Tuesday, 22 February 2011

Who owns a joke?



The row about joke ownership continued gathering momentum this week with the news that Ed Byrne has quit Twitter after clashing, once again, with Naked Jungle presenter Keith Chegwin. The two comedians came to blows over Cheggers constant posting of other people’s jokes, with Byrne calling him out over what he saw as an infringement of copyright. The Chegster however, remains unrepentant, claiming that comedians have a long history of joke sharing and that since his tweets have largely been from dead comedians, who the hell is going to complain anyway?

There is certainly a case to be made for either side and it is hard, perhaps, not to feel that comedians are being precious about what are, in the end, words strung together to make people laugh. The best comedy is a reflection of the world we live in- our attitudes, our weaknesses, and our prejudices. When you watch a comedian you are laughing along precisely because you recognise the idea being portrayed. Is it therefore not conceivable that two human beings, comedians or otherwise, have come up with the same witty response to a situation? Of course it is.

However, to downplay the argument is to forget that as trivial as this might seem, coming up with killer gags is a comedian’s job. Just as you would be peeved if someone gained acclaim from the boss for work that you had done, comedians are naturally upset that their material is being pilfered without due credit being given.

The debate has been escalated by the fact that new technology, in particular twitter, has made sharing jokes far easier. While this is clearly positive, for those whose work has been stolen it must be incredibly galling. Imagine if your job was to make people laugh. To watch that witty thought you’ve had on the bus zoom around cyberspace without so much as a thanks very much, and at lightning speed, must make your heart sink. Pre- internet you might have been at risk of a handful of imitators. Now your material is broadcast to thousands. And even if every one of them cries with laughter, it’s scant consolation. This is material that you can never use again.

With twitter’s constant competing hum of voices forming white noise, it is easy to lose track of who has said what. Preserving your ideas, and material, is therefore of paramount importance. Comedians like Tim Vine and Jimmy Carr are particularly under threat from this culture of joke sharing. While the 140 character limit is the perfect fit for their snappy one liners, both men have fallen foul of the retweet button and find themselves unable to perform material because it has already become too familiar, or been passed off by someone else.

To a certain extent, twitter has changed the landscape of comedy. Twenty years ago, in the dark days PT (pre twitter) alternative comedians ruled the roost. Nowadays people’s attention spans are shorter and comedy is also becoming more compact. Jokes have been revived from Christmas crackers and are now seen, not as filler, but as the main attraction. The proximity of comedians in people’s everyday lives also mean that they are now literally household names- not just on your TV but on your laptop, on your phone, tweeting you as you sit on the DLR. This new culture is one of the reasons comedians are the new rockstars. When Michael McIntrye can sell out the O2 night after night, comedy is big business. And protecting your business interests is essential.

Cheggers, still stuck in the days of the working man’s club where comedians largely repeated the same tired gags about mother in laws doesn’t see this. But then, if he can’t move with the times and feels that he has to recycle other people’s gags all the time, maybe it’s time to look at another career. I hear there’s soon going to be an opening for a Libyan president.

Crocodiles/ Cloud Nothings/ Paris, Suit Yourself @ Barfly



Every band likes to think that they’re making a sound that no one on earth has ever made, but halfway through Paris Suit Yourself’s blister inducing set, it becomes clear that these guys genuinely are. Howling, scratchy, feedback heavy, tracks from their delightfully named debut ‘My Main Shit Stain’ are a little bit TV On The Radio and a little bit Ol’ Dirty Bastard - but completely their own.

This is largely thanks to the unique presence of singer Luvinsky Atche, who prowls the stage like a man in need of a strait jacket, mumbling, groaning, and tearing at his clothes. Around him it sounds like the world has ended. At one point the band make a sound like a samba party taking place on a broken down Magic Roundabout. All the while they groan and screech like they’re trying to pick fights with their own bodies. For sheer spectacle it’s incredible, as a performance art piece about the fragility of the psyche it would work wonderfully, but largely it’s a tuneless ego trip. It’s also brain-meltingly loud, especially after a weekend on the lash.

Thankfully, Cloud Nothings, the main reason I’ve journeyed to Camden tonight, don’t disappoint. The sound is so polished and so perfectly spiky that it’s easy to forget that these guys can’t even drink in their native US. Every song is a pop punk gem, bringing to mind Dookie era Greenday and Blink 182 before they were awful. As each thrashing riff starts up and singer Dylan Baldi’s voice cracks and strains, you can practically smell the spot cream and rebellion. Despite having been formed just over a year ago, the group have already managed to release two albums, showing that they’re not taking this whole music thing lying down. Even so, it feels like the band should be playing their school’s talent competition as they lark around and make jokes about apple sauce. There's plenty of cheekiness on display as well. “This is the first tour we’ve played in a while where everyone has proper drug songs” smirks Dylan with a grin that lets us know that he’s no stranger to blocking his door with draught excluders to stop the tell-tale smell of weed seeping into his parent’s bedroom.

If Paris Suit Yourself have been at the hallucinogenics and Cloud Nothings have been puffing the magic dragon, then it’s clear where their supply came from - the cool kids in the school yard - Crocodiles. Some bands ooze charisma and rock 'n' roll star quality. Crocodiles are one of them. Parts Iggy Pop, parts Johnny Rotten, parts Lou Reed, there’s so much attitude and confrontation on-stage that you want to tell them to go to their bedrooms. Especially when Brandon Welchez sneers that the lights need to be turned down “So you can’t see my zits”

A lot of the bands from the lo- fi/surf rock scene are too strung out to be professional, but even when they’re covering everything in a fuzzy blanket; Crocodiles remain a tight and focused unit, clearly hell bent on world domination. While bands like Tame Impala or No Age seem just to be about having fun, Crocodiles take everything very seriously. This is not just about getting the money together to buy their next round. Their sound then, is not only swirly and trippy, but anthemic as well. Chugging through songs from 'Sleep Forever', there’s a sense that they might be a group who will outlive the constraints of the scene that has birthed them. They’ve certainly got the attitude. Let’s just hope the feds don’t pull over the tour bus before they get there. It’s going to be like Cheech and Chong in there.

Monday, 21 February 2011

Dead Rockstars: A Guide



Fancy spending a morbid day checking out the final resting places of rock's brightest and best? Of course you do. Good job we made this list of the most likely places to spot a celebrity ghost then...


Flat 9, 12 Curzon Place, W1J


Kill two birds with one stone (so to speak) and start your tour with a visit to the unluckiest, and most rock and roll, address in history. Originally owned by Harry Nilsson, the flat was the final resting place of The Mamas & the Papas singer Mama Cass, who was finished off by a ham sandwich on the 29th July 1974.

In a move more befitting of a rock star, The Who's Keith Moon snuffed it in the same bedroom on the 7th September 1978 after taking a massive overdose of a prescribed anti-alcohol drug. Rather strangely, neither of these deaths put off Keith's band mate Pete Townshend who purchased the flat from Nilsson shortly after Moony's demise.


Hotel Samarkand, 22 Lansdowne Crescent, W11 2NS

Way before it had become a cliché, Jimi Hendrix was a rock and roll trailblazer, choking on his own vomit on the 18th September 1970 at this London crash pad. The hotel has since been pulled down, but if you're the kind of person that gets their kicks from being close to dead people (and lets face it, if you're reading this you probably are) then why not book a stay at the new development that has opened on the site?

Until the 18th September 2011, the Cumberland is running a special Hendrix promotion which includes a bottle of Jack Daniels, an evening turndown treat (!) and breakfast the following morning for around £399 a night (based on two people sharing). Plus, good news for all you charidee fans. A £10 donation to the Jimi Hendrix Foundation will be made for every package booked. Ouija boards are not included in the price...

Queens Ride, Barnes, SW15 5RG

There are few opportunities to get as close to a rockstar's resting place than this. On the 16th September 1977, Marc Bolan of T-Rex careered his girlfriend's Mini into a tree in Barnes. Unlike Marc, the tree still remains and is maintained by the T-Rex fan club who have a permanent memorial erected there.

Heathrow Airport, UB3 5AP

According to folklore, the departures lounge of Heathrow Airport was the unfortunate final destination for much of the Sex Pistol's bassist Sid Vicious. On her way to scatter her son's ashes over the grave of his lover Nancy Spungen, Mama Vicious accidentally tripped, spilling much of her sons powdery remains over the floor and sending him spiralling up into the airport's ventilation system. Sure, it's only a rumour, but it is a bloody good one

Golders Green Cemetery, NW11 7NL

A veritable who's who of the decomposing celebrity world, Golders Green is home to a whole galaxy of stars, including jazz supremo Ronnie Scott, crooner Matt Monro, the composer Ivor Novello and chirpy punk geezer Ian Dury. If you feel you haven't seen enough of the 'Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll' star by the time you're done in the North London grave fest, you can also swing by Richmond Park where a memorial bench overlooks his favourite view of our fine city. A built-in headphone port allows mourners and fans to connect and hear a selection of eight songs plus Dury's appearance on Desert Island Discs.

Kensal Green Crematorium, W10 4RA

Queen's lead singer Freddie Mercury was cremated here. His ashes were reportedly scattered on the shores of Lake Geneva, but die-hard fans may still want to pay visit to the place where Freddie went gently into the good night. A slightly less morbid venue in which to pay tribute is the singer's last London residence, located at 1 Logan Place, Kensington. Queen heads, including a massive number of Japanese fans, have made pilgrimages to cover the outside wall with messages of love.

67 Overhill Road, East Dulwich, SE22

By the time he got round to dying of alcohol poisoning and vomit gargling on February 19th 1980, it was pretty old hat. He also technically didn't die in the house, croaking it outside in his car. However, Bon Scott, lead singer of AC/DC during their most famous period ('Back in Black', 'Highway To Hell' etc..) was voted the number one frontman of all time by 'Classic Rock' magazine, so who are we to argue? His grave is also the most visited in Australia, so while he may be unoriginal, he's clearly loved. Pay your respects with a trip to South London.

The O2 Arena SE10/ Foxbury Manor, Chislehurst, BR7 6LY

Candlelit vigils took place in the days following The King of Pop™ Michael Jackson's death at the site that was due to host his final tour. A year on, fans and impersonators met for another memorial. Knowing the level of devotion Wacko's fans exhibit, this is going to be a death lover's hotspot for some time to come. If you take a short train ride into the leafy suburb of Chislehurst (which clings on into Zone 5), you can also have a nose at the house Jackson was due to live in while he performed his O2 dates. The 28 bedroom, three-storey pile – built in the 1800s – has quarters for 20 staff as well as an underground cinema, music room, indoor swimming pool, lake and private wood and cost £21,548 a month. It is also built above haunted caves. Of course.

Credit Crunch London: A Guide



With that nasty George Osborne slashing things left, right and centre like some kind of demented Freddy Kruger a-like, it's a cold world out there. Especially if you aren't getting the winter fuel allowance. A city like London can be the cruellest mistress of all to the credit-crunched, giving with one hand (lovely parks to wander around) and taking away with the other (the onset of pneumonia)

So what can you really do for free nowadays that's actually worthwhile? Could you really have a day in London without spending any money...?

The answer is, pretty much, yes. Your main stumbling blocks are obviously food and transport, which are the most crippling of all your daily needs. The good news is that most places in London are actually a lot closer than you think and if you're willing to walk between them you'll brush up on your geography and get fit at the same time. Score!

Food-wise, there's something in that old adage “there's no such thing as a free lunch”. Unless that is, you're Krishna. Those dudes prepare a vegetarian meal every day for people to come and help themselves to at their temple off Soho Street, and they also set up mobile stalls in Kentish Town, Camden Town and Kings Cross every day except Sunday. While you may be forced to engage in religious discussion with them, they seem like a pretty peaceful sort of people, and if they're loading up your plate with a vegetarian curry you can't really complain.

Assuming you've done that and you've got your walking boots on, here is the best free, year-round, entertainment the capital has to offer.


Art

Dilettantes (that's art lovers to you and me) are pretty much spoiled for choice in London. All your biggies (National Gallery, British Museum, The Tates etc...) are free to wander about all year round – even Osborne decided against cutting that. As long as you avoid being seduced by the gift shop or the lattes, and keep away from the special exhibitions then you could get away with gawping at a whole load of classic works of art completely gratis. Places like the Saatchi Gallery, Wellcome Collection and Serpentine are also always free, whilst our Arts Team suggest a potter along Cork Street (if you're with your gran) or Vyner Street, if you like your art conceptual. For a real blag check out first Thursdays in which East London galleries throw open their doors until late and often offer free booze.


Film

The Scoop run a free outdoor film festival throughout autumn which is always worth checking out: this year the programme included The Hurt Locker and Pretty Woman. For year-round film fun, why not check out a premiere? While standing in Leicester Square can be a cold and dispiriting experience (especially if the premiere in question is Alvin and the Chipmunks 2: The Squeakquel) you may get to eyeball a genuine bona fide celebrity. I once saw Johnny Depp wearing an especially fetching hat. Swoon.

Music

Pure Groove Records, Rough Trade East and Beyond Retro all offer free in-stores which can be a great way to see new bands before they get big. RTE for example has previously played host to the XX, Mumford and Sons and Black Lips. If you want to get up close and sweaty with those who've already made it, HMV Oxford Street hosts regular events where you can meet bands, see them perform tracks and get stuff signed. Good news for all you Olly Murs fans.

So rather than stay in, feeling sorry for yourself and burning the Lib Dem manifesto for warmth, why not get out there in the big wide world? Just try and avoid Osborne and his scissor hands...

The Best Folk Music In London: A Guide



I'm going to throw it out there- folk is now cool. It's no longer the preserve of old men with beards singing about boating disasters from the 1870's (although if you like that kind of thing, it's still around as well) Nu folk, with an indie twist a la Mumford is de rigour a la moment. Y'know the sort of thing- music people wouldn't have been able to make if Dylan hadn't gone electric, sung by pretty boys like Johnny Flynn and girls with bright cheeks like Laura Marling. So, where to go to hunt out this folk? Grab your plaid shirts and allow us to lead the way with our complete guide, snappily titled 'The Best Folk Music in London'...

Musical Traditions Club at the King and Queen

If you take your folk seriously and want to learn more about its roots, why not come along to the monthly musical traditions club which showcases the hairier, more angora sweater loving sections of the folk community. Gaelic and Scots music abounds, all played on instruments you've never heard of. If you want tunes that put you in mind of cliffs and wild windy moors then this is the place to come and nod appreciatively.


The Betsey Trotswood, Clerkenwell

A small but perfectly formed central London venue that offers freshly cooked food, a large range of single malt whiskies and real ales and a quirky line up of alt and traditional folk, acoustic, bluegrass and open mic poetry nights. There's a cellar if you fancy getting subterranean and a candlelit assembly room for some dark ages thrills and spills.


Half Moon, Putney

It's a pretty good venue all week round but the Moon comes into its own with two nights in particular- Half Moon Unsigned and Good Voodoo, weekly showcases of the best acoustic acts around. Both are ludicrously cheap and have enough acts to fill a sizeable barn. Generally you can expect to hear some nu-folk, bluegrass and indie tinged Americana.


Union Chapel

One of the most atmospheric venues in London. As the name suggests its an old chapel, complete with stained glass windows and the sense of grandeur that only places of worship inspire. Gigs here have the ability to be spine tingling and there is an impressive folk line up to keep even the most grizzled among you smiling.


Le Quecumbar


Le Quecumbar is well known for its jazz nights, which are pretty awesome, but if you're after folk with an Eastern European gypsy kind of spin, you'll also be well catered for here. All of the performers come with amazing back stories about keeping alive songs that have been passed down from gypsies in a small area of Transylvania called Kalotaszeg or having to pawn their shoes to buy a violin in order to be taught by Hungarian masters.


Cut A Shine Nights- across East London


Ad hoc indie tinged barn dances that are hosted across London. Previous events have taken place at Bethnal Green Working Men's Club and Stokey Town Hall. As well as live music there are DJs spinning country, blue grass, Irish and Scots and dance lessons so you can learn the steps. According to the organisers the events are “rip-roaring, thigh-slapping, pavement-stomping, exhilarating, heart thumping, and blood pumping” which is all you can really ask for from a club night.

Grouplove - Grouplove: Review



Grouplove have decided to keep things short and sweet with their debut, a self-titled six song EP, and it's easy to see why. They're having too much fun to care about whether anyone likes them.

Sounding like Modest Mouse's happy clappy cousins, the LA/NY/LDN natives are full of the joys of summer, albeit the kind of summer that only happens in American surf films. Not for them a picnic of scotch eggs in Hyde Park. These guys are all about ordering lobsters and downing black label, riding to the beach with your top down, holding hands with pretty girls and getting giddy. Their ethos is perhaps best summed up on Naked Kids with the lines "Naked kids, running wild, and free/ It's summer time fun, relax and stay young."

There's nothing to worry about here, nothing except the moment. And the moment is being filled with Beach Boys harmonising, twinkly guitar and so much joie de vivre that you can't help but wish you lived in California. Unless, of course, you do. As you listen you can imagine people doing cartwheels along the sand, and it's hard not to raise a smile, especially when the band seem to be imploring you to be their friend in every song. Come and join us! they shout. The water's warm!

One of the true joys of the record is its delivery, courtesy of singer Christian Zucconi's whining, sloth-like drawl, which envelops proceedings in a hazy cloud. He sounds like he's just dragged himself in from the beach to lay down some tracks, or been recently woken from an all night bender, and this separates the record from any sort of tweeness it might be in danger of possessing. Grouplove manage to keep it cool by having a slight sneer to their music, like the aforementioned Modest Mouse, and Zucconi's delivery even evokes the doyen of indie Conor Oberst, lending their cutesy jingly rhythms an automatic street cred.

The only moment of darkness comes halfway through with Gold Coast, which has a more industrial clanky sound and features lyrics designed to sober up any party going youngster. As the band suddenly start biting their nails, worrying about finding peace of mind and what's going to happen in the future, you long to tell them that there will be plenty of time for all that, and they better get back to the surf because it's totally going down at the beach house.

Thankfully by the time Getaway Car lollops along, the guys have realised that dealing with problems is for pussies and that the best thing to do when life gives you lemons is not to make lemonade, but to take a road trip with people you love. Oh, and get so mashed up that you don't even notice the mistakes you're making. After all, when the sun's hot and jumbo jets are flying over hard, life can't be so bad.

Frankie & The Heartstrings - Hunger: Review



Sunderland five-piece Frankie & The Heartstrings have a name straight out of an American diner, but a sound that gurgles with all the drama of the British kitchen sink. Produced by Edwyn Collins, their debut album has been much hyped by all the right people and plenty of touring and festival appearances mean that Hunger is going to be greedily received.

Opener Photograph gets things off to an energetic start, its higgledy-piggeldy clatter rock 'n' roll guaranteed to have indie discos kicking off. Next up comes the Spandau Ballet aping Ungrateful which adds synths and heartbreak into the mix. Third track Hunger returns to jerky rock while Possibilities goes a little bit '50s rock 'n' roll, a modern day Peggy Sue. Later tracks slow things down to dark, indie balladeering, sounding a bit like a robot writing a love song about XTC. The overall experience is one of indie's most catchy and life affirming moments being shoehorned together, and while there is nothing cynical about it- these guys genuinely do have passion behind the music they're making- it does at times feel a little like music by rote.

Yet every song is perfectly crafted indie pop, slickly executed, and combining just the right mix of fragile vocals, spiky guitars and synth work. Getting Collins on board most have been a dream come true, as Orange Juice's stamp is deeply ingrained in the band's sound. However, there's also plenty of classic indie elements in here - The Smiths and Joy Division of course, plus Dexy's Midnight Runners, as well as the great and the good from the world of indie-rock over the last few years in the forms of Good Shoes, Maxïmo Park, a bit of Franz Ferdinand, a pinch of Jack Peñate, some Kaiser Chiefs, The Futureheads and the like.

With The Vaccines on the rise, Frankie & The Heartstrings may have come to the fore at just the right time. Certainly if there's ever a moment their style of indie rock is going to be gratefully received, it's going to be now. Any one of these songs has the potential to be a dance floor filler and that's what they've been designed for. There is nothing too original here, nothing big nor clever neither, but then if you like guitars and songs about teenage love you're going to be well catered for. Overall the feeling is of forgetting everything except singing along with a huge grin on your face. On the strength of this album, Frankie & The Heartstrings might not survive to pass on their wisdom to the class of 2012, but it won't be for lack of trying. And if they bring a sound that's a little more themselves next time, there's every possibility open to them.