PJ Harvey - The Wheel

Often with the artists who were making statements before we were even embryos, we uncover their discography in odd and sporadic ways. We don’t hear their first song, go to their early gigs or even have to go out and buy a full album - thanks spotify. The first time I comprehended PJ Harvey’s artistry was on a car journey as a twelve-year-old kid, probably still dressed head-to-toe in Roxy, slapping the car seats and shouting the lyrics to Sheela-na-gig down the M1. At the time I was still disturbed by some of what PJ says, e.g. ‘"wash your breasts, I don’t want to be unclean” he said “please take your dirty pillows away from me”’. Clearly, however, the song is about men’s demands of the female body/female entrapment/slut-shaming.  Thus, it was not only this hella cool woman, who could do glam when she wanted and write her own songs whilst playing a variety of instruments that originally caught my attention as a kid with a active hatred of the mainstream, it was Harvey’s incredibly intelligent and relevant lyrics.
See Harvey playing 'Sheela na gig' @ Reading in 1992: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xkS_R7RDuMc
Enter, ‘The Wheel’, the first song to be released from Harvey’s ninth album ‘The Hope Six Demolition Project’. Even the lyrics are heavily embedded with the political - ‘a tableau of the missing tied to the government building 8,000 sun-bleached photographs faded with the roses’. The song fixates on the atrocities surrounding the year long Kosovo war in the late nineties. In the video, which is a piece of art in itself with flicking images of people rebuilding their community, Harvey visit’s Kosovo, still stained with the marks of war nearly twenty years on. At the centre of the action, is an abandoned wheel, a children’s ride with rusting swinging chairs which inspired Harvey to write the song. Yet Kosovo, seemingly stuck in a time capsule with images of Bill Clinton and Elvis still overlooking the derelict city, is a striking comparison to other events which are happening right now. Images of people who suffered the war, the ethnic cleansing and had to abandon there own homes are in tune with the refugees fleeing from Syria for the past few years, on one hand from the brutality of their own President Al-Assad’s chemical airstikes and ISIL on the other.
Harvey isn’t the only artist who has referenced the refugee crisis lately. Take, MIA’s ‘borders’ as another example. Yet Harvey, always exceeding herself by challenging her own capacity for creativity, manages to make a subtler and more thought-provoking statement in ‘The Wheel’. There are no actors climbing walls clad in rags in the video, and no obvious lyrics telling listeners right from wrong, instead we are faced with the dismay that war can cause years after the rest of the world has forgotten about its occurrence.
On top of this, ‘The Wheel’ is a really good song and it’s brilliant to see an artist survive into their third decade of fame without falling into the trap of self-indulgence and making crap music. Also, the constant slap-clapping not only makes the song extremely catchy but reminds me of the first time I enjoyed Harvey, all those years ago.
Watch the music video to 'The Wheel': https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ReW0jJkag8

Why 'The Hateful Eight' lacks the Tarantino shock-factor

What is problematic with Tarantino’s latest film, The Hateful Eight, is that it doesn’t do anything we haven’t seen from Tarantino before. Operating like a wild-western, elaborated version of Reservoir Dogs, what starts out as a darkly-humorous and well-directed film ends in a bloodbath which curdles the stomach.
The monotonic wait for the violent death of each character is mediated by some brilliant acting of course, from the likes of Tarantino’s favourites Samuel L. Jackson and Tim Roth, alongside Kurt Russell and Jennifer Jason Leigh yet The Hateful Eight's plot never seems to take its viewers to new territory.
The film is also beset by questions of whether it deals with some of its content appropriately.
Aside from her heavy redneck accent, smug grimaces and evil criminality, what makes Jason Leigh’s character Daisy Domergue so entertaining is her constant mistreatment, beginning with her being violently punched in the face and then knocked out of a moving carriage in the films opening chapter. The fact that Daisy's abuse, which is used for the purpose of entertainment, lies unresolved throughout the film is discomforting.

Daisy Domergue, resembling Carrie.
Another issue which is never dealt with is that of racism. Whilst Samuel L. Jackson’s Major Marquis Warren is surrounded by the prejudice of the other characters, his revenge is geared up for the purpose of sensationalism rather than to make any political statements. He may (according to his anecdote) force The Confederate's son to give him oral pleasure whilst naked in sub-zero temperature, but this seems to lack any proper sense of justice, and the deaths of other minor black characters are equally abrupt and dealt with without sentiment or statement in the film.
 Furthermore, Tarantino’s ploy of using characteristically mainstream actors in his films, e.g. Bruce Willis and John Travolta in Pulp Fiction - which often requires some seriously good acting - fails in this film. The gimmick of using Channing Tatum as Domergue’s vigilante brother is almost expected, and his acting fails to ever charm viewer’s given that within a short space of time Tatum’s head is blown off.

All in all, whilst a viewer who is unaware of Tarantino’s previous films might be swayed into thinking they have watched something new and exciting, anyone who has will be left after the nearly three hours running time with a numb bum, a knot in their stomach from all the gore, still waiting to be shocked.

How to be on point at festivals this year

This year, I propose a rejection to the Hunter wellies, flower headbands and tie-dye t shirts that have become universally accepted festival staples. It’s 2014, and if you’re going to be smelling of days’ worth of sweat in a field full of mud and human excrement, you want to look on point, right?

So here is my fashion low-down for this year’s festival season:

The Bucket Hat

 

Not a new thing by any means, in fact wearing one of these sun-blockers whether you look like a plank or not (my own face is rather too oblong), may help you to make-believe you were part of the Madchester scene. Which of course is a great thing. At only 40-plus pounds a pop, they come in all sorts of great shades and brands nowadays too, Stussy, Obey, Toomuch, the list goes on. Plus anything that protects you from having a sunstroke after half a glass of box-wine is an essential.

                                    

This guy on Google images examples the many varieties of the bucket hat

 

 

The Sliders

 

Until last year, these bad-boys hadn’t seen the light of day since the early noughtie’s via Dad’s and older brother’s alike on Thompson’s package holidays. But they’re cool now, and I want a pair. Apparently it’s even better if you wear them like a German tourist, the brighter white socks, the better. In addition to looking like a don, the soles are so thick and waterproof that you should still remain protected against puddles of piss in the portaloo’s.

 

 

Anything North Face

 

Maybe this trend is dying down a bit now, mainly because any young person who isn’t a trust-fund baby can’t actually afford to buy a £200 coat. However, via my weekend retail job, I’ve seen plenty of Brick Lane-goers still going with it, so I’m gonna go with it too. Perhaps North Face don’t do Summer clothes, but if you can get your hands on a t-shirt or even a gilet jacket so your arms at least have some exposure, work it.

North Face + bucket hat = on point

 

 

T-shirts that 1% of the crowd will get

 

Be wary of this one, it can get annoying when people look at your Yolo Ono top from African Apparel and think you’re endorsing the word yolo. NO, like you’re the idiot for not getting it. If you want to please the 1% though, donutthestore.com is a great place to buy witty fruit of the loom tees for 25 quid and above.

 

 

John Lennon glasses

 

It seems conventional right? Wrong, it’s only not cool if yours aren’t actually 20 years old or ray ban.

ha look Will.i.am's are shit

 

 Stay fresh.

5 ways to survive the exam period

It’s Spring, and after what seems like a flash episode of a first year at University, (listening to people say stuff you don’t understand or appreciate yet but mostly just finding yourself i.e. what sub-genre of underground music you like best, how to roll properly amongst 4-month strong bff’s), it’s yet again time for our brain capacities to be critically assessed by the UK’s exam boards. Fantastic.

If you classify under the realm of being ‘normal’ which in its loose terms means, not being the kind of psychopath that actually works hard in their first year of University and doesn’t leave 16,000 words til’ a month before the deadline, you may find yourself beginning to re-evaluate your life at this point.

I speak from my own experiences here: having the self-motivation to get out of my government-paid flat to go and read some books is particularly tasking now my parents only occasionally text the odd ‘work hard x’, and are no longer leering over me to prevent chain-smoking procrastination periods consisting of sitting in the clothes I wore to bed last night whilst crying about how my London life is not what the 14-year-old me had anticipated.

So, before I attempt to upgrade my draft essays from GCSE to Undergraduate standard, I’ve compiled a list of a few of the great things you too could harbour your time with when you should be focusing on your £51,000 indebted higher education:

      1.    Stalk people you vaguely know on social-media

This one’s probably a no-brainer for when you’re feeling dissatisfied with your own life. Along with knowing that you are a fucking sad bastard, this activity comes with its ups – boosting your self-esteem at finding other people who are bigger melts than yourself, and downs – crushing you at the sight of other people posting cute pictures of themselves being happy. Overall, pissing hours of your time up the wall on the internet may come in handy for conversation starters – through Facebook you can find out someone’s sexual preferences, what music they like, where their last lads-on-tour hol was to, who their mum is and what psychological type their personality falls under. #amazing

      
      2.    Take an interest in politics

Yeah, I know right, I too stopped pretending to enjoy watching Question Time and reading the i newspaper simultaneously with discovering no-one at my Arts-college-not-actually-a-University gives a shit. But frankly, trying to understand the bigger picture can help you feel like a better person when you can’t understand one degree-level subject in depth. Nevertheless this procrastination technique also has its benefits and drawbacks, for example, I take comfort in the fact I am not a fascist/sexist like Nigel Farage (lovin’ the Farage Pour Homme ad in this fortnight’s Private Eye) or the in-denial old bigot Vladimir Putin, but laughing at these dicks can only go so far when ones racist party is slowly ebbing its way into our own parliament and the other is the ruthless leader of one of the most powerful countries in the world. Maybe leave this activity for a perky day in your month-long trauma, yeah.

       3.    Watch stuff

At the moment I’ve chosen to re-watch PhoneShop every time I get the urge to do some work. It’s three series of exactly what you’d expect, some people working in a phone shop, and sometimes it’s quite funny. Also, if you’re looking for some summer inspo, Dazed’s first Music Nation ep. for channel four, Brandy & Coke, was phenomenal. That’s if you count endless silk Moschino shirts, champagne, and this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F5PXdScoOrg as phenomenal, and why wouldn't you?

       4.    Eat loads

An old tactic I’m well informed we’re all familiar with thanks to instagram, but if you can manage to force-feed yourself a family pack of Walkers meaty assortment without inducing a ruptured colon, then I say go for it. After all, cramming food into your gob is a pretty elementary task that can be carried out in front of the work you were gonna do, therefore leaving you with the allusion that you definitely did something today. After that, you could spend all your time on a calorie-counting app on your iPhone, which brings me onto the final time-absorbing activity…

       5.    Exercise

This one may sound even less appealing than the taking an interest in who’s running the country business, but as someone who lost all hope of finally losing dat muffin-top until exam dates were announced, I can tell you, running really does relieve some of the guilt of sitting on your arse for the other 12 hours you’re awake. Best of all, when you’ve finished you’ll probably be too tired to do any work anyway.

Follow me here for more rambling:  https://twitter.com/amyrwalker

Camden can still be mega lols

My first experience of Camden Town, came around the same time during Senior school in which I discovered the existence of vintage shops, and I thought it was wonderful. But, as everyone who has moved to London cos’ it’s cool knows, the place has been over for a long, long time.

 

That doesn’t stop a whole bunch of tourists, and even natives who still see a glimmer of charm in the old girl flocking there every day though, and it didn’t stop me at the sight of a little sunshine (but not enough for say, a park) heading on the Northern line for a browse of the innumerable weed paraphernalia, I <3 London tees and S&M gear this Friday.

Camden is one of those places where the atmosphere can be felt even ascending the escalators at the tube station. By that what I really mean is, pork-pie hats, studs, creepers, everywhere. For those of us who spend our days blissfully ignoring the areas that aren’t deemed the ‘trendy East End’ by Time Out, this can be a pretty daunting situation, inducing anxiety attacks that one might be mistaken as someone who takes Pete Doherty’s playing ground seriously.

 

Outside of those golden tube barriers, belies a mini alternative haven of over-priced markets, where everything goes. And most things that go are shit. Think Justin Bieber t shirts and Bob Marley sofa-throws. But to be honest, after spending the past 6 months in a state of culture-shock that no-one says cob outside of middle England, nowadays, I’m not even sure how I should react upon sighting a whole store full of plastic/transparent faux doc martens. That’s just London for you init.

 

Nonetheless, if the picture I’m painting is only reaffirming the decision you made at 16 to never return to London’s most popular bric-a-brac markets, there is one remaining tourist attraction worth leaving the SE’s for, and that is the Bang Bang chicken man.  After achieving 5mins of YouTube fame a couple of years back with his quirky baritone and slick chicken-selling style (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhEMn3Nf5Zs), he remains a living LEG-UND. Honestly, this guy not only hands me and the bf free chicken but he also howls Moves Like Jagger over the ruckus of the market. Brilliant, someone that can relieve the pain of sitting on a chair that used to be a motorbike for 10 minutes.

 

N.B. If that doesn’t do it for you, the best escape route is a 10 min quiet walk down the canal to Primrose Hill.

First Kiss

The first kiss video seems to affect its audience in either one of two ways, you’re left wanting to pull your own genetically-superior stranger in for a cheeky snog after watching Tatia Pllieva’s 3 and a half minute advert, or like me, brought up on the back of the kind of modest British-ness that implores us to redden at any sign of pda, you feel an implicit impulse to be embarrassed at the whole idea of it. A marketing ploy that bares a striking resemblance to St Valentine’s Day itself.

From the get-go of the short-lived but massively popular Facebook sharing fling, I was fascinated that a black and white short film depicting super-hot models giggling as they kiss ‘for da first time’ had gained so much social-media attention, although I’m also fascinated by the popularity of The Notebook, which is essentially the same thing set to a rose-tinted 1940s backdrop. After I watch for the tenth time to try and ‘get it’ (for research purposes and not for the hot guy at the start), I feel frankly bored and numb, however, if you haven’t yet had your eyes opened by these sexy anons, may I suggest you skip straight to 1:45, for the most awkwardly neck-breaking kiss evz.

Going all out on this ever-pressing cultural issue to understand why people dig this sentimental shit, I watch the Story behind the “First Kiss” video on YouTube to investigate what the brand behind the sensation, LA-based clothing label wren, had envisaged. After a couple of the groomed but rugged models (one has tattoo sleeves and the other has big eyebrows, phwoar) describe the bittersweet furore of their YouTube kisses with oozing confidence, founder and creative director of wren, Melissa Coker suggests that the popularity of the film stems not from our fascination with watching good-looking people touch each other but from audiences abilities to relate their own butterfly-inducing experiences. Looking through the YouTube comments on the original video, it appears a lot of people do get a tingly sensation out of it; DesmondLetsPlays, the first commenter I clock, writes ‘It’s magic feeling to see this..:’)’. Now hey, as an 18 year old, perhaps I haven’t reached the prime of my life which will surely be brimming with hot sober allusive snoggin’, but as I recall my own first kiss, which, in stark contrast to the videos depressingly swooning vocals, was in such awkward silence I can still hear the sound of our slopping chops resonating, and would probably look more suited to crackling home footage than that captivating HD b&w, I just can’t see it.

It appears there is still hope for civilisation however, not everyone is experiencing heart palpitations from an ad for a brand which looks like Zooey Deschanel might regard its clothes as proper, with dozens of parodies appearing on Youtube – from dogs finding lurv at first sight to first hand-jobs and motorboats. My favourite of course, is Vice’s effort, paying 20 randoms off the street to acquaintance their tonsils with each other in front of the camera. Strangely enough, watching Vicky, who works ‘round this area, grip her match in for a good old peck, and even an old perv in a dressing gown purr, my skin doesn’t crawl from the same sheer amount of cringe as it does at the advert. This is what normal people look like when they kiss, this is raw, man.

Nevertheless, As Cent Uygur points out on The Young Turk’s discussion of the original video, however fraudulent and ultra-glossy the smooching in this short film may be, it is actually a marvellous tactic for a small-time brand to start gaining some status, for an advert, it’s proved itself to be a pretty good one.

Which brings me to ponder the idea that if strangers slurping keeps you awake at night, then hats off to you, even if it is via a ‘creative’ advert, which has its moments of being quite charming, in a society where almost everything has a money-generating purpose.

A night out at Goldsmiths

Here's a lil something I wrote for my Uni magazine, for those of you who don't know what Club Sandwich is, think Goldsmiths' weekly equivalent of the most dire freshers event you attended, that promised you 'tunes' and in turn gave you sti's, (although I don't think sandwich is getting that much action).

A night out at Goldsmiths – the demise of Club Sandwich

Arriving at Goldsmiths last September, scrunchie ‘n’ reeboks intact and ready for some arts school’ action, I became quickly disillusioned by what the crazy open day tour-guides had sold to us as the Universities’ no 1 night out. Admittedly, my ideas about Club Sandwich before were somewhat limited; I mean, I didn’t even realise that club sandwiches were really that big of a deal this side of the Atlantic, maybe it was a Goldsmiths thing?

Nevertheless, although losing my club sandwich v is now a somewhat hazy memory after several months on the 2-4-5 wine wave in the big bad city, I do distinctly remember a girl smoking a blunt whilst scoffing ‘she’s cool haha (not)’ at her fellow females to a backdrop of 90s shit-pop (you know who you are). That first awkward student night also paired me with a couple of the people whom I would later embark on my 2 month fresher’s journey with, everywhere but at Club Sandwich, so at least it was good for those life opportunities.

Anyways, after that banger of a night, the sandwich crowd gradually seemed to cool off towards draft essay doom and the only exciting aspect of a Goldsmiths big one became socialising with the local drug lords on the stretch’s tiny smoking area. So, I was altogether ready to throw in the towel and say that grinding to the noughties’ worst anthems with 10 other people on a Weds night was just not my thing despite the cheap booze before 10 (10!?), until Club Sandwich decided to rebrand itself, i.e. it moved to Thursday, and I decided to take another bite. I also spent all my money on a questionable trip to Spain this summer, have you seen Benicassim’s line-up? Sheesh.

For all of you who haven’t yet attended a Club Sandwich THURSDAY, no worries, here’s a bit of a heads up from me and the lads’ experience last week…Strangely enough, despite several cans of Captain Morgan’s n coke to gear up for those sandwich vibes and a vague premonition that a day-change wouldn’t necessarily be revolutionary, the event remains awkward as fuck. When you’re ushered in by 4 v stern bouncers, 3 hours of the almost empty dance floor and aura of extreme soberness from everyone who isn’t on it is almost pitiable.

Over several awkward cigs on that dingy little balcony, I ponder, why is it that even after the expectations of fresher’s have faded away and we’ve all splashed our government cash on chick chicken and a tenner a pop events, most of us continue to avoid the student union like it’s chlamydia even if just for a laugh?

A few reasons spring to mind but I find it appropriate to ask the DJ’s of C.S. themselves – the makers or breakers of any event – just for variety. I would’ve provided some pictures, however, the main guy was really seriously into his art, at this point playing Blink 182 and making hand gestures at me flashing the Kodak. The other is generally a nicer guy, maybe to the point of creepiness, but when I ask him why people don’t go to Club Sandwich (anymore?) he tells me that he went to Brunel which is a real party place and the people here are just too indie for that scene. When he asks me what I would change, I say: where’s the Missy Elliot/Craig David at; he disapproves. Fair game. A few rounds of blundering conversations with people who also have no idea why they are even at Club Sandwich later, and we decide to go get chips instead.

My answer to that pivotal question - perhaps Goldsmiths really is too liberated for a weekly event that keeps chugging along to sounds that most of us didn’t even like when we were 7, however, when I ask my friends about Club Sandwich, after the general opinion that the music, place and crowd are shit, comes the willing hopefulness that more students would go just to lively up their 15 quid budgeted week.

 I’m still of the opinion that the whole thing is an absolute shambles, but I do have faith in the idea that perhaps if DJ Brunel were to be overthrown by an overlooked campaign staged outside of the library, and the hench bouncers entertained, some enjoyment could be gained from Club Sandwich like the guys tagged on the Stretch’s facebook piccy’s seem to get - we too could make more one night only course bff’s.

19/03/2014