This was going to be about how frustrating I’m finding POP at the moment. Katy Perry and her Fire-not-at-all-a-metaphor-for-shiz-with-the-lothario-husband-Work, Cheryl and her I’m-not-talking-about-my-private-life album all about broken trust and relationship failure. The Saturdays. It’s exhausting. Don’t even get me started on Will.I.AINT. Just doing research is rather draining. All the bright noises and loud colours, music TV is terrifying. Willow Smith is whipping her hair back and forth and I’m wondering if she’s even old enough to go out and purchase a cone from an ice cream van on her own?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
Saturday, 13 November 2010
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
About The Boy
It’s been a fairly bonkers few months. I’ve found it’s always best to define things by happenings in the real world – rather than one’s own self indulgent musings. I could natter about anything all the way from the odd indignity of One Dimension’s charges flashing their boxers on national tele through to the coalition’s pathetic disinterest in doing anything useful. But, much more wonderful are some of the films I’ve been watching. Yes, I’m just going to go for some of my own self indulgent musings.
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
Sulking And Shiz
I’ve only gone and put my bloggy moan pants on. And the only (well) problem (my life sucks ya’ll) with blogging about sulking is it turns into a self criticising criminalising act.
And also, no good sulk noises will ever work on paper.
So instead of sharing more of my life is too darn hard I’m going to silence my tirade and instead go for my top five celebrity sulks of this week. After all - life is harder when earning (mim's synonyms recommends stealing/begging/borrowing as viable thesaurusable alternatives) inane amounts of money for merely poncing about.
Kim Kashardaiididididnanana. And I quote “It’s hard being me.”
Katy Perry. “OOOOH How dare you put a camera up my incredibly short dress when I get paid to hang around on street corners magazine covers with my waps out.”
Russell Brand. “Dear Fellow, get off my young lady. Oh good gracious, pontificating (long word) exorbitantly (long word) antidisestablishmentarianism.”
Paris Hilton. “What do you mean I can’t come in? Oh. Cuuum. On. Rheally? But I totally had the dawgs booked in for a two week spa treatment out in the $4,007,832 a night Crystal Kunst Wet Spa at Mount Fuji. Oh that is inconvenient. Oh and the private jet was totally due a no-carb-no-meat-no-fish-noodle restock. Just Grr all round hey guys.”
Chris Moyles. “It doesn’t matter how much you get paid, when you haven’t been paid for two months that becomes irrelevant.”
That last one has just made me so annoyed I’m off to throw puppies at Japanese tourists on the castle esplanade. There’ve been times when I haven’t been paid for two months. And no Mr Moyles, it wasn’t rubbish because I had to miss my monthly ritual of perusing my online bank statements, smirking to myself, drinking Cristal and shouting KA-CHING - but more because there are no jobs.
Oh cock - full circle on the sulk then.
And also, no good sulk noises will ever work on paper.
So instead of sharing more of my life is too darn hard I’m going to silence my tirade and instead go for my top five celebrity sulks of this week. After all - life is harder when earning (mim's synonyms recommends stealing/begging/borrowing as viable thesaurusable alternatives) inane amounts of money for merely poncing about.
Kim Kashardaiididididnanana. And I quote “It’s hard being me.”
Katy Perry. “OOOOH How dare you put a camera up my incredibly short dress when I get paid to hang around on street corners magazine covers with my waps out.”
Russell Brand. “Dear Fellow, get off my young lady. Oh good gracious, pontificating (long word) exorbitantly (long word) antidisestablishmentarianism.”
Paris Hilton. “What do you mean I can’t come in? Oh. Cuuum. On. Rheally? But I totally had the dawgs booked in for a two week spa treatment out in the $4,007,832 a night Crystal Kunst Wet Spa at Mount Fuji. Oh that is inconvenient. Oh and the private jet was totally due a no-carb-no-meat-no-fish-noodle restock. Just Grr all round hey guys.”
Chris Moyles. “It doesn’t matter how much you get paid, when you haven’t been paid for two months that becomes irrelevant.”
That last one has just made me so annoyed I’m off to throw puppies at Japanese tourists on the castle esplanade. There’ve been times when I haven’t been paid for two months. And no Mr Moyles, it wasn’t rubbish because I had to miss my monthly ritual of perusing my online bank statements, smirking to myself, drinking Cristal and shouting KA-CHING - but more because there are no jobs.
Oh cock - full circle on the sulk then.
Sunday, 12 September 2010
Vs The World
There is something oddly Shakespearian about Scott Pilgrim vs. the World.
Seven exes.
One 22 year old.
A Chinese schoolgirl.
An indie band.
A girl with five colours in her hair – interchangeable over nominally regular periods of time.
Everyone is in love with everyone.
It’s quite often snowing.
There’s no iambic pentameter so the comparisons may feel far-flung but if Will was writing now you know the advent of video game would mean he would’ve headed down the Scott Pilgrim/World avenue at some juncture.
Relationships in movies are pretty much the point of movies. Even putting that down on paper is consummately stupid because films without some kind of person on person interaction... March of the Penguins... are not real films. Avatar, the greatest grossing 3D pants party ever was effectively just a series of madly complicated, tech heavy booty calls.
Michael Cera redresses his geek in love role for Scott Pilgrim. Edgar Wright (The Nick and Simon Party General) directs, writes and moves away from the flipper pad style of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz scene development and instead indulges his inner geek with a movie long super Mario style challenge for bass playing Pilgrim. As he dreams about then meets the lady of his (Suz from As If) dreams Pilgrim discovers – whilst performing at Battle Of The Bands – that he will encounter each of the magical Romana Flowers’ (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) seven exes. Each ‘x’ presents another challenge – Wright and Bacall pondering the way in which our moves inform how we build relationships.
The advent of super cool big screen geek youngsters, most of whom made their big screen debut in a Judd Apatow movie – you know which one – is no accident. We all like to pretend we’re a little bit geek. How many people do you know that showed off how they (actually) saw Shaun of the Dead (yeah) in the cinema and drove home like Nick Frost on acid? There’s that consummate aspect of our super busy over exhausting moan-o-meters that mean living in a playstation seems cool. Meeting a girl with coloured hair does give reason to fighting seven strangers to the death, does it not? Being a big fan of hair was not the only reason for enjoying Scott Pilgrim vs but the constant references to it were super. Go see. Ponder living in a video game, and being in love.
Seven exes.
One 22 year old.
A Chinese schoolgirl.
An indie band.
A girl with five colours in her hair – interchangeable over nominally regular periods of time.
Everyone is in love with everyone.
It’s quite often snowing.
There’s no iambic pentameter so the comparisons may feel far-flung but if Will was writing now you know the advent of video game would mean he would’ve headed down the Scott Pilgrim/World avenue at some juncture.
Relationships in movies are pretty much the point of movies. Even putting that down on paper is consummately stupid because films without some kind of person on person interaction... March of the Penguins... are not real films. Avatar, the greatest grossing 3D pants party ever was effectively just a series of madly complicated, tech heavy booty calls.
Michael Cera redresses his geek in love role for Scott Pilgrim. Edgar Wright (The Nick and Simon Party General) directs, writes and moves away from the flipper pad style of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz scene development and instead indulges his inner geek with a movie long super Mario style challenge for bass playing Pilgrim. As he dreams about then meets the lady of his (Suz from As If) dreams Pilgrim discovers – whilst performing at Battle Of The Bands – that he will encounter each of the magical Romana Flowers’ (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) seven exes. Each ‘x’ presents another challenge – Wright and Bacall pondering the way in which our moves inform how we build relationships.
The advent of super cool big screen geek youngsters, most of whom made their big screen debut in a Judd Apatow movie – you know which one – is no accident. We all like to pretend we’re a little bit geek. How many people do you know that showed off how they (actually) saw Shaun of the Dead (yeah) in the cinema and drove home like Nick Frost on acid? There’s that consummate aspect of our super busy over exhausting moan-o-meters that mean living in a playstation seems cool. Meeting a girl with coloured hair does give reason to fighting seven strangers to the death, does it not? Being a big fan of hair was not the only reason for enjoying Scott Pilgrim vs but the constant references to it were super. Go see. Ponder living in a video game, and being in love.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Finders Keepers?
On Friday 3rd September 2010 my iphone 3GS was stolen. Correction, more precisely at somewhere between 2.30AM and 4AM on Saturday 4th September my bag was rummaged through, in my tent, where I slept alone somewhere in a field 10 minutes drive from Moffat, Dumfries at Eden Festival.
What has happened since ranges from odd to some other emotions I think it’s easiest to group as extreme moodiness. The idea of losing your own personal possessions through no personal error is annoying. From pick pocketing on the airport train into Barcelona to car theft in any one of the six hundred and forty three random places it happens - like zoo car parks - ‘It’s my stuff’ is the initial thought. ‘Why is it any use to you?’ – ‘it’s probably drugs’, I tellingly and drolly murmured at the police when I reported my shit missing.
I’ve never been robbed before. Never personally anyway, my family went through the 80s and 90s living in Bris-UK’s-hot-spot-for-car-crime-tol (taken over by Leeds late 90s I believe) and we seemed to lose a car weekly. I remember mum and dad not coming home from the theatre because the Astra (navy, desirable) had been nabbed and was found ‘wrapped round a lamppost’. The image haunts still. But I’ve never been robbed. I’ve caught pickpockets three times actually opening zips and grabbing at bags, and the violation still wrangles. It’s this immediate subconscious feeling of ‘it’s not yours to touch, let alone take, and its shagging attached to me’. Often this is verbalised as noisy human noises.
I’ve chosen not to use a phone for the rest of the week. Part in protest, partly so I didn’t get too het up that the Vodafone replacement sim didn’t arrive. It’s an odd one. I genuinely thoroughly still feel that I should be able to reach back in time, wake up at an opportune moment and scream blue murder (or purple theft) ... and snatch my wonder gadget back from the clutches of whichever kiniveing sludge living on the edge of a disused toilet left over from last year’s hippy fest covered in dead racoons and mouldy pigs ears is currently sitting in my tent. They’d be startled that that sleeping bag there contains a person who has possessions and genuinely believes it’s their right to keep them.
And my parents did eventually come home from the theatre; we had some hippy couple babysitting. I quite liked the drama. At four years old. Who would have thought?
What has happened since ranges from odd to some other emotions I think it’s easiest to group as extreme moodiness. The idea of losing your own personal possessions through no personal error is annoying. From pick pocketing on the airport train into Barcelona to car theft in any one of the six hundred and forty three random places it happens - like zoo car parks - ‘It’s my stuff’ is the initial thought. ‘Why is it any use to you?’ – ‘it’s probably drugs’, I tellingly and drolly murmured at the police when I reported my shit missing.
I’ve never been robbed before. Never personally anyway, my family went through the 80s and 90s living in Bris-UK’s-hot-spot-for-car-crime-tol (taken over by Leeds late 90s I believe) and we seemed to lose a car weekly. I remember mum and dad not coming home from the theatre because the Astra (navy, desirable) had been nabbed and was found ‘wrapped round a lamppost’. The image haunts still. But I’ve never been robbed. I’ve caught pickpockets three times actually opening zips and grabbing at bags, and the violation still wrangles. It’s this immediate subconscious feeling of ‘it’s not yours to touch, let alone take, and its shagging attached to me’. Often this is verbalised as noisy human noises.
I’ve chosen not to use a phone for the rest of the week. Part in protest, partly so I didn’t get too het up that the Vodafone replacement sim didn’t arrive. It’s an odd one. I genuinely thoroughly still feel that I should be able to reach back in time, wake up at an opportune moment and scream blue murder (or purple theft) ... and snatch my wonder gadget back from the clutches of whichever kiniveing sludge living on the edge of a disused toilet left over from last year’s hippy fest covered in dead racoons and mouldy pigs ears is currently sitting in my tent. They’d be startled that that sleeping bag there contains a person who has possessions and genuinely believes it’s their right to keep them.
And my parents did eventually come home from the theatre; we had some hippy couple babysitting. I quite liked the drama. At four years old. Who would have thought?
Monday, 15 February 2010
Sunshine And Silence...
Just last week I was sitting in a cafe eating banana bread, drinking coffee, getting down with the sunshine sitting on a table adjoining two men – over-gymed, gay, 30s, gossiping in the soft palate’d haughty middle class Sydney accent that pounds out of Sydney's Inner East. I was pondering writing blogs about Australia, and they were talking about all kinds of random - it became clear they were catching up after several years of not having seen each other. Their discussion kept meandering back to how when one returns to Sydney from Europe, Japan, the US there was a general shift in the quality of chat. Besides being loud enough for a six table radius to hear of their pomp and circumstance they did strike a chord with my blog contemplations; namely, is there any good chat in Aus? Well, it would be libellous to presume in any country there is NO good chat. Even within regimes where certain conversation is banned - either topics, or restrictions on whom you can converse with - there are people banging out great chat - infact, maybe more so. Take Dada, a cultural movement spurred on by the fact everyone else was getting busy with war chat* (it's not quite that simple but you catch my drift.)
In Australia the sun is shining, the morning comes before the rest of the world goes to bed and there are platypuses - the weirdest creature ever invented. There is sea everywhere (round the edge) and the current Prime Minister was the first ever to apologise to the Aborigines for the horrendous treatment at the hands of the settling population; specifically the events surrounding lost and the stolen generations. So leaving that as another discussion for the well informed it’s fair to say there is plenty of fodder for great chat down under. Then again, is it too easy to just talk about shrimps and sun? The British have a name in the rest of the world for moaning and tearing anything apart. The fact that more people should know David Cameron's clearly a twat is discussed and even though the Mori Polls would try and convince you otherwise, and although many may not arse going out and voting in elections any more (except X Factor) there will always be some chat rattling around about current affairs. But spend 24 hours getting yourself to the other side of the world and people seem continually surprised that you would want to talk about politics, or anything, besides the sun. This fine country (and Manly** no less) has produced the easiest to caricature opposition leader I've ever had the pleasure to read about. He's a dream, harbouring many a crazy confused left wing view, but, Tony Abbott*** is better known for budgie smugglers and swearing in interviews as he is for being an actual politician.
I am not ungrateful it's sunny, but I don't see why just because the weather is more conducive to 'thongs' and 'bbqs' there should be any less discussion of what's going on, is it not worth taking an interest? Then again, (I am aware there is some fierce generalisation going down here) if people generally choose to live anywhere like Manly (besides if their job's primary action is surfing which makes it a reasonable place for settlement) then they can stay here. And they can talk about buying girlfriends, drinking corona for $8 as long as they make sure they don't talk too loudly about how their great friend Mrs Abbott husband's*** new position at work is going very well.
*DADA is an artistic movement formed in Zurich during WW1. It was a wee bit bonkers.
**The shit hole where I work, you have to get a ferry from central Sydney.
***Take a look www.crikey.com.au/topic/tony-abbott/
In Australia the sun is shining, the morning comes before the rest of the world goes to bed and there are platypuses - the weirdest creature ever invented. There is sea everywhere (round the edge) and the current Prime Minister was the first ever to apologise to the Aborigines for the horrendous treatment at the hands of the settling population; specifically the events surrounding lost and the stolen generations. So leaving that as another discussion for the well informed it’s fair to say there is plenty of fodder for great chat down under. Then again, is it too easy to just talk about shrimps and sun? The British have a name in the rest of the world for moaning and tearing anything apart. The fact that more people should know David Cameron's clearly a twat is discussed and even though the Mori Polls would try and convince you otherwise, and although many may not arse going out and voting in elections any more (except X Factor) there will always be some chat rattling around about current affairs. But spend 24 hours getting yourself to the other side of the world and people seem continually surprised that you would want to talk about politics, or anything, besides the sun. This fine country (and Manly** no less) has produced the easiest to caricature opposition leader I've ever had the pleasure to read about. He's a dream, harbouring many a crazy confused left wing view, but, Tony Abbott*** is better known for budgie smugglers and swearing in interviews as he is for being an actual politician.
I am not ungrateful it's sunny, but I don't see why just because the weather is more conducive to 'thongs' and 'bbqs' there should be any less discussion of what's going on, is it not worth taking an interest? Then again, (I am aware there is some fierce generalisation going down here) if people generally choose to live anywhere like Manly (besides if their job's primary action is surfing which makes it a reasonable place for settlement) then they can stay here. And they can talk about buying girlfriends, drinking corona for $8 as long as they make sure they don't talk too loudly about how their great friend Mrs Abbott husband's*** new position at work is going very well.
*DADA is an artistic movement formed in Zurich during WW1. It was a wee bit bonkers.
**The shit hole where I work, you have to get a ferry from central Sydney.
***Take a look www.crikey.com.au/topic/tony-abbott/
Thursday, 4 February 2010
A kookaburra tried to nick some roo from my barbie then a dingo stole my baby
Having now spent a rocking and rolling two months in Sydney town and a little longer down under all in, I feel I am now in the right place to comment on the Queen's only continent. This may also be the right time to apologise to my readers (myself and Alan) for the self indulgent shizzle I rambled out in 'Humiliation' and 'Sickies' (although my sick day ponderings were more of a public service announcement) and I promise to follow them up with a burst of incisive, no holds barred, razor-sharp commentary on the land of Oz*.
So pour yourself another gin and settle in for some Holy Moly level bitchin', some Guardian style typos and perhaps a little tabloid enthused creative license. This is Australia, but not as Mark Anthony “Baz” Luhrmann would have you believe...
*Cliché Camel represents y’all.
So pour yourself another gin and settle in for some Holy Moly level bitchin', some Guardian style typos and perhaps a little tabloid enthused creative license. This is Australia, but not as Mark Anthony “Baz” Luhrmann would have you believe...
*Cliché Camel represents y’all.
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