This Morning Call’s blog

TMC's cultural highlights of the decade...

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Sat, 26 Dec 2009 15:52:12 +0000

At this time of year, the popular press delight in presenting their top tens, reviews of the year and other such countdowns that serve to illustrate just how right they were all along in predicting cultural trends and populist movements across the arts. This year will have the added bonus of being the end of a decade, so we can expect even more of this self-congratulatory editorial and the shelves will be groaning with reviews and journalistic analysis.

You may detect a hint of cynicism here, and you'd be right. Before we plunge into the land of someone else's opinion, we must remember that we are no longer shackled by the whims of the cultural elite. With the advent of online newspapers, when invited to "comment" the average guardian reader delights in disagreeing so vehemently that what was once a definitive list is subsumed into petty squabble by comment number 25.

However, because I still maintain pretensions with regards to doing this professionally one day, I thought I'd selfishly have a go at compiling my own list of personal big hitters from the last ten years. Well, you know what they say, "if you can't beat them, join them".

For this list, I've decided to dip my toes into the worlds of music, film, art, design, technology and literature.

In the noughties, devoid of any radical cultural shifts, for the first time more was written about how we consume music than the music itself. The media turned its attention to the death of the traditional music industry and the rise of the digital consumer. Central to this was the technology that has made it all possible; the internet, and the reach of portable devices that literally allow you to have a record collection in your pocket. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce, the Ipod.

You'll all be familiar with this unassuming little creature. Smooth lines, pocket-sized, touch screen or dial operated. This is an iconic piece, and a triumph of design, where functionality is not compromised despite the minimalist aesthetic. It fits neatly into your pocket in a smooth way that a walkman never did, and newer models come resplendent with wireless internet and space for literally thousands of tracks, video clips and other bits of content. The Ipod is simply something which, once upon a time, existed in science fiction. Now, it seems so logical and essential that it's hard to imagine a world without one; similarly the mobile phone, which ten years previous, revolutionised the 90's, and has proved to be equally indispensable.

But it's the design aesthetic that I want to highlight here. It really is very pretty. It harks back to classic modernism but looks forward to a technological utopian future made of glass and run by intelligent machines. The little box reflects current architectural trends with lots of gherkin curves and wipe-clean glass, and even has its own noughties "retro" feature - the Apple logo - allowing it to put one foot in the future and one foot in the past. Recent devices are able to sense if you are holding them in portrait or landscape, and adjust accordingly. When on shuffle, my Ipod has a tendency to pick songs that seem to go together, perhaps registering a commonality in the title or the artist, or perhaps the tempo. "Let's say a prayer to the shuffle gods", we say. Well, let me tell you this, I'm convinced the shuffle gods are real...!

Well, perhaps that's taking my devotion a little too far, but it's not difficult to overemphasis how much I enjoy all this music at the touch of a button, even if we are still some way from "AI-pods".

It's hard to believe that the Ipod was invented in 2001 and already has become part and parcel of daily life. A little piece of design that feels classic, yet remains resolutely contemporary and will undoubtably become iconic.

Next up, from the world of film, it's "Pan's Labyrinth" dir. by Guillermo Del Torro. Well, it was a toss up between this and "A Serious Man" from the Coen Brothers, but I only saw that the other week, so I probably need to give it time to settle. It is very good though. And I did think about "The Lord of the Rings" movies, which I loved, but as this is an original story, I think it has the edge.

"Pan's Labyrinth" is a film about the Spanish Civil War re-imagined as a child's supernatural dream. The film expertly blurs the distinction between the violent, adult world of the uncompromising fascist, and the imaginary world of Pan, a character born of escapist imagination. Pan appears as a vision from the underworld in a dilapidated, labyrinthine garden and informs our protagonist, Ofelia, a young girl, that she is in fact a lost princess and must undertake a series of tasks to prove her real identity.

This film is one of many superb fantasy pictures that have graced our cinemas in the last ten years. Advances in technology have enabled photorealism in computer graphics, and this has inspired directors to create ever more elaborate and immersive fantasy worlds. "Pan's Labyrinth" is particularly effective because it doesn't overplay its hand in the depiction of its fantastical elements. Sequences including the retrieval of a key from the stomach of a giant frog and the escape from the dining room of a child eating demon, the "Pale Man", are interspersed episodically throughout the film. For the most part, the narrative takes place in the real world, a world of fascism, rebellion and war. Indeed, there is nothing fantastical about the naked displays of casual violence, torture and other war time atrocities on display here. The commander is unsympathetic, brutal and unforgiving to his staff, and at times sadistic, murderous and bloody. At the outset, graphic violence is illustrated at length, but as the film continues, incidents of extreme violence become more causal, almost routine, the victims dehumanised and forgotten.

Of course, in cinema, we are often led to believe in the power of imagination, and the "dream made real" motif is a classic narrative device beloved of Disney and many others. Faced with the reality of the Spanish Civil War, it is no wonder that our protagonist wants to escape into a fantasy world apparently of her own devising. But this film is deliciously dark and full of metaphor; the "dream world" consciously parallels the real, and is equally as dangerous. There is no escape from monsters, human or otherwise, for our protagonist, in either reality.

There are architectural juxtapositions. Notice how the structural lines in the underworld are curved, grandiose and impossible. In contrast, the real world is full of straight lines, square brick and rural charm. The "real" dining room is rationed and empty while the Pale Man's dining room is full of food, providing an irresistible temptation for Ofelia. The colour palette of the movie codes the real world with gunpowder black and grey, earthy greens and blue, while the underworld is full of outrageous gold, red and yellow, opulent, warm and inviting. As the real world trudges on, Pan grows younger, as though he is moving in reverse, his relationship with time constantly in flux. The effect leads the viewer to question which is the true reality, or perhaps which is the most desirable reality. Despite the flesh eating frogs and demons, surely the fantasy world, with its promise of royalty, adventure and opulence, can be her only choice.

If there is a sense that the magical can somehow interfere with the everyday, then the resolution takes this idea to a logical extreme, cleverly linking both the real and imaginary worlds. The barriers between life and death itself are blurred. It is an emotional and disturbing end to a fabulous film. I urge you to watch it at once.

Cormac McCarthy

Let me get this book review in quickly before we all trudge down to the cinema to see the film adaptation of this classic novel later next month. I'm sure it will be good, and the trailers look great, but let's not chance it. I'm not normally picky about such things, but in this instance, read the book first. The book in question is "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy. (The picture is the author in question.)

This novel should be read on a cool, crisp day overlooking the hills, with winter nipping at your toes. I read it on holiday in Italy in 2008, with blue skies, warm sun and with my feet dangling into an over-chlorinated swimming pool. I guess I wasn't expecting to be swept away so dramatically into McCarthy's vision of the apocalypse, for this novel is bleak, uncompromising and horrific both in incident and implication.

What struck me the most from this slim volume is the conservation of language; for the most part composed of short, sharp paragraphs, with brief conversational exchanges. Descriptions are eloquent and evocative, but there is no time to linger. Perhaps our protagonist is too world weary to offer a more lengthy prose. After all, he is a broken man. An unspecified disaster has reduced the world to a frozen cinder. The sun never comes up because it is obscured by clouds of ash and debris. A permanent winter chill has settled over the land. The remains of civilisation, bodies frozen in hardened tar, and the survivors, cannibals, the insane, nod to "Lord of the Flies ", as they form packs of marauding gunslingers. His worsening health is suggestive of cancer, his dreams are full of nightmare images and flashes from a past that has long since disappeared.

This apocalyptic drama pressed all the right buttons. Moments of horror litter the narrative, from barbecued babies to a locked larder of half eaten people. There are dramatic narrow escapes, and moments of joy with the discovery of a warm bed for the night, or some unspoilt food source. Never have unopened tins of pears been made to sound so appetising.

The father, for he remains unnamed, is accompanied by his young son. He is desperate to protect him. They are journeying down the road in search of a warmer climate without which they will surely die. On a very simple level, the youngster represents the future of the human race. Of course he must be protected, or that's it, the end of the species. But in the face of such horror, the need to instil a moral code becomes paramount. How can a child be taught what is right and good in the world, when the world has been turned upside down, and death stalks the freeway? This is central question.

This novel is also about love, both in the paternal relationship between the two characters, but also a love owed to the human race, to the protection of the future, to survival, to the human spirit. This is why such a novel is not depressing, rather uplifting. The greatest of mankind survives in the hope and the love of one man, who, against all the odds, remains "the good guy". It's easy to forget, in these dangerous times, that mankind is capable of such generosity and depth of feeling, even in the worst of circumstances.

"The Road" is the finest book of the decade. We should pause for breath here.

Those of you who know me personally will know that I'm allowed to pick Maximo Park as a noughties musical favourite for purely personal reasons, but I wont dwell on that here, I'll instead mention the three very fine albums that this band have produced over the decade, and suggest that the second, "Our Earthly Pleasures", is one of my favourite records of the decade.

Ok, maybe it wasn't received as well as the first album, "A Certain Trigger", which, lest we forget, was nominated for the Mercury, but I would argue that the follow up is a stronger, more complete record, with excellent production throughout and some original and very satisfying tunes. The trio of tracks that open the album - "Girls Who Play Guitars", "Our Velocity" and "Books From Boxes" - are as good an opening to a rock album as you can get, full of energy, vigour and verve. Live, the band make the most of these classics, and having attended several shows over the past few years, audiences have responded with gusto to each. In a decade which invented the term "landfill indie" to describing flash-in-the-pan, middle-class white boys with guitars (such as The Pigeon Detectives and The Maccabees), it is good to know that the genre can still accommodate the maverick whims of real artists willing to stick a boot in to create a riot.

The band has often been noted for its lyrical prowess, and singer Paul Smith certainly commands a large vocabulary. This approach has, for the most part, worked well. It is his gift for describing the broken hearted in terms that appeal to the cod-intellectualism of recently graduated art students that have created popularity. Similarly, the marriage of high energy, up tempo drama coupled with genuine melody made this a winning formula; the pounding drums that kick off "The Unshockable", for example, and even to the last track, where "Parisian Skies" teases with balladry with its low key introduction before bolting off once again for a final flourish.

Like most indie rock bands, Maximo are destined to live large and die young. Their third album, Quicken the Heart, was a fine record in my eyes, but too many was something of a disappointment. We must remember that a younger audience is fickle. It will not stand by and celebrate a single artist for long before moving onto the next. Very few bands of this ilk command longevity. I expect, should a fourth album be conceived, that a change of direction may be on the cards. Nevertheless, over the last few years, this has been something of a treat, a global success, and an example of British rock at its best, and if anybody can pull this off, they can. Long may it continue.

You will know that a major highlight of my year is the annual pilgrimage down to Pilton for the Glastonbury Festival. The noughties were a decade in which festival going slipped completely into the mainstream. There were multitudes of differing events, catering for all tastes and all comers. The granddaddy of them all, of course, was Glastonbury.

It is almost inconceivable to imagine that just a few short years ago, there was a question mark over the both the relevance and the future of this British institution. For a few years, bad weather plagued the festival site, turning green fields into muddy swamps, and some elitist yet blinkered musicians began to publicly question the programming. "What right has hip-hop to gatecrash the headline slot?" they argued, referring to the fact that an American rapper, Jay-Z, had been announced as the festival headliner in 2008, "It's not what the public want. Bring back Oasis". The mood was reflected in slower than usual ticket sales and for the first time organiser Michael Eavis admitted concern that the festival may not be able to deliver on its regular charitable donations.

The way the festival has answered its critics and continued to deliver content, artistry and atmosphere in spades, for a fan like me, is wonderful. The aforementioned rapper delivered a triumphant set that showed up Noel Gallagher and friends, and perhaps caused them to regret their words. Festival attendees delighted in being able to choose from a huge variety of different acts and artists spread across many different stages. There was truly something for everyone, as well as the opportunity to stumble across something new that blows you away.

Perhaps Glastonbury is best enjoyed as several different festivals rolled into one. There is the televised, trumpeted and hyped performers than populate the Pyramid stage, and the indie wannabes that tend to play on the Other Stage. You've got the "Dance Village" for dance and electronic music fans. You've got the circus and comedy big tops. You've got paganism and alternative spiritual fields, which includes the stone circle, which you must visit. You've got the green futures and Greenpeace areas. Finally, you've got the truly alternative and mysterious world of Shangri-La, which used to be called Lost Vagueness, which come to life at night, and inevitably involves being hopelessly lost and cider-drunk until the early hours and exhaustion overcomes you.

That certain kinds of contemporary art are by now indivisible from entertainment may seem a truth too obvious to mention. Some of the most spectacular art events of the last decade were equally bent on drawing us together - not just for the fun of it, but to reveal our common humanity. I think it's also fair to say that, in the noughties, big was most certainly better. Above all Miroslav Balka's How It Is in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern, an immense steel container which drew us into its seething black depths, felt the most vital and influential of the venue's installations.

The lure was curiosity, once inside, completely black and empty, aside from other visitors, who bumped and wobbled their way around, trying to avoid shunting a total stranger. Turning to leave, you met your successors hesitating on the threshold like fearful shadows and suddenly the meaning of the work emerged - spiritual, tragic, and universal - here, common human experience revolving around the discovery of what lies in the dark. Oh the irony of stripping away our sense of sight, leaving an artwork that revolves around what we can't see and exists only in our minds.

I've loved the large installations that have inhabited the Turbine Hall in the Tate Modern. The gallery has long been one of my haunts on various trips to London, a sanctuary against the weather, against boredom, or crowds. Almost every trip I've enjoyed to the capital has resulted in a visit. The excitement stems from just how big, and just how dramatic these installations can be when done well.

I guess that covers everything I wanted to talk about. I hope you found that as interesting to read as I did to write. Honorary mentions should go to Russell T Davis' reimagined Doctor Who, which I have loved, David Mitchell for various novels including Cloud Atlas, and great albums from Bjork, Animal Collective, Wild Beasts, Friendly Fires, Elbow and many others. Short of turning this whole thing into a disseration of PhD proportions, I think I'll leave it at that for now.

As usual, I welcome your comments and suggestions for your own cultural highlights from the last ten years.

best wishes,

Ben

This Morning Call

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What I've been up to recently...

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 23:20:09 +0000

...in the form of a video blog for a change, and yes, I do say the word "penis" in ths first video.... such is life in front of the camera!

Here's part one:

This Morning Call - Part One

and here's part two- what a treat!!

Here I am at Manchester's In The City music convention.... and later, drunk at the same.... always the way!

This Morning Call - Part Two

Thanks!

Ben

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This Morning Call - an interview

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 11:03:23 +0000

Author: Rick and Tom from ListentoManchester.co.uk
Published on: Monday, 26 Oct 2009

This Morning Call, the brain child of Ben Heyworth has been described as "Portishead on anti-depressants" and "LCD Soundsystem with a hangover".

He has also been described as "one of the most wonderful acts we have heard this year" by Channel 4 and is set to release his debut album "All Quiet at 4AM" in January 2010.

We caught up with Ben to have a chat about his future and music in Manchester.

Hello Ben, how are you? Introduce yourself to us.

Hi. I’m Ben Heyworth, better known as singer/songwriter/producer “This Morning Call”

(Obvious question number 1) How did the band get together?

Well, its just me actually, when I set about working on the album it became pretty clear that it was going to be more of a solo work with collaborators rather than working with a full band. When I play live, it’s a full band, but the line-up can change. So I am “This morning Call”

(Obvious question number 2) Where did the band name come from? Why This Morning Call?

Well, there was this newspaper in America called The Morning Call who printed a controversial photograph from 9/11 of a chap falling to his death. It was an incredible photo, very beautiful in terms of composition and colour, but also very shocking because it was literally a man caught in the process of jumping or falling. A lot of people felt it should never have been printed, it upset them, and caused major controversy. I thought that was a brilliant juxtaposition and wouldn’t it be great to make music that was both beautiful and structured, but also packed a similar emotional punch if you peel back the layers and investigated the story behind it, just like that photo.

(Obvious question number 3) Your sound is pretty eclectic, who are your influences?

There’s a variety of stuff really – quality European pop and dance music, electronic music of all descriptions, classic songwriters – that sort of thing mostly. I guess there are particular tracks or albums that have been very influential – I’d cite “homogenic” by Bjork, or “hunting high and low” by A-ha as examples. Also, I’m never far from the influence of Britpop in my music because that’s when I first got into music – my favourite album is “modern life is rubbish” by Blur!

The band has been receiving some encouraging reviews with Channel 4 calling you "one of the most wonderful acts we have heard this year". Has that opened any doors for you?

A great review is always welcome. I was “band of the week” on Channel 4 online and I’m still getting milage out of that review. They do a lot to help new acts.

Your debut album is called "All Quiet at 4AM" . How did you record it and who did you work with?

The album is out on 11th Jan 2010. I recorded it at home by myself on a laptop. You can do that sort of thing these days, the technology is there. Various others contributed bass, guitar, cello, drums and even bassoon – these are the people who also come and play live with me. It was a great way to work and cost nothing. Rob Cross (Orphan Boy) is on one of the tracks playing guitar, Dave Lilley (Diesler, Double Yellow) plays bass on most of the album.

Tides will be first single released off the Album. Was it an obvious choice for you? Its out on 23rd Nov so I’ve no idea what the response will be yet! Hopefully good. You’ll download it, I hope!? The label (Substream) wanted it to be the first single and I thought “why not”! People seem to like it.

How did you attract the attention of your labels Substream (SE) and Pearl Diver (DE)?

Well, through MySpace really. Pearl Diver are a German dance music label and they wanted to do a 12” remix EP – and they have sometimes worked with Substream so there was a connection there. Substream are based in Sweden and work across pop and dance music styles and were up for doing the album with me.

How are they helping you?

Substream are well placed to market the release in Europe and they specialise in working with international DJ’s so that’s what they will be concentrating on.

You stated in your blog that you think that the process of buying music on the high street is dead. Whats the future?

I just can’t see any reason why you would want to shop in HMV anymore! I prefer to buy online these days. One click and you’ve got the track straight away. Brilliant. There’s no question that is how most people will buy their music in the future.

Do bands need the music industry? Has the internet opened opportunities for DIY bands, or is it as hard to break through as it always has been?

Well, undoubtably you can be a DIY band with a quality tune and the internet will help you get it out there and more people will hear it. On the other hand, we are now so saturated with stuff that it is just as hard to “break through” as it has ever been! Although you don’t necessarily need a major label anymore, you still need perseverance and some good marketing ideas to make it work.

What local bands have you played great gigs with? Apart from This Morning Call, who should we be looking out for?

There’s loads of great acts in Manchester really – too many for me to name here! My advice would be to get out there and go to some gigs! A good place to start would be the BBC Introducing nights – they always have good people on. Another favourite are the Green Bohemia events at the Green Room run by Stuart Avery.

What’s the best Manchester venue you’ve ever played?

I really enjoyed playing on one of the stages at Manchester PRIDE, but that was a temporary erection, if you’ll excuse the pun, so if I was to pick a regular venue I’d say I enjoyed our recent show at the Green Room the most and therefore that’s my favourite venue right now.

Most bands experience the shit gig? Usually in Macclesfield, or a pub just outside Bolton. Where was yours, and why was it bad?

The worst gig I ever did was at the Head of Steam pub in Newcastle. The sound was awful, we’d had a big argument the night before so no one was in a good mood, and I played badly. Fortunately that was a few years ago and it was a different band! But it does stick in the mind somewhat!

What one thing should happen to make gigging in Manchester better?

Bands should stop playing shit gigs and think more carefully about how and when to present themselves.

Rockrobotrock described you as "one of the most remarkable singers to emerge from the indie deadzone of Manchester in recent history".

Manchester has recently being getting a hard time with the NME claiming we’ve lost direction and spirit. Why do you think Manchester is getting so much flack at the moment?

I don’t agree that we have lost direction and spirit – there has never been such a fantastic and diverse collection of artists in this city. NME talks shite most of the time these days anyway. Although I do think people need to stop going on about Manchester’s musical legacy all the time. It was great back in the day but can we move on?? The Stone Roses, The Smiths, The Hacienda, New Order, Oasis – enough already!

Daddy or chips?

I have no idea what you are on about so I’ll say chips because I do like a nice chippy tea.

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New photo shoot - The Secular Man and others...

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Tue, 15 Sep 2009 10:05:45 +0100

I've reached 50,000 plays!

To celebrate, I'm releasing a whole bunch of new photos, taken recently to promote the forthcoming single release "Tides" and album release "All Quiet at 4AM".

Black Cherry photography (aka Lisa and Matthew), some of you may remember, have worked with me before. This time it was just me in front of the camera rather than my band.

“One idea we wanted to explore was using projections which allude to the themes of the album and also create some interesting visual textures within which to frame Ben. So we have images of the sea which link to the track “Tides”, the hills and mountains which link to the track “In Country”, and the evening sky which link to the track “The Observatory”, explains Lisa.

(Behind the scenes! - see above!)

I wanted a minimalist feel and also to explore the use of white light against skin in some of the photographs. Lisa and I were inspired by this picture called “The Secular Man” by David Bowie. (yes, that David Bowie!) The figure in the artwork appears to be in a semi-religious position, arms outstretched, head hung to one side, like an image from the crucifixion. Yet the picture is called “The Secular Man”, which seems ironic. It was quite an interesting idea and one that I felt worked well with the more downbeat elements of the music I was writing at the time. We also incorporated some of the slides from the projector we had hired. Despite the apparent seriousness of intent behind these photos, they were immense fun to work on!

“Ben explained how the theme of time passing is a very important one on the “All Quiet At 4AM” album, whether it’s references to specific times of the day, or long periods of time linked by major life events such as births or deaths”, said Matthew, another Black Cherry photographer. “We alluded to this photographically by producing some interesting time-lapse effects with multiple images of Ben in different positions across the frame.”

“We also wanted to produce the photographs ‘live’, rather than relying too heavily on effects produced by Photoshop or other image manipulation software.”

The full collection will be published on my new website (yes, also in develpoment!!)

Ben

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But is it Art....?

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 20:38:53 +0100

I wanted to blog about this earlier but one or two things – like finishing the album! – got in the way. Better late than never, though. Here’s the story…This Morning Call visits the Louvre!

Louvre

I was delighted to find myself in the fair city of Paris once again, on a mission. That mission was to visit one of the greatest art galleries and museums in the world, the Louvre. I’m sure, dear readers, that many of you will have had the good fortune to visit the aforementioned establishment yourselves. If not, I urge you to take some time and get yourself down there. It is excellent, not least because the weather in Paris was much warmer and sunnier than the rather drab August afternoon that I left behind in Manchester. And, well, it’s a romantic place and it always puts me in a romantic mood!

The Louvre only deals with items that were painted or created before1840, so no Damien Hurst or Salvador Dali. However, that is not to say that the Louvre stands isolated, unchanging, or as a monument to times gone by. It remains, thankfully, an ever changing canvas – for example, the addition of the glass pyramid in the museum’s courtyard that by creating one of the world’s most controversial architectural juxtapositions is perhaps the most obvious nod towards the post-modernist age. As a landmark, it is almost as iconic as the Eiffel Tower itself.

Inside the Louvre, corridor after corridor contain the treasures of an empire, stretching right back to the pre-classical eras, the Egyptians, and the Iranian civilisations, then Greek and Roman, and finally drifting through the second millennium, the Middle Ages, Renaissance, and the Enlightenment. The guidebook tempts with several key objects d’art - items the Louvre is justifiably famous for housing. The Mona Lisa, The Venus d’Milo. Who could resist a whistle stop tour of some of the most famous and priceless works of art in human history?

First port of call, like so many who venture within, was the Mona Lisa, and what a bizarre experience that was. Its actually a portrait of Lisa Gherardini, wife of Francesco del Giocondo, but that doesn’t matter. The picture, which is not big, had a whole wall to itself. A barrier was placed ten feet around the painting, guarded and defended by curators and security. These visible defences were no doubt matched by more technological feats invisible to the naked eye, lasers and light traps perhaps. Punters clustered around, their eyes transfixed by the lady’s famous unreadable expression, or transfixed by the settings of their newly purchased XLR camera, or struggling to lean into the crowd to get any kind of a look at the portrait at all!

Mona Lisa

Does the picture deserve all this attention? It’s certainly a decent effort, but in my opinion that question is itself is no longer relevant. The issue here is what constitutes the artwork itself. Given that is it now impossible to view the Mona Lisa (as an average tourist) without fighting your way through a throng of people, only to find you cannot approach within ten feet, and to discover that the majority of people are only viewing the painting through a camera lens, or worse, a 2-bit mobile phone camera (for shame!), it follows that the artwork itself must extend from the portrait into the room to encompass the visitors, the gallery space, the security and perhaps more pertinently, the reputation and excitement that proceed it. Ironically, in a gallery that purports to home no 20^th Century works, its most famous lady now embodies a fiercely contemporary, post-modern condition where context and reproduction are everything.

And people were excited. It was almost like a celebrity had entered the room. Nobody had eyes for any of the other works on the other four walls, despite some incredible pieces as far as the eye could see. If Princess Diana herself had come back to life before our very eyes, rising like a spectre from the Louvre’s medieval foundations, it may yet have not been enough to distract the growing crowds. And the snappers were snapping away, everybody taking away with them an exact photographic reproduction to the portrait to their own, individual specifications. So this is participatory art, then, interaction in the purest sense, because none of the participants realise they are participating. Without them, what is remarkable about the Mona Lisa other than her complete lack of facial hair? Well? Didn’t you realise she has no eyebrows?

Here we are at the Venus de Milo.

“There’s nothing more frustrating than studying Greek art, given that the originals are so few and far between and are never seen in their original state. Could you imagine this statue with arms, and adorned with jewelry and colour? The Venus de Milo, or Aphrodite of Melos (named after the Greek island on which it was discovered in 1820), is one of these magnificent originals. Her naked torso enabled her to be identified as Aphrodite, the Roman Venus, goddess of love and beauty, born out of the foam of the sea. And with her, Greek art gave birth to all Western art’s female nudes.” – I quote from the guidebook.

My colleague and friend Joe did manage to snap a quick one of a similar crowd who were “participating” with the famous Greek sculpture. It wasn’t as big a crowd as was for Mona, but here they are, unwittingly captured:

The crowd gathered around the Venus de Milo

One of the most interesting Objects d'Art that we managed to locate was the oldest piece in the museum. I’ve looked all over for a picture of the sculpture but to no avail, not even on the museums website. At nearly 9,000 years old, this little lady draws parallels with the Mona Lisa in that both have a bewitching stare. However, its pure simplicity and mysterious origins made this a clear winner for our affections. When this was made, the world would have been a very different place, but this beautiful statue made us stop, stare and think. Surely, if there was one definition of what art is, this would be it. If only I could find a picture of it or remember what it was called!!

Critics and public alike have often expressed their amazement at the shear scale of the Louvre galleries, and indeed, our whistle stop tour lasted in excess of three hours! Hunger, sore feet and a baking hot day outside called our bluff and a halt was called.

I’ve been perhaps unfairly drawing your attention away from the masterpieces that were on display, by talking about context, or postmodernism, or the visitors. But I hope I’ve been able to illustrate how, even after hundreds of years, we can still look at these ancient objects in a new light and perhaps draw meaning in ways that even the mighty Leonardo D’Vinci might have struggled to imagine.

Ben

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Exclusive album preview....

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 17:46:55 +0100

Yes folks - check out some new tracks from me today at the MySpace site (VOX wont let me upload music for some reason, a technical glitch....??) www.myspace.com/thismorningcall

I'm anticipating a Jan 2010 release! - the promotional wheels have started to turn. The album sounds amazing. :)

Also, we are now on http://www.friendsofmine.com/This_Morning_Call/ - a brand new profile with an exclusive track not available on any of our other social networking pages (which are getting ridiculously numerous.... time for a bespoke website methinks... Its called "The Observatory" and its very good even though I say so myself.

Pop along and have a listen when you get chance.

TMCLogo2009.jpg

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Ben goes digital!

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Thu, 30 Jul 2009 18:18:29 +0100

Last weekend, I finally entered the digital age by buying an ipod. I must admit, had it not been over £500 (shock! horror!) I might have even taken the plunge and bought an iphone. But the salesman had to pick me up off the floor when he told me the price, and I wasn’t the only one in the Apple shop looking a little pale! However, I’m now the proud owner of an “ipod touch” and its fair to say, I have been consumed by the excitement of being able to sit on the bus holding every track I’ve ever owned in the palm of my hand.

So as I trundle to work on another piss-wet morning, a extend a stray finger and I’m back to the glory days of 1996 listening to “Parklife”. Another flick of the wrist and I’m dabbling in new bands, no longer a slave to genre or convention. And again, and suddenly I’m on planet techno reliving the HAVOK years. Yes, dear reader, I have been set free from the musical shackles of the physical format. No longer will I be a CD snob, I am enthralled to the utter convenience of being able to instantly pop a digital Damon or Bjork right into my lughole at a moments notice.

OK, ok, I’m waxing lyrical about old news. Ipods are not exactly new anymore. Clearly, I’m showing the first signs of middle age by not jumping on the bandwagon quite as quickly as the hipsters and townies. Well, I don’t apologise - I guess I just got familiar with my CDs, the same way that someone might get very attached to their old 45s, or mixtapes, or whatever. To get philosophical for a moment, Marxist theorist Theodor Adorno summed it up when he observed: "The familiarity of a piece is a surrogate for the quality ascribed to it. To like it is almost the same thing as to recognise it." So I guess I stuck with CD’s for so long, believing them to be of higher quality, simply due to my own familiarity with the format. (And that’s quite enough cultural theory for one today, boy)

One of the prompts behind this move is the imminent digital release of my own efforts – the debut album from This Morning Call which will be entitled “All Quiet at 4AM”, and for which we do not yet have a release date, which will in itself depend on when I finally finish it, which will depend on me getting over myself and actually doing some work. Could be some time yet! Here's the cover done for the first single, anyway!! -

So I’m making the necessary preparations to reassure myself that a digital release is a proper release. It’s a kind of therapy. Well, I guess most of you will be buying it digitally, wont you? I need to get onboard with this. Have you been in HMV recently? Well, let’s just say the fixtures and fittings leave a little to be desired these days. No longer the plush Mecca of my youth, the place feels stripped back, bare, and rows upon rows of endless “sale” stock. Are we witnessing the end of high street media retail? Actually, did Fopp go under too? I’m sure I read that somewhere. I quite liked Fopp. Everything was labeled £5 or £6, and not £4.99 in an annoying bid to make you think it’s actually a pound cheaper. And they had a coffee shop.

Irony of ironies, however, we are now back in a world where the “single” is the most consumed form of music. Itunes and ipods and shuffle buttons are really all about buying single tracks rather than albums. And who can argue with 79p for a quick fix of Dizzee, for example, where I am unlikely to buy the album but love the odd tune. Compare that to a visit to a record shop, I’m spending £3+ on the bus to get to town, and probably the same again for the single which also includes 3 other tracks I either don’t like or don’t want.

So the new model for discovering stuff is this – suck it and see on MySpace, download a track you like from itunes, enjoy it on your ipod, bring it up on Sportify when you next have a party (don’t bother paying the fee, just go and pour another drink when the ads come on) and, for really special stuff, mail order a limited edition CD with booklet and free poster with extra tracks through Amazon.

I’m afraid the high street just doesn’t feature in that equation anymore.

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The Glastonbury 2009 review - part three!

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 18:07:22 +0100

Part Three

Sunday. The morning is hard work. People are falling about the place, tired and hungover from the excesses of Saturday night. Who can blame them? It was a big night, but there’s still a whole day of entertainments to enjoy and enjoy it we shall – from a seated position as my feet are hurting.

I indulge in some pie and mash for breakfast which sets me up nicely for the day. The last time I’d had pie and mash was Friday evening, in a slightly drunken state, and that seems ages ago now. On to business, I park myself and my camping chair towards the rear of the Pyramid Stage field and relax as the sun once again peeps out from behind a wispy, morning cloud.

I arrive just in time to catch Amadou et Mariam, an African outfit (I presume? – I suppose they could be from Croydon) who underwhelmed me with a somewhat lacklustre show that seemed to be all about lazy Afro-melodies, rhumba percussion and a sound that could have been rather more rootsy. It didn’t help that, slowly pickling in my comfy camping chair, I think I dozed off.

Things did improve, though, and on trots the voice of valley’s, Tom Jones. My hazy memories from last year were of the mighty Dame Shirley Bassey delivering the Sunday tea-time slot with remarkable aplomb. This year, Tom didn’t rise to similar heights I’m afraid, but solidly entertained with hits such as “Delilah” and “Its not Unusual”. More of a passing fancy than a defining moment.

So far so dull, to be honest. I suppose if I’d had the energy, I would have trundled over to the Other Stage to watch Bat For Lashes. Alas, I just couldn’t, and anyway it was nearly Blur time.

I’m getting ahead of myself. By this stage, the field had begun to fill with more and more punters – what could they be waiting for? Well, it wasn’t long before Madness, that perennial British favourite, appeared to the delight of the capacity crowd. What followed was a set that clearly demonstrated why the band have remained a household favourite for so long. They have so many great tunes, so much daft energy. A saxophone player hosted up on wires flew around the stage, tooting his instrument. Lead singer Suggs, suited and booted as you would expect, addressed the crowd and milked every last drop of deadpan humour from his darkly comic songs. Only in England would you get a band like this. I’ll never forget the sight of seventy thousand people skanking around to the bounce of “Baggy Trousers”. Magic.

In complete contract, but no less special, was Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. This was dark, dark and thrice dark. A big, guttural rock sound with dirty, overdriven guitars, Cave himself a malovent prescence stalking the front of the stage and delivering his songs with a rare growl. I can’t claim to know any songs by the band by name, and at times I did feel hampered by this unfamiliarity. Cave is a songwriter and a storyteller. Somewhere in this dark mass of noise there are narratives waiting to unfold on multiple listens. I guess that’s why they invented records!

Those of you who know me will know that I am a massive fan of Blur. It will come as no surprise to any of you that this was the set I was waiting for with some considerable anticipation, not least because this was an opportunity to watch the band following the return of original guitarist Graham Coxon to the line-up – arguably the finest guitarist of his generation. They are all touching forty now. I remember them as fresh-faced twenty-somethings from “Down South” who p*ssed all over these Northern bands like Oasis and The Smiths who, being from “Up North”, we were all supposed to be into during the mid-nineties.

So, as darkness fell over the Pyramid stage for the closing set of the festival, a great roar went up when the band launched into their debut single “She’s So High”, and tumbled out onto the stage. The last time I had seen them play at Glastonbury was the headline set in 1998, the year Britpop died. This was better, fresher, more energetic, and better represented the depth and breadth of material that they had amassed over the course of seven studio albums. I particularly enjoyed the material they played from their second long-player “Modern Life Is Rubbish” – probably my favourite ever album – as I thought I’d never get to hear them live. For the Blur nerds out there, like me, they played no less than five tracks of the record – “Chemical World”, “Sunday, Sunday”, “Oily Water”, “Advert” and of course “For Tomorrow”. To that list you can add “Popscene”, which was released as an EP around the same time. Great stuff.

And so Glastonbury 2009 came to a close. Following the Jay-Z debacle last year, when the festival regained its crown as the best of the best, this year it could have felt complacent. Far from it. The festival delivered once again and on balance still manages to justify the ticket price of £175. The best thing of all was the weather, which was almost perfect. If you can plonk yourself on the grass and not get a wet arse – well that scores very highly in my book. I felt sad when we left. I always do. However, I’m safe in the knowledge that I can do it all again next year...

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The Glastonbury 2009 Review Pt. 2

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 22:46:36 +0100

Here's part two....

Saturday. I caught about three minutes of VV Brown as I trundled past the Pyramid. But I had a more interesting appointment with one of the world’s greatest entertainers, the mighty Rolf Harris. Thousands turned out to see him, his appearance on the Jazz World Stage resulting in total gridlock around the festival site. He made being a living legend look easy. Although the man’s music is more about comedy than virtuosity, you can’t argue with 70 thousand people singing along to “Tie Me Kangaroo Down” in the blazing heat of Saturday lunchtime at Glastonbury. I think he brought some of the Aussie weather with him this year. Perfect!

And the fun didn’t stop there, because back at the Pyramid, on came Spinal Tap, who delivered one of the most hilarious “rock outs” I’ve ever seen. Yes, they had the little Stonehenge, complete with dancing midget druids, and yes, they did play “Sex Farm” and various crowd-pleasers of a similar ilk. But it was the witty banter and the genius lyrics that really made me smile. Undoubtedly, they were another highlight. And shockingly, their drummer survived!

I took root around the Pyramid stage for a few hours. Next up was Dizzee Rascal. Well, I’m no expert on rap, but this guy blew us all away with his energy, his beats and his rhymes. I love his tune “Bonkers” especially. He also drew a much bigger crowd than you might expect, people were loving it, and he put to bed any suggestion that urban acts don’t belong at the Festival. I’d recommend this to anyone, even those who claim they don’t like rap, because his energy is infectious.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Crosby, Stills and Nash who bummed me out. I was looking forward to catching this, but to be fair it was disappointing and seemed to go for ages. You could tell people weren’t enjoying it, the crowd was smaller and people started to drift away. For some reason, it just wasn’t very engaging. Maybe a more intimate venue would have been better? Or, dare I say it, maybe they are past it?

I opted for another dose of Maximo over more “special guests” at The Park (who turned out to be the Klaxons), and I’ve spoken about them enough so I’ll just say it was a decent enough gig but not as good as Thursday’s Q-stage effort. I was very taken with Paul Smith’s nifty blue suit though. As evening approached they played “Questing, not Coasting”. This is the band’s most recent single, and probably the weakest, and I became consumed with thoughts of chips. So I got some.

We spent the evening watching a little known band called Edward II in the Fields of Avalon (now there’s a phrase I never thought I’d type), who play a charming combination of sea shanty and reggae. Bizarre but good, I really enjoyed it, dancing round like a goon and mucking around for the duration.

Night fell, and it was a short hop to Trash City, which was full of fire breathing mechanical creations, a tilted dancefloor in the shape of a giant pinball machine, a New York drag club, giant skulls hanging from trees and other inexplicable delights. Here, the freaks and weirdos came out to play, with fairies, punks, bears and bikers all over the place, all smiling, all enjoying one of the biggest parties of the year. For me, sleep came too quickly.

End of Part Two!

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The Glastonbury Festival 2009 Review - Part One!

nobody@vox.com(This Morning Call) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 09:07:17 +0100

This is a review of this year's Glastonbury Festival, in Pilton, UK - in three parts, fully illustrated (ha ha!)

I’ve just about recovered from this year’s festival. You need about a week to fully recharge and get this thing out of your system, catch up on your sleep and (of course) watch the BBC highlights from the comfort of your armchair.

We had the mud, the overindulgence, the cider, the lack of sleep and the sore feet of course, but as the sun peeped around the clouds on Friday morning, I knew it was going to be a much more civilised affair this year.

Being possible to sit on the grass for most of the weekend, a rare joy in itself, I took every opportunity to remove my boots and socks to give my feet some air, much to the consternation of those in close proximity. When it did rain, it was warm, welcome and thunderous, with stabs of lightening which, far from being threatening, simply added to the magic. For the most part, blistering heat prevailed, suncream was the order of the day and cool, refreshing cider went down at an alarming rate.

The site gets bigger and bigger each year. They pack so much in. This is now my seventh Glastonbury – I’ve been coming on and off since 1997 – and in the nineties there was no such thing as Shangri-La, Trash City or The Park. Although I do seem to remember an area called Lost Vagueness from years ago, but it’s an appropriately hazy recollection. It’s no exaggeration to say that it takes well over an hour to walk (slowly) around the whole site.

And why rush when there are so many delights and distractions along the way. This year was definitely the year of chilling out, hanging out and letting the forces of circumstance work their magic. Rushing to catch such and such on the Other Stage, frantic dipping in and out of the John Peel Tent to see some overrated new band, and crushing myself up with the kids to get to the front is now a thing of the past. Although I did crush myself up with the kids on Thursday to watch Maximo open the festival in the Q tent. I guess I just got a little over excited.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. For all intents and purposes, Glastonbury is now a five day festival. So, in blazing sunshine, we jumped on the coach in Manchester at 9am on Wednesday morning all excited. This was short-lived excitement as it took us 14 hours to get there. We arrived late, in the dead of night, due to ridiculous, gridlocked traffic. It was a shocker, the worst ever according to festival organiser Michael Eavis.

Although coach-locked scallies threatened like black clouds on a clear day, mercifully they remained quiet even when frustration and heat stroke finally set in. They were all early drinkers anyway, and some fell asleep. The vodka was flowing and we hadn’t even left the M6. One girl (“date-rape girl” as she became known) demonstrated that it was possible to drink oneself into a stupor, sleep for six hours with your knickers in the air, wake up, be desperately hungover and then make a full recovery just in time to get off the bus and present herself, ticket in hand, at Pedestrian Gate A, fresh as a daisy.

Of course, as soon as we arrived and got ourselves fed and watered (life saving sausage rolls, Danny!), all thoughts of the coach were banished and Thursday, “cider-bus” day, dawned. Yes, the day when I traditionally get wrecked on Somerset’s finest was upon us once again, and I certainly wasted no time glugging down a few pints of medium sweet which certainly got the juices flowing.

It’s lethal stuff. Three pints and I’m singing. Four, and I’m anybodies. It also didn’t help that I followed it up with a rather tasty cocktail of 1part undisclosed energy drink, 2 parts Strongbow, and 3 parts red wine courtesy of some nice kids who I met at the Q stage watching Maximo. Basically, other than drinking, talking a lot and wondering about, that was Thursday. What fun!

Here we are in the sun, enjoying ourselves:

Friday. The main stages open and things kick off. I’ll admit I did start the day slightly hungover, but this was banished with force of will and the might of a veggie burger! So I decide not to waste time faffing about and get on with the day. It had rained overnight, so wellies were the order of the day, and although I’ll admit the photos do look a bit drab, this was nothing compared to previous years. NOTHING!

I’m going to say a few words about everything that I saw or heard, so sit tight! Over breakfast, the sound of ABBA on the breeze – it was Bjorn Again on the Pyramid Stage, rocking up the classics like “Gimme, Gimme, Gimme” and “Mamma Mia”! I didn’t dawdle. I was in serious music mode with no time for cheese!

Swinging by The Other Stage (after a truly boring encounter with the Orange Chill and Charge tent), I caught a few songs by The Maccabees, who were OK but sadly, I’d have to assign the tag “landfill indie” to them as their set didn’t really grab me. Like a lot of MOR indie-by-numbers, they are just a bit dull. Hey ho. Hotfooting it up to The Park, I caught Gaz Coombs of Supergrass fame playing covers – a unadvertised “special guest” no less – and he was great, rocking out all over the place. That got my musical tastebuds fizzing, and about time too.

Finding myself a nice bench to rest my tired legs, I chilled out to the delightful sounds of Emiliana Torrini and band, who I’d never heard of but played a selection of delightful, heart-on-sleeve, low key songs. She has a gorgeous voice and a wonderful band, and will be someone worth checking out again now I’m back in the real world.

I wanted to catch Friendly Fires who were down on The Other Stage, and they didn’t disappoint with their hip-shaking, bum-swinging, hands-in-the-air percussion lead pop. They are a terrific festival band with a very energetic singer who has, shall we say, some serious moves! I danced and sang along as best I could. A particular highlight was their track “Paris”, its full bloodied and punchy. I urge you to check it out.

Back to The Park for the evening, and after catching the end of The Horrors, who bored me on this occasion I’m afraid by virtue of being too bleak for such a lovely day, it was time for Animal Collective who were amazing. I guess they are actually quite difficult to describe – so here’s a sample -

End of Part One!

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