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Hello there.
As many of you now know, we will soon be releasing a little EP on Swedish record label "Substream" -  not to be refered to as Substream Records by the way, as I recently found out! So while we're thinking about Sweden, I thought I'd recommend a rather fantastic new film from that northern land. We haven't had a film review on the blog for a while, so why not indeed, I hear you cry.......

(I've borrowed the first two paragraphs from the Guardian review - My fingers are tired, look you!)

"Let The Right One In" - A film by Tomas Alfredson and John Ajvide Lindqvist

The time is the winter of 1982, with snow thick on the ground and the Cold War back in the news as tensions grow between Sweden and the USSR over Russian subs in Swedish waters. Also in the news are some puzzling murders in the Stockholm suburbs.

The film's 12-year-old hero, the sweet-natured, fair-haired Oskar (Kåre Hedebrant), a shy, studious boy living with his divorced mother in a three-storey apartment block, is being bullied at school and his tormentors draw blood. One night, while he's stabbing a tree with a knife, pretending to avenge himself on the bullies, a girl his own age appears in the snow-covered playground. She's pretty, barefoot, moves with a nimble grace, has a pale complexion with dark rings under her eyes and turns out to be a dab hand at Rubik's Cube, a favourite toy of the early 1980s. She's called Eli (Lina Leandersson), has recently moved in next door to Oskar, and lives with Håkan, a middle-aged man she calls her father. She only comes out after dark, when the school day ends and is, of course, a classical vampire.

This is wonderful, deeply affecting film, in turns a romance, a gothic horror and a european arthouse production. Stillness and whiteness dominate. There are many moments of brooding, quiet menance, some deeply black comedy, and a tender lovestory that only fleetingly becomes sexual and has at his heart the meeting of two apparently "lost" souls. Oskar is a strange, unearthly kid, blond, smooth and white, androgynous, almost bloodless you might say, and Eli, who has good reason to be physically cold to the touch as she is technically dead, seems to be a natural partner. She advises Oskar to fight back against his schoolyard tormentors, so Oskar starts to lift weights and does aqua-aeobics. He also learns morse code to communicate with Eli during the night, tapping on his bedroom wall while tucked up in bed. (...a wonderful conceit that pays dividends at the conclusion of the film)

Let The Right One In has been adapted by John Ajvide Lindqvist from his own novel. Its name comes from a song by Morrissey (“Let the right one slip in/ And when at last it does/ I’d say you were within your rights to bite/ The right one and say,/ What kept you so long?”). Fittingly so, for the former Smiths front man has long been a friend indeed for these who feel lonely, tentative and in need. .

For all its quiet moments, the film is not without its shocks. The gore, when it arrives, is delivered with mocking black humour, often just out of shot, or suggested by a bloodied arm or leaking vein. Even so, I'll never look at cats in the same way again! And a wonderful moment when hapless serial killer Håkan, who kills to feed his "daughter" (lover??), in interrupted by a visiting poodle.....

Some of Oskar and Eli’s exchanges will break your heart: “Will you be my girlfriend?” “Oskar, I’m not a girl,” she replies. On another occasion, Oskar asks her: “Are you old?” She answers: “I’m twelve. But I’ve been twelve for a long time.”  But the real heartbreak comes at the films climax, which superficially is a classically happy ending until you start wondering what Eli's real motives are for befriending Oskar. (I'm not giving anything away there)

I'm saddened to learn that an American remake is already in pre-production.... can't they make do with that toss that was "Twilight".... oh well. I can only demand that you see the Swedish original of this movie as it is amazing.....

Ben

Is writing fun?
Well… yes and no.
We often hear about authors who can’t stand the creative process behind writing yet feel compelled to do it for whatever reason, whether that reason is to achieve some sort of literary catharsis, an obsessive compulsion to put pen to paper, or simply the need to generate the next pay cheque.

I was intrigued recently by an article in The Guardian which asked a selection of popular authors what motivated them to keep writing and if they actually enjoyed the creative process. I’ll come on to some of their responses later.

Some of these authors inhabit the same sort of world that I do, when I’m sat in the studio try to create the latest “This Morning Call” masterpiece. What exactly drives me to continue to try and write songs? Why, even at the expense of spending time with friends, or being usefully employed in some other gainful employment, or spending valuable time mending the broken back gate or painting the bathroom, do I insist on spending at least a proportion of everyday sat twiddling in the studio or playing the guitar in an often fruitless attempt to “get something good down”.

Indeed, it not as if I could say writing music was paying the bills. You have to be incredibly fortuitous, talented and involved in a genre within which there is sufficient commercial interest to actually generate any significant cash from music. Even then, you have to hope that you will tap into national radio play, and have sufficient marketing clout from a limited number of ailing “major” labels or big independents to stand any chance of reaching a large audience. Arguably, the arrival of social networking has really only succeeded in diluting the market with “average” bands that has made it even harder for quality to get noticed.

Yet, despite the odds, I persevere. And looking back over some of the crappy tunes that I’ve come up with in the past, God knows why! Yes, faithful reader, there have been some real clangers that I thought were the bees knees at the time. It can be rather sobering to go back an revisit some of your earlier works, especially with the dawning realisation that you probably sent at least a selection of these out as demos or at the very least insisted that they were played at a mates house party! I wish I could once again share the delights of “Do you Feel Loved?” – an awkwardly camp and overblown disco classic that I can safely say has been shelved forever.  Woe betide anyone who asks me to dust off such classics as “Second Sight”, which despite boasting a lovely string line, has a schmaltzy, meandering vocal and, lets face it, lyrically is a load of random ideas thrown together completely without focus. I completely revised my approach to writing lyrics following this debacle. One of the few benefits of finishing these tunes, despite their flaws, was the fact that I now knew how not to do it!

I think I’ve been trying to write songs ever since primary school, and with such a deep rooted, psychological need, I can’t imagine myself ever being able to stop. I can genuinely feel that my writing has improved. In fact, I think its sitting back and listening to something that you’ve worked on that has really come together that is my favourite part of the creative process. I’ve sometimes found myself sitting down at the computer to work on an arrangement and just wished that the damn thing was finished already, and then I can have my moment, the “last listen before bed” as I like to call it. That phrase makes sense when you realise that most of the writing and recording happens between the hours of 9pm and midnight. Practicalities dictate that one has to think about ones neighbours. In fact, I’m amazed that there has only been one occasion when they have banged on the wall to shut me up!

So what do some of these authors have to say about their own experiences? Of course, all of these guys are writing professionally and therefore have a big advantage over me in two areas – they sell books, they have a measure of critical acclaim, and don’t have day jobs. I wonder how that changes things…

Hari Kunzru ....
I get great pleasure from writing, but not always, or even usually. Writing a novel is largely an exercise in psychological discipline – trying to balance your project on your chin while negotiating a minefield of depression and freak-out. Beginning is daunting; being in the middle makes you feel like Sisyphus; ending sometimes comes with the disappointment that this finite collection of words is all that remains of your infinitely rich idea. Along the way, there are the pitfalls of self-disgust, boredom, disorientation and a lingering sense of inadequacy, occasionally alternating with episodes of hysterical self-congratulation as you fleetingly believe you've nailed that particular sentence and are surely destined to join the ranks of the immortals, only to be confronted the next morning with an appalling farrago of clichés that no sane human could read without vomiting. But when you're in the zone, spinning words like plates, there's a deep sense of satisfaction and, yes, enjoyment…....

Will Self....
I gain nothing but pleasure from writing fiction; short stories are foreplay, novellas are heavy petting – but novels are the full monte. Frankly, if I didn't enjoy writing novels I wouldn't do it – the world hardly needs any more and I can think of numerous more useful things someone with my skills could be engaged in. As it is, the immersion in parallel but believable worlds satisfies all my demands for vicarious experience, voyeurism and philosophic calithenics. I even enjoy the mechanics of writing, the dull timpani of the typewriter keys, the making of notes – many notes – and most seductive of all: the buying of stationery. That the transmogrification of my beautiful thoughts into a grossly imperfect prose is always the end result doesn't faze me: all novels are only a version- there is no Platonic ideal. But I'd go further still: fiction is my way of thinking about and relating to the world; if I don't write I'm not engaged in any praxis, and lose all purchase.....

Please visit the guardian website – there’s a few more of these – unfortunately I haven’t got the reference or the credits right here now.

Ben

Its awards time again. Oscars, Baftas, Grammys and of course, Brits. For two decades now, the Brits has been one of the events of the pop calendar here in the UK, known as much for its industry backslapping as its rock and roll antics. Who could forget Jarvis Cocker’s hilariously unplanned appearance during Michael Jackson’s set in 1996? Or the excruitating pairing of presenters Sam Fox and Mike Fleetwood?

In truth, we only remember these examples because since 1996, nothing really exciting has actually happened. Sure, a few awards are handed about, and no doubt the Arctic Monkeys or Coldplay will feature in some capacity, but what made the Brits really fun was the capacity for silly drunken antics of the sort that embarrasses music industry executives and makes the front pages of your morning Metro.

So it was with a slight air of disappointment that this year’s awards passed without incident. In fact, not only were they were so completely bland and predictable that they have become instantly forgettable, their credibility was finally stretched to breaking point. The pairing of Matthew Horne and James Cordon (from “Gavin and Stacey”) was a shocker and their pitiful attempts at unscripted humour served only to embarrass co-presenter Kylie Minogue or undermine those presenting awards who mostly seemed to be playing it straight. The performances varied from the sublime to the ridiculous. Where Take That succeeded in spectacle, flying in on a giant spaceship, they failed musically with appallingly obvious miming, despite a great song. Where Duffy succeeded in hitting the high notes, with expert phrasing and a “bang on in tune” melody, she only served to remind us that, for all intents and purposes, she is a Dusty Springfield tribute act, a sub-Winehouse pastiche, and not really deserving of 3 separate awards. I think “best breakthrough act” would have seen her right.

Coldplay confounded the critics by delivering their best song for ages with ridiculous posturing from Chris Martin who needs to learn when to stand still and just sing. Coldplay, the band everybody loves to hate, not really helping themselves there. The less said about Lady GaGa the better, she really needs to f*ck off, and what the hell was she wearing. Quite liked the Pet Shop Boys though, although whether they deserve a special award for having a few decent songs in the charts twenty years ago is another matter.

Thank god, then, for Elbow. Predicable it may have been following their triumph at the Mercury’s, at least a band with real talent, commitment and an awesome back catalogue won through. Also, Iron Maiden winning the best live show award was cool and totally deserved. Good to see British Metal being represented, finally. How many other of these artists can tour the world in a jet aircraft and fill stadiums at the drop of a hat? None. Yet the cynic in me (which is working overtime right now) thinks: “what the hell do these bands have to do to get a regular look in?” Glad to see the Kings of Leon getting involved, another good band, I prefer them with beards.

And then we come to my personal favourites, The Ting Tings, who, quite rightly, won nothing, and who shouted their way through another tedious performance. Sorry but they are really getting on my nerves at the moment. Finally, claws out once again to Girls Aloud who demonstrated that they may have a few good electro songs, pretty faces and great outfits, but will always be a sub-Spice Girls knock off. Still, the gays seem to like them. I’m afraid I missed the new U2 song, so I can’t comment on that.

So another year, and yet more hype. I predict a big year for electronic pop this year, but then, I would do, wouldn’t I!

PS. We have now concluded negotiations with Substream records and things should get moving very soon. Stay tuned.

Ben

I recently came across this rather wonderful rant from the independant last summer - I think it rather neatly sums up how many of us feel about the state of so-called indie music at the moment. Let the rant commence!!!!!

It's the height of the festival season, and across Britain Identikit groups of tight-trousered, floppy-haired boys with guitars are taking to the stage, to thrash out a homogenous jangle. Critics have dubbed their sound 'indie landfill'. Is it the death knell of a once-vibrant underground scene?

By Tim Walker..
Sunday, 20 July 2008

Friday night on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury. This is the venue Radiohead played a career-defining show 11 years ago. In the past, it has hosted masterful live performances from The White Stripes, Muse and The Who. Tonight's headliners are the terrific Kings of Leon. Before they can take the stage, however, there's one more support act to soak up. In the half-dark just after sunset, a tousle-haired man in a promising Pink Floyd T-shirt steps up to the mic, carrying his comforting, classic Gibson Les Paul guitar. But then he opens his mouth. His name is Jon Lawler, and his band are known as The Fratellis.

Festival season is in full swing now. Across the land, stages are being raised in city parks, in country farms and on ancient estates for what promises to be Britain's biggest ever summer of music. But if they want to book enough acts to justify the inflated ticket prices in these harsh economic times, once-eager festival organisers have a struggle on their hands. How will they fill that gaping hole on Sunday afternoon? Luckily the current UK music scene has just the thing. Someone has even compounded a helpful term to use when you call the record companies in a line-up emergency; this uninspiring, guitar-gelled Polyfilla – of which The Fratellis are a fine example – is now known by some as "landfill indie".

As in every musical era, one style dominates the hearts and minds of our nation's youth; it dictates their fashion sense, their relationship with their parents and, quite possibly, their personal-hygiene regimen. These days, it's indie that's the cholesterol in the veins of popular culture, and we need to start thinking about a crash diet.

You know who they are, these smooth-chinned strummers, with their smart-arsed, self-admiring band names almost invariably prefaced by the definite article: The Kooks, The Courteeners, The Holloways, The Rascals, The View, The Wombats, The Automatic, The Pigeon Detectives, The Hoosiers. Their turgid, tuneless banalities use all the oxygen between ad breaks on XFM; they mop up the soggy midday slot on the main stage. Indie is the 30-year-old genre that gave us The Smiths, The Stone Roses, Blur and Arctic Monkeys. But in that period it has also produced Ocean Colour Scene, The Ting Tings, Menswear and Joe Lean and The Jing Jang Jong.

John Niven was an indie fan in the 1980s, an A&R man in the Britpopping 1990s, and is now the author of Kill Your Friends, a sadistic satire of the record industry of which he was once an enthusiastic member. "I was in Gap a few weeks ago and there was some sort of generic indie music playing," he says. "I was with a friend who's a promoter and a bit younger than me. After about three or four tracks I asked him: 'Whose LP is this?' And he said, 'No, it's a compilation.' Every track sounded identical. The guitars, the production; all these bands sound like they're made in the same studio with the same producer. It's such a ball-less, soulless, generic whitewashed indie sound. You could probably take a member from each band and throw them together in a new group and no one would be able to tell the difference. They're completely interchangeable. Scouting for Girls are like the sound of Satan's scrotum emptying. They're abysmal."

Once, indie was a world away from the mainstream. "Originally we talked of 'independent' music, meaning music on independent labels, and at that time there was still a shared (if loose) framework of ideology and sonics that traced back to punk," explains Simon Reynolds, pop historian and author of Rip it Up and Start Again: Post-Punk 1978-1984. "It was an oppositional term: independent music opposed itself to the mainstream rock and pop released on major labels. The idea was that on independent labels you would find more experimental or adventurous music, people exploring esoteric and non-commercial directions, making sounds too abrasive or weird to be on daytime radio. The lyrical content would be radical or challenging, either exploring the dark side of human condition, or being political in various ways, or just very sophisticated, ironic, and so on.

"By about 1984/1985, though, 'indie' meant a style of song-oriented, guitar-based music whose opposition to the mainstream took the form of no longer being contemporary – spurning synthesisers and drum machines and sequencers, avoiding the R&B and dance music influences that dominated the pop charts, and instead looking back to rock's archives, principally the 1960s. 'Indie' meant jangly guitar groups. By 1986 'indie' pretty much equated with a refusal of the pop present. Because it now meant a style of music, not a means of production and distribution, it could be uncoupled from the independent label system, and that is what gradually happened."

Between NME's seminal C86 compilation tape (which crystallised the 1980s indie sound) and the Britpop revolution a decade later, the genre still had a separate chart and "indie" really meant independent. It just so happened that most of the bands on indie labels played jangly guitars: baggy bands such as The Charlatans and Inspiral Carpets, T-shirt bands including Ned's Atomic Dustbin, shoe-gazers such as Ride. Whenever one of them managed to break into the mainstream weekly pop chart, it was a major event.

Britpop changed everything. Overnight, bands from the fringes of pop culture became the country's biggest acts, their independent sound suddenly the industry standard. Blur and Pulp demonstrated intellect and cultural awareness, Suede were pale, interesting and androgynous, Oasis brought the attitude. But already the indie waters were muddied. Oasis was on the Creation label, whose founder Alan McGee had sold 49 per cent of the company to Sony for £2.5m in 1992. Suede's label, Nude, was also part of Sony. Blur was signed to Food, which by 1994 was a subsidiary of EMI. Meanwhile, the majors realised the commercial clout of appearing to be indie and started up their own boutique labels in the apparent hope of fooling fans: BMG, for instance, spawned Indolent and Dedicated, and Virgin gave birth to Hut.
"[Britpop] was great fun," wrote the journalist Andrew Collins in a 2006 piece for Word. "But it wasn't indie, and it pushed a whole slew of workmanlike guitar bands centre-stage, where they were even expected to represent their rebranded country, giving the quite false impression that Cool Britannia was an Indie Nation. The essence of New Labour, indie was capitalism dressed up as revolutionary socialism."

These days the term 'indie' is little more than a generic sonic description for any band that plays guitars and probably wears skinny ties, skinny jeans, and skinny cardigans. Collins, a former NME writer and ex-editor of Q, says now: "'Indie' has become a meaningless term. It just covers guitar bands. But it was never meant to be about a type of music, it wasa spirit and an attitude. When I glance around the bands that are supposedly 'indie' today, I don't see any attitude. I don't see any content in their records, any political interest in the band members. They're a terrible generation, unfortunately, but they're becoming famous overnight and selling a lot of records. I've heard them called 'mortgage indie'. It's a career path – a way of making a lot of money very quickly. The Kooks did so well so quickly. Scouting For Girls, from a standing start, have become a really big band. The Fratellis have become massive in a remarkably short time."

There are still indie die-hards out there, the pre-eminent example being Arctic Monkeys, who rebuffed all major label interest in favour of signing to the small, principled Domino Records, then ended up shifting 363,735 copies of their debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, in a week. Seattle's Sub Pop label just celebrated its 20th birthday by bringing the wonderful Fleet Foxes to these shores, while XL Recordings maintains an enviable and varied roster that now includes Vampire Weekend, MIA and Devendra Banhart. Tellingly, XL was also chosen by Radiohead to distribute the physical version of their last album, In Rainbows.

But the success of Arctic Monkeys, and the unfortunate blaze of The Libertines, has brought its own Britpop effect. Before the Arctics' ascendance, guitars and pianos plodded along at a stately pace, Keane and Snow Patrol playing out a parodic imitation of The Verve. Since Whatever People Say I Am..., rubbish radio filler has become faster and more frantic, but also, arguably, worse. At least Keane have an ear for a tune.

At the same time, the Arctics' supposed recipe for success – the much-hyped MySpace profile that let them build a fanbase without a budget – has been co-opted by the rest of the industry. Like the establishment of those boutique brands, it's now just another major label marketing ploy. (editors note - apart from This Morning Call's vox site which is amazing. God bless ya!)

Pity any guitar-playing teen from north of Watford. The well-deserved success of the Arctics means record companies are on the hunt for more teenage wunderkinds like their frontman Alex Turner; thus we have a glut of youngsters, such as One Night Only and The Enemy, with underdeveloped ideas that have never been given a chance to mature. By the time they're grown up enough to learn more than one trick (or three chords), the NME will already have started the backlash, and another young group of guitar plodders will have taken their place. Indie is merely apeing pop's abiding obsession with youth. Here's another term for the indie glossary: a "firework band". It means a widely touted young act whose label has a debut LP to sell. They begin their professional lives by exploding into the top of the charts, shine brightly, then drop out of sight. The turnover of new acts is terrifying. Parklife, lest we forget, was Blur's third album.
"Everything has accelerated," says Collins. "I can't believe Scouting For Girls. I remember hearing that song 'She's So Lovely' and thinking, 'What's this shit?' And the next thing you know, it's a hit, and they're a hit, and the next two singles are hits. New bands go massive on their first album, but there's almost no chance they can follow it up on their second. Record companies are there for the shareholders. If they can make some money quickly off the next big indie band, they will, but it doesn't mean the band will make any. The band will be left scratching their heads and wondering what happened. Whereas Arctic Monkeys will continue to be supported by Domino, and luckily they're massively talented – enough to continue making good records. A lot of other bands, I'm afraid, are not in it for the long haul. 'mortgage indie' is a nice idea, but I'm not sure it will end up actually paying their mortgages."

For many acolytes of the original indie scene, the saddest by-product of its decline is the state of the NME, formerly their paper of record. The organ's journalists were once so passionate about the integrity of the genre that they threatened a schism over the inclusion of too much hip-hop on their pages; now it, too, has become a corporate entity.
"I recently saw an interview with Conor McNicholas where he was talking about 'growing the brand'," Niven recalls. "The editor of the NME using the expression 'growing the brand'! It's hardly Nick Kent sneaking out of the office to run down Carnaby Street and score smack, is it?"

Nowadays, to be an "NME band" is all too often to be a "firework band". The annual NME Awards at which they're celebrated are sponsored by Shockwaves from Wella, the very hair gel with which indie kids style their Kook-ish coiffures from Glasgow to Guildford. With such bland uniformity so speedily infecting our nation's youth, is there any hope left for a flourishing, and truly 'indie', scene?

Forget the filler, it's last year's Glastonbury headliners that should point the way for the next generation. There was Jay-Z, of course, the world's greatest rapper. There was the Kings of Leon, who manage to make interesting noises with electric guitars (despite their preference for skinny jeans). And there was The Verve, who, almost 20 years after their formation, remind us what indie really meant to people in the days when there was no danger of troubling the pop charts, nor of paying the mortgage with music; when the words were about something, anything – politics, perhaps, or at least an original thought about love; when waifish white boys had more to say than simply, "Look Mum, I'm in a band!"; before Britpop and MySpace and landfill indie.

 
"Once these bands stop having hits every day it will dry up," argues Collins. "The kids will get bored. You can't grow up on a diet of The Pigeon Detectives and think you could topple the Government one day. If we end up with 20 years of Tory government, it'll be The Pigeon Detectives' fault."

How indie ate itself
1977: The Buzzcocks release their Spiral Scratch EP on their DIY label, New Hormones. Pop historians will refer to it as the first indie record
1986: NME and Rough Trade compile and release C86, the cassette (featuring, among others, Primal Scream, The Soup Dragons and Half Man Half Biscuit) that defines the indie genre
1987: The Smiths leave independent label Rough Trade after four albums and sign a more lucrative deal with EMI, then split acrimoniously before they record a note
1990: The Stone Roses, led by singer Ian Brown stage a Woodstock for the baggys generation – a huge gig at Spike Island in Widnes. Among the 27,000 fans is a young Noel Gallagher
1992: Alan McGee sells half of Creation Records to Sony for £2.5m. Later, Nude is sold to Sony, Factory to London Records, Go!Discs to Phonogram and Food to EMI
1993: Indie fans Steve Lamacq and Jo Whiley take over Radio One's high-profile Evening Session slot and make it their own. Blur release their second album, Modern Life is Rubbish. According to John Harris, the author of The Last Party: Britpop, Blair and the Demise of British Rock, this is the first true Britpop album. Alan McGee goes to Glasgow venue King Tut's Wah Wah Hut to see his label's act 18 Wheeler play, and discovers a little band called Oasis
1995: Blur and Oasis release singles in the same week ("Country House" and "Roll With It") in what NME bills as a "British heavyweight championship". Blur win the immediate battle to reach number one, but Oasis win the war: their album, (What's the Story) Morning Glory?, sells 18m copies worldwide
1997: Oasis's third album, Be Here Now, is bloated and ugly. Blur by Blur sounds American. Britpop dies a belated death
2001: New York hipsters The Strokes release Is This It. Everyone forgets about Britain
2002: The Libertines release their debut, Up The Bracket. Shambling guitars become chic again
2004: Snow Patrol's Final Straw and Keane's Hopes and Fears top the album charts. Indie reaches a low point
2006: Arctic Monkeys' Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not becomes the fastest-selling debut album in chart history. The major labels snap up every 17-year-old guikookstar player in the land
2008: Scouting For Girls' debut album reaches Number One. Indie eats itself

And here's a bit more vitriol from a poster from OG forums - boo to the camden wannabes!! -
"Years ago up through the Britpop era these sort of bands, love or hate them, used to crop up a lot in Camden Town because people from all over the country would gravitate there because it was a reasonably cheap area with a lot of music stuff going on, a good place to live to form one of these bands, if you so desire. But now, Camden is heaving with posh kids with their ultra-rent probably paid for by Mater & Pater (how else could they afford it at their age?) dressed up in their Peter Docherty hats walking the streets holding guitar cases, forming or dreaming of forming bands, it's like an Indie Disneyworld, a museum. Meanwhile anyone young, skint & creative can't even afford to leave home in the capital these days. This is a large reason why there are so many of these terrible bands that you describe, they're the only ones who can afford to be in a band now."

And relax!
best wishes,
Ben........

Hello faithful readers,

Time once again to dust off your party socks and champagne glasses because its New Year once again! Yipee! (Although as I type this those of you in Auss - Matthew, I'm thinking of you! - have already had your fill, whereas lovely Europe and the Americas are yet to put on their glad rags. Oh what a miracle our turning globe is!)

I had a lovely Christmas, thanks for asking, and I was delighted to receive so many lovely messages (on facebook) wishing me a merry crimbo. And boo hiss to all you buggers who hate Xmas, I thought it was fab. Who can argue with the presents/food/good telly combo? Not me. Once again I thrilled at the DrWho Christmas special, enjoyed another disaster at the Queen Vic, and laughed a great deal at The Royale Family and Alan Carr doing standup. FAB!

I was presented with a lovely present from my friends Lee and Julia this year - it was a digi-box. Yes, faithful reader, I have been without digital TV so far and have not yet discovered the delights of multi-channel viewing. I'm still on VHS, 5 channels, and have an "if you miss it, you've missed it forever" mentality. Well, I have spent the last few days enjoying the delights of such entertainments as BBC3 and Channel Four +1. And my god, so much choice. So long as you like "Friends".

I'm quite taken with UK History TV though. I now know all about Cortes and the Aztecs, and Blackbeard the Pirate. Coolio.

Anyway, in between all this telly watching, some drinking and dancing has also featured, so here for your viewing pleasure, is pictoral evidence of a recent night out at Legends, at a clubnight known as "Bollox".

Here are the culprits - Mark (Sax and Piano with TMC), Lucy (Bassoon on "Goodnight"), her boyf Mikey, and me:

We were also out with Dario but he was in the toilet throwing up. Bless! And here am I with a pint of cider, with an unknown gay in the background. I know I look fed up but I was having a good time. Its just my moody face I was putting on.

...and these are the frilly knickers that festoon the walls, which, once the aforementioned cider has been consumed, can be placed upon ones person for comedic effect!

Lovely!

All the best for 2009.

EP and album on the way - stay tuned.

best,
Ben

I had the pleasure of attending the opening of an exhibition at the Manchester Urbis exhibition centre last Wednesday evening, which raised some interesting questions about racism, the use of violence for political change and how racsim and other extreme views might come upon us in everyday life and what our reactions might be.

40 years on from the 1968 Mexican Olympic Games, when John Carlos and Tommy Smith controversially raised their fists in a Black Power salute, this exhibition looks at the meaning and history behind this gesture, as told through the graphic artwork of Emory Douglas, the official artist of the Black Panther Party and its first and only Minister of Culture.

Douglas created a compelling, motivational graphic style. His art from this period, documents growing civil unrest and rapid change. The exhibition shows Douglas' work from this period, including posters, cartoons and campaign pamphlets.

His slogans, 'All Power to the People', 'Revolution in our Lifetime', and his use of pigs and rats for the first time, to represent police and politicians, have become part of everyday language.

I thought the exhibition was very good and ably illustrated both the history of the movement and the evolution of Douglas' art during the Black Panther years. One thing that sticks in my mind from this exhibition is the way some of the artwork appears to promote violence. In the face of police harassment and brutality, it is no wonder the black community felt they had to fight fire with fire, it must have seemed like there was no other way to find justice, but I also find it hard to understand political movements that appear to advocate violence. Of course, I haven't been in a position in my world where I have ever been moved to violence to defend my way of life against injustice, intolerance or racism. The exhibition left me wondering under what circumstances might my attitude change.

I was sitting quietly with a few friends in our regular haunt, Retro Bar, on Saturday and we were discussing homophobia, as you do. For some reason, rightly or wrongly, we agreed that the gays would probably be more welcome in Tibet than China. I don't know how we came to that conclusion but it was a fairly light-hearted conversation. However, some drunk sat opposite us who had nothing to do with our group of friends butted in saying "more fool them", and then launched into an excessive and hate filled diatribe relating homosexuality with the decline of decent morality and the "downward spiral" of society. To say the least, I was quite shocked to hear someone preaching hatred in my local bar. It was completely uncalled for and very offensive. He was backed up by his skinhead friend who arrived and explained that they were lifelong members of the BNP. I'm afraid that this sort of thing just cannot be tolerated and we were forced to discreetly alert the bouncers who removed the offending gentlemen from the premises.

The whole incident made me feel rather angry. I just couldn't understand why this guy had felt the need to interject with his hate filled bile when he must have known that it was going to cause offence. Did he do it just to be controversial? Was he drunk, did he really know what he was saying? More likely he was expressing his right wing shite because he genuinely believes it and has been radicalised by his own economic circumstances or some other unfortunate situation, lack of education and limited social outlets. And he had really bad hair.

This incident is particularly relevant on the eve of the US Presidential election. We can only hope that the American electorate see sense and elect Barack Obama into office. How effective either of the two presidential candidates will be is a matter of debate but the fact that America is willing to now elect a black man as President is a major statement and a very positive one. It may also mean that the ghosts of things like the Black Panther Party can finally be laid to rest.

Yet if my experiences in Retro Bar are anything to go by, extreme attitudes, racism, and homophobia can easily slip in the back door when you are not looking. Liberal democracy has delivered political stability and economic success in the West for many years now, but with stability comes apathy and we should remember that it is easy for extreme opinions to become more widespread when they remain unchallenged. We don't want to be in a situation where the only course of action is to pick up the gun to defend our rights to be who we are. We should continue to be vigilant and not take our freedom for granted.

So what of my own slightly conflicting views? I did feel angry when we were challenged in Retro Bar. At first I was speechless, but after that I could have shouted and raged and waved my arms in the air with the best of them. What would happen if this opinion was not in fact a minority opinion, was was the prevailing opinion of the forces of law and order, of a right wing majority in the UK? Would I then be the radical? Would I be the extremist? Would I be the guy raising my fist in honour of some radical libertarian movement, like John Carlos and Tommy Smith? Would I be taking up arms against the police and calling them pigs? Maybe I would.

Anyway, peace and love to you all.

I don’t know about my French (see title), but it was one hell of a big fish that arrived at the diner table on Sunday afternoon, as we sat in a pub in Edale, feet up and smiling with a rosy glow that comes from a day spent in the hills. Let me recount our journey to you. Some of this is true...

Edale is a small village, nay hamlet, which occupies the valley basin of the vale of Edale, marking the start of the Pennine Way and home to a great many more localised rambles and scrambles, hills, vales, bogs and hitherto undescribed natural wonders. Its rolling hills are home to a great many rabbits, hares and sheep, birds and other such creatures existing unspoilt and as nature intended. Water falls in quantity from great slabs of limestone, and legions of Sunday walkers, motivated by the pursuit of large open spaces, trample and climb there way to the top of the valley. Those that survive are greeted by exposed, boggy moorland and impressive views of the surrounding farmland and peaks.

Let me introduce our group. Ahead, walked Mr. Daniel Smith, a one time trumpeter with This Morning Call and infamous northern wit and impresario. To my left, Mr. Lee Marks, wannabe film-maker and critic, and renown purveyor of Tasmanian dark ales. To my right, Ms. Julia Madien, who made a name for herself singing musical numbers to orphans during Vietnam and has seduced her way into some of Manchester’s finest bordellos and boudoirs with only a stocking and a hat box to her name.

The clouds lifted and although the sun tried to warm us, it was to limited effect as we set out from the village car park, boots and waterproofs at the ready.  Although I insisted on travelling “map-free”, we felt no fear as we plunged into the unknown. It wasn’t long before the hills began to close in around us and we felt the firm hand of nature by our sides. Not for the faint hearted are the rough crags and stony precipices of the Grindlebrook. There are tales of goblins and trolls dwelling in them there hills, and the hills themselves have eyes, ready to trap a unsure hiker with a loose stone or sucking bog. Maybe an evil half-breed mutant with a gun and an unhealthy obsession with breast milk hides behind the next Tor. But we didn’t let such thoughts trouble us.

We scrambled our way up the valley, and with each turn the ground rose before us, great boulders were strewn across our path, and soon the time came to forge the stream itself. Ms. Maiden leapt gracefully from stone to stone, while Mr Smith and Mr Marks satisfied their imaginations by regaling our party with tales from Middle Earth. The climb became steeper as we neared the summit, near vertical in parts, and with the ever present danger of slipping and falling we had to take extra care, only allowing ourselves to stop for a few moments before toiling upwards, hearts in mouths.

The summit brought with it a fabulous view across the vale and an opportunity for Mr. Marks to compose a “hero shot” in his head, for his latest “blockbuster in development”, and, of course, with the wonders of modern technology, he received a phone call from the bank on his mobile as we began to traverse the hillock, apparently chasing a bad debt. “Now is not the time for banking”, I remarked, “Not when there are hills to be tamed and pies to be pursued. Onwards!”

The downward passage was blocked, so we had to take a more treacherous route on our return, most of which was conducted via the method of a rolling, or sliding, descent. That’s a technical term first described by Edmund Percival Hillary in 1953 as the best and quickest way to descend from a great height. Luckily, the soft, moorland grass provided an ample opportunity to get a wet bottom, and three dozen pratfalls later the descent was complete. We found ourselves returned safely to the village, and, of course, the local pub.

Upon entry to the pub, it was immediately apparent that we had found a haven. We quickly made ourselves at home. Food was ordered in quantity. We feasted on cooked meats, soup, crusty bread and chipped potatoes. Mr. Marks did indeed order one of the King’s own haddock, and it was a prize catch indeed. At almost fifteen feet long, the young gentleman proved his metal and polished the monster off in record time. He was followed in no uncertain terms by Ms. Maiden and Mr. Smith, who both consumed a whole sheep each. A royal feast!

And so, with a heavy heart and a sore toe, we removed ourselves from the vale and returned to Mancunia. Our heavy eyes and tired limbs sent us quickly to bed, to dream of hill and vale, brook and stream. To wake in the knowledge of a Sunday well spent. God bless this green and bountiful kingdom.