting music as it happens is that the atmosphere becomes closer to a gig, and both the opening acts - and then James Taylor - seemed to enjoy the adrenaline. But, if the Only Ones had played as raggedly as this on tape, the producer would have gently asked if they fancied another bash.
Holland, once suspended for using the word "fuckers" live on Channel 4, is older and mellower now, and obeyed BBC guidelines. But definitive proof that this was real-time came when he sat down to interview James Taylor and discovered that one of the audience had removed the CD. It was sheepishly handed back.
As ever, Later was lively. Whether it has to be live remains moot.
The devotedly suspicious, though, will point out that the newspaper shows only that the show could have been recorded no earlier than about 6pm: the 22:00 clock could easily have been run up by props, observes Mark Lawson. And this keenness to establish the actuality of proceedings made you wonder if viewers truly care whether their music programmes are on tape or on the hoof.
There was also a strong suggestion that the line-up may have suffered from the timing. Trails had hinted strongly at the appearance of Gnarls Barkley, but they were absent on the night. One advantage of pre-recording music shows is that you can catch a band between Heathrow and the Birmingham NEC. When they have to suit your schedule, you get who can be in west London late on a Tuesday.
So, if Later Live ever becomes so successful that the identity of its first guests merits a pop trivia question, the answer will be that numbers one and two were performed by mono-monicker songstresses: Estelle and then Adele.
The justification for transmitting music as it happens is that the atmosphere becomes closer to a gig, and both the opening acts - and then James Taylor - seemed to enjoy the adrenaline. But, if the Only Ones had played as raggedly as this on tape, the producer would have gently asked if they fancied another bash.
Holland, once suspended for using the word "fuckers" live on Channel 4, is older and mellower now, and obeyed BBC guidelines. But definitive proof that this was real-time came when he sat down to interview James Taylor and discovered that one of the audience had removed the CD. It was sheepishly handed back.
As ever, Later was lively. Whether it has to be live remains moot.
Friday, 21 March 2008
About A Son
He was the voice of Generation X, speaking to disaffected youth with the lyricism of grunge music. Now, 14 years after his suicide, a new film – in his own words – gives fresh insight into the life and death of Nirvana's tortured frontman Kurt Cobain, reports Ciar Byrne.
In About A Son, Cobain talks with candour about the tensions between him and his bandmates, his relationship with wife Courtney Love and his isolated childhood. The documentary, released on DVD on 31 March, is based on 25 hours of previously unheard interviews with Cobain by the journalist Michael Azerrad between December 1992 and March 1993. The interviews formed the base of Come As You Are, Azerrad's definitive biography of Nirvana.
Just over a year after the interviews took place, on 8 April 1994, Cobain was found dead at his home in Seattle with a self-inflicted shotgun wound to the head. Rather than focusing on footage of Cobain, the film, directed by A J Schnack and filmed by Wyatt Troll, shows scenes from the three cities in Washington State – Aberdeen, Olympia and Seattle – where the singer was born, achieved fame and died. The soundtrack features music that inspired Cobain, by David Bowie, Queen, Leadbelly, Scratch Acid, Cheap Trick and Half-Japanese but not a single Nirvana track.
Nirvana rose from an underground scene to achieve international fame with their second album Nevermind in 1991. Cobain, a musician who valued his integrity above all, found it difficult to come to terms with fame and became addicted to heroin before taking his own life at the age of 27. In the film, he talks frankly about disagreements with bandmates Dave Grohl and Krist Novoselic over song-writing credits which nearly led to him quitting the band. "It was a really big deal for Krist and Dave. They sincerely felt they deserved just as much songwriting credit as I do, which is bullshit, total bullshit," he says.
Cobain also talks about how much he enjoyed writing songs with his wife: "It's so easy to play songs with Courtney. Every time we jam on something we write a great song." It has been claimed – and vehemently denied – that Cobain wrote Live Through This, the 1994 album by his wife's band Hole. About A Son includes personal anecdotes about Cobain, who grew up, the son of divorced parents, in a working-class background in Aberdeen, Washington. Explaining his attraction to Courtney Love, he says: "She made me feel like a rebel."
He also reveals how school classmates thought he was gay after he befriended a fellow student who was homosexual. "I started being proud of being gay, even though I wasn't. I almost found my identity." He also recounts sneaking pot from his mother's own stash and replacing it with oregano. "Eventually she just had a bag of oregano sitting in her jewellery drawer. Then one night she offered me and my friend to come down and smoke some with her – so we had to sit there and smoke oregano," he recalled.
James McMahon, features editor of NME and a lifelong Nirvana fan, said: "Kurt Cobain is always one of those people who fascinate music fans. His death has turned him into an icon. The film is a beautiful piece of work. I'm 27 and got into Nirvana the year before Kurt Cobain died, but I don't think I'd ever heard his voice that much, so it's quite a strong experience hearing him narrate his life."
There has been much debate over the way in which Cobain's legacy has been handled after his death but McMahon believes the film is true to his spirit. "There's something comforting and ethereal about it. It's enlightening about his life. It's pure, like he's being allowed to tell his story. He really did wear his heart on his sleeve."
Cobain met Azerrad in 1992 when the journalist wrote a Rolling Stone cover story showing the Nirvana front-man wearing a T-shirt inscribed with: "Corporate magazines still suck."
About A Son soundtrack:
Overture- Steve Fisk and Ben Gibbard
Audio: Never Intended
Motorcycle Song- Arlo Guthrie
Eye Flys- the Melvins
Audio: Punk Rock
Banned in D.C.- Bad Brains
Up Around the Bend- Creedence Clearwater Revival
Put Some Sugar on It- Half Japanese
Son of a Gun- the Vaselines
Graveyard- Butthole Surfers
Audio: Hardcore Was Dead
Owner's Lament- Scratch Acid
Touch Me I'm Sick- Mudhoney
Audio: Car Radio
The Passenger- Iggy Pop
The Borgeois Blues- Leadbelly
New Orleans Instrumental No. 1- R.E.M.
Audio: The Limelight
The Man Who Sold the World- David Bowie
Museum- Mark Lanegan
Indian Summer- Ben Gibbard
About A Son gets a Europe-wide DVD release on 31 March
Overture- Steve Fisk and Ben Gibbard
Audio: Never Intended
Motorcycle Song- Arlo Guthrie
Eye Flys- the Melvins
Audio: Punk Rock
Banned in D.C.- Bad Brains
Up Around the Bend- Creedence Clearwater Revival
Put Some Sugar on It- Half Japanese
Son of a Gun- the Vaselines
Graveyard- Butthole Surfers
Audio: Hardcore Was Dead
Owner's Lament- Scratch Acid
Touch Me I'm Sick- Mudhoney
Audio: Car Radio
The Passenger- Iggy Pop
The Borgeois Blues- Leadbelly
New Orleans Instrumental No. 1- R.E.M.
Audio: The Limelight
The Man Who Sold the World- David Bowie
Museum- Mark Lanegan
Indian Summer- Ben Gibbard
About A Son gets a Europe-wide DVD release on 31 March
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