I noticed this afternoon that The London Paper offset the news of the first female British soldier to be killed in Afghanistan with a large picture of Kate Moss in a near see through dress.
Obviously London's commuter traffic hasn't seen enough of Ms Moss's tits yet.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Monday, June 16, 2008
When the wind picked up, the fire spread
I finally heard the new Coldplay album yesterday. Most folks I know are driven into a near apoplectic rage at the mere mention of the C word, but me and the boys go back a ways, we even have mutual friends, so I'm always willing to give them a chance.
My first contact was about 3 in the Saturday afternoon on the Glastonbury second stage. It would be a surly fucker indeed who would deny that the energy and determination with which they tore the place apart made them one of the highlights of that sunny weekend. Later that year, once Parachutes had installed itself in the collective British psyche like a harmonic ebola virus, I saw them again at their Christmas show in Shepherd's Bush which was so dull I think I left early. Their end of tour performance at V was a dreary shambolic mess and best forgotten.
Now Coldplay do have a knack for writing big stadium pop anthems, like Yellow. Unfortunately Darwin's theory of cool states that those who don't like such anthemery are genetically disposed to want to kill all those who do. And for a while all people seemed to play was Parachutes to the point where I'll gladly dynamite into oblivion the sorry lives of the next fucker who dares put it on whilst I'm within listening distance.
On the other hand, I still think Rush Of Blood's a corker. And I still love Clocks. Coldplay's Glastonbury main stage debut was on of the best headline performances I've seen on those hallowed boards, unlike their X&Y follow up which was merely good enough. The step up to the superspaciousurroundsound of number 2 probably saved them from being mid-term acoustic whingers and sewed the seeds of their own destruction all at the same time. It might have been different if X&Y hadn't been another step in the same direction and I'll freely admit with hindsight that I might have been over-kind at the time. Great show at Koko though. That's 3 good, one ok and two stinkers.
On top of all those mobile waving singalong chart toppers, there is of course, the earnestness that feels a little like they're trying too hard, which is a shame because I do think they mean it. And Chris Martin's limelight stealing fractured by self-doubt schtick does in many, hit the same emotional frequency that, as a sound makes dogs shit themselves. Although I still love the (alleged?) story that he lost his virginity to the members of female punk band, Bellatrix - Almost Famous style, back in the pub toilet days.
To some degree Viva La Vida's their most interesting effort yet. An attempt to eschew the big hits for an album that reaches into new territories whilst still maintaining a grip on the globe's MORodomes. Much of this is done through Brian Eno's Unforgettable Fire like production. Unlike the songs which veer more into How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb territory, i.e. really quite dull. It's not terrible by any means, but I have no desire to ever hear it again, bar a couple of decent tracks, none of which are as good as the new Death Cab for Cutie album which I'm listening to now.
Death Cab For Cutie's Narrow Stairs
My first contact was about 3 in the Saturday afternoon on the Glastonbury second stage. It would be a surly fucker indeed who would deny that the energy and determination with which they tore the place apart made them one of the highlights of that sunny weekend. Later that year, once Parachutes had installed itself in the collective British psyche like a harmonic ebola virus, I saw them again at their Christmas show in Shepherd's Bush which was so dull I think I left early. Their end of tour performance at V was a dreary shambolic mess and best forgotten.
Now Coldplay do have a knack for writing big stadium pop anthems, like Yellow. Unfortunately Darwin's theory of cool states that those who don't like such anthemery are genetically disposed to want to kill all those who do. And for a while all people seemed to play was Parachutes to the point where I'll gladly dynamite into oblivion the sorry lives of the next fucker who dares put it on whilst I'm within listening distance.
On the other hand, I still think Rush Of Blood's a corker. And I still love Clocks. Coldplay's Glastonbury main stage debut was on of the best headline performances I've seen on those hallowed boards, unlike their X&Y follow up which was merely good enough. The step up to the superspaciousurroundsound of number 2 probably saved them from being mid-term acoustic whingers and sewed the seeds of their own destruction all at the same time. It might have been different if X&Y hadn't been another step in the same direction and I'll freely admit with hindsight that I might have been over-kind at the time. Great show at Koko though. That's 3 good, one ok and two stinkers.
On top of all those mobile waving singalong chart toppers, there is of course, the earnestness that feels a little like they're trying too hard, which is a shame because I do think they mean it. And Chris Martin's limelight stealing fractured by self-doubt schtick does in many, hit the same emotional frequency that, as a sound makes dogs shit themselves. Although I still love the (alleged?) story that he lost his virginity to the members of female punk band, Bellatrix - Almost Famous style, back in the pub toilet days.
To some degree Viva La Vida's their most interesting effort yet. An attempt to eschew the big hits for an album that reaches into new territories whilst still maintaining a grip on the globe's MORodomes. Much of this is done through Brian Eno's Unforgettable Fire like production. Unlike the songs which veer more into How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb territory, i.e. really quite dull. It's not terrible by any means, but I have no desire to ever hear it again, bar a couple of decent tracks, none of which are as good as the new Death Cab for Cutie album which I'm listening to now.
Death Cab For Cutie's Narrow Stairs
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Every time I kiss you girl, you taste like pork and beans
My last post sparked a couple of comments, to which I'll say that the answer to Dan's first question is, err, kinda. I don't particularly feel that the chapters of my life are in anyway fluid, or overlap. If I look back in a strictly chronological manner, I find, like Hazel, simple convenient blocks that stack up individually and I don't feel that these blocks have shifted at all over the years.
But then again, that's less a set of memories and more a timeline. Within each block are multiple unique memories at which point I'd agree with the comment that: "memories are not something we have, so much as remembering being something we do; it's an active process." As I see it, the way we experience each moment in our lives is determined by where and who we are, an ever changing process, interdependent on all other experiences; as diverse as the sum total of all our knowledge to date to how much we had to drink the night before. Each moment we recall is then in itself, written by not only those events around it, but a myriad of other factors that may be vastly different from those we experienced when we were in the moment itself. The ultimate truth of our recall is inevitably utterly unique and unquestionably questionable.
It's illustrated quite nicely by a scene in a Robin Williams movie I watched recently. The basic premise for The Final Cut, is that at some point in the future we'll be able to graft organic cameras to our retinas that record our every experience. When we die, 'cutters' (Robin Williams) go through the tapes, cutting together a montage for family and friends to be played at a remembering ceremony (essentially the funeral). After one such screening, the deceased's brother questions a boat they used to play in thinking that it was a different colour from the one he saw. Where the images may reveal the ultimate truth of the event, they can't recreate the experience, devoid of the emotions behind the eyes. It's not a bad movie, flawed, but worth a look.
I spent the weekend away with the family and so missed the last night of drinking on the tube. Thankfully. Sounded like the party pretty much played in to the hands of the naysayers, no matter how badly organised the mechanics of the ban may have been. Never let it be said that we don't have the propensity to turn ourselves into a bunch of useless fuckwits given half an opportunity.
Talking of useless fuckwits, whoever decided to use graphic images of violence to deter young kids from stabbing each other somehow managed to miss the point that images of violence and bloodshed are often quite appealing to teenagers (boys especially), be it Friday 13th or GTA 4.
Anyway, here's a picture of chicken
Sampling the music of Old Crow Medicine Show
But then again, that's less a set of memories and more a timeline. Within each block are multiple unique memories at which point I'd agree with the comment that: "memories are not something we have, so much as remembering being something we do; it's an active process." As I see it, the way we experience each moment in our lives is determined by where and who we are, an ever changing process, interdependent on all other experiences; as diverse as the sum total of all our knowledge to date to how much we had to drink the night before. Each moment we recall is then in itself, written by not only those events around it, but a myriad of other factors that may be vastly different from those we experienced when we were in the moment itself. The ultimate truth of our recall is inevitably utterly unique and unquestionably questionable.
It's illustrated quite nicely by a scene in a Robin Williams movie I watched recently. The basic premise for The Final Cut, is that at some point in the future we'll be able to graft organic cameras to our retinas that record our every experience. When we die, 'cutters' (Robin Williams) go through the tapes, cutting together a montage for family and friends to be played at a remembering ceremony (essentially the funeral). After one such screening, the deceased's brother questions a boat they used to play in thinking that it was a different colour from the one he saw. Where the images may reveal the ultimate truth of the event, they can't recreate the experience, devoid of the emotions behind the eyes. It's not a bad movie, flawed, but worth a look.
I spent the weekend away with the family and so missed the last night of drinking on the tube. Thankfully. Sounded like the party pretty much played in to the hands of the naysayers, no matter how badly organised the mechanics of the ban may have been. Never let it be said that we don't have the propensity to turn ourselves into a bunch of useless fuckwits given half an opportunity.
Talking of useless fuckwits, whoever decided to use graphic images of violence to deter young kids from stabbing each other somehow managed to miss the point that images of violence and bloodshed are often quite appealing to teenagers (boys especially), be it Friday 13th or GTA 4.
Anyway, here's a picture of chicken
Sampling the music of Old Crow Medicine Show
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