You know what? I fucking love Adele

There. I've said it. I'm not ashamed. I'm not apologetic for the fact that 'Someone Like You' makes me blub. Or that I have a massive fem crush on her because of her lovely skin and way with mascara. Why the hell should I be? GETTHEHELLOFFMYBACKOK?!

Here's a lovely interview she did with USA Today.

Oi!- The Definitive Punk Playlist

Oi! Oi! Oi!-Cockney Rejects


Sound of the Suburbs- The Members


I Heard It Through The Grapevine- The Slits


Jilted John- Jilted John


Six Pack- Black Flag


Turning Japanese- The Vapors


Paranoid- Black Sabbath


Hurry Up Harry- Sham 69


Stand and Deliver- Adam and the Ants


Eton Rifles- The Jam


Sally MacLenanne- The Pogues


Love and a Molotov Cocktail- The Flys


White Riot- The Clash


My Perfect Cousin- The Undertones


Psycho Killer- Talking Heads


My Generation- Patti Smith


Do You Wanna Dance?- The Ramones


Anarchy in the UK- Sex Pistols


Boredom- The Buzzcocks


New Rose- The Damned


Pretty Vacant- Sex Pistols


Denis- Blondie


Oh Bondage Up Yours!- X Ray Spex


No Fun- Sex Pistols


Baby, I Love You- The Ramones


Marquee Moon- Television


Fuck Off- Wayne County and the Electric Chairs


Staring At The Rude Boys- The Ruts


Hong Kong Garden- Siouxsie and the Banshees

Blue Valentine: Review

***/5

Q: What’s the opposite of a rom-com? A: Blue Valentine, a saddening divorce-trag about the collapse of a seemingly strong relationship.

Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling play Cindy and Dean, a young married couple whose once exciting relationship has been soured by the mundanity of life. In the early days their courtship was full of spontaneity and romance. They dance in the streets as he plays his ukulele and sings ‘all goofy’. They decide on their song, a soulful number called ‘You And Me’. But that was then. Now, she resents him for never disciplining their child and lacking ambition. He is angry that she never has time for him, either emotionally or physically. As the film develops it becomes clear that while he hasn’t changed, she is unrecognisable from the earlier stages of their relationship. Her roles as a midwife and a Mum completely eclipse her role as one half of a couple, and it almost seems as if, during the films’ myriad of flashback sequences, you are watching two different characters.

An excruciating scene where they try to rekindle their romance with a night in a motel is acted superbly. Previously the couple have merely seemed distant, perhaps because of tiredness. This is the first time that you realise that there is no longer any love there at all. As their song plays, the lyrics ‘You and me... nobody baby but you and me’ become a horrifying message of an eternity spent with the wrong person. As he tries to initiate sex, both in the shower and on the floor of the hotel room it is obvious that any attraction between them has been replaced by a sense of duty that they can no longer hide from.

The final scene uses the flashback to great effect, showing both their wedding day, and the day they decide to divorce. The day of their divorce is grey and mundane. She looks tired and old, standing by a kitchen sink, the epitome of the bored suburban housewife. He is begging with her and seems like a child, which is exactly why she can no longer be with him. Their wedding day is a complete contrast, lit by blinding sunlight, illuminating how full of joy they are. Both scenes show them crying, but while their wedding is tears of joy, their divorce has them crying tears of bitterness. The audience was welling up as well.

Blue Valentine’s closest companion would probably be 500 Days of Summer, but it lacks that film’s humour and warmth. From beginning to end, there is very little hope in the tale of this relationship, despite every person in the cinema was willing the couple to realise what got them together in the first place.

Excellent performances from Williams and Gosling, and the film’s great use of pacing, fail to make it an enjoyable watch. But then it’s not supposed to be. A bit like the central relationship, it’s a largely dispiriting endurance test of a film that will have you clenching your fists in frustration. Especially because, deep down, there’s still a spark there that means you can’t give up on it.

The Guilty Hands

Bored of surf pop? Us too. Ironic really considering it’s nearly summer, but there you go. We’re contradictory buggers. This week we thought we’d bring you London’s The Guilty Hands who peddle an indie electro sound that will make you want to rip off all your clothes and grab that tall, dark stranger on the night bus. Or is that just us?

There’s a bit of the Bravery in here for sure, and a slither of early ‘Plug In Baby’-era Muse, but the group’s use of instrumentation – violins, samples of Marlon Brando (they take their name from a line from A Streetcar Named Desire) and cluttered hand claps and gasps – takes them into a more experimental territory – maybe a little more Bright Eyes or Patrick Wolf.

‘The Wilder Shores of Love’, with its haunted refrain, “It was just a kiss, I thought you’d understand”, is the most lupine, taking electro-folk and channelling through a story about a woman who is so overcome by ecstasy when looking at a painting that she kisses it. ‘The Collector’ has the strut of Prince and all of his sex appeal (although slightly more white and nerdy). If you thought Rihanna’s 'S+M' was a little bit kinky, then check this out: “I walk the city streets hunting for beauty, I’ve made a deal with the Devil and I can have all I see.” And later: “Keep desire on a short leash, or else I’m coming back for you.” Blimey. We’re hot under our collective collars.

Their fans obviously don’t mind too much. In fact, they’ve financed the group’s album, using the website slicethepie.com to buy shares in the recording. It sure shows how dedicated they are. And you should be too, just for the fact that they’re white indie boys doing something a bit different. And there’s not a surf board in sight.

Tom Williams and the Boat @ The Old Queen's Head

See? We told you these guys were ones to watch. Since we last informed you of Tom Williams and the Boat, things have rather picked up over in their camp. They’ve been confirmed for festivals galore, had plaudits from all the right people (and Badly Drawn Boy), and finally got round to releasing their debut album, ‘Too Slow’, which as they rightly point out is “a really, really big deal”.

Tonight’s gig at the elegantly peeling Old Queen’s Head is respectably full; one sign of a band building momentum on a day-by-day basis. Even as it’s taking place the numbers begin to swell, and as accomplished as they are, it’s not for the support acts. While the Radiohead-bothering math rock of Look, Stranger! and the jangly Kings of Leon-esque A Life In Film are both excellent, both admit that Tom Williams and the Boat are the alumni from tonight’s line-up who are going to become greats, and there is a sense of expectation building from the start.

As the band take to the stage, it’s clear that Tom Williams is their beating heart. The others look to him for direction, and like all good frontmen there is an aura around him. It’s hard to say what this is, but as his voice cracks and breaks over the Nick Cave-esque dark folk, he already has the poise of the greats. The band’s influences include Springsteen, and there are obviously a lot of debts being paid to the Boss in their chugging, kitchen-sink guitar lines. There’s also a bit of Dylan in there, as Williams blows at a harmonica, cradled in a Bob-style neck harness.

Things are constrained, but only because of lack of space. “Sorry we’re not rocking out,” says Tom. “There’s not even enough room to swing a cat up here. If you did it would probably lose its head or something.” They needn’t apologise though. There is something about being pent up that suits their sound. Its polite folk with broody post-rock feels like it’s about to explode and smash a glass over your head, and is constantly reigning itself in and then uncoiling itself. The fact the band is physically cramped means they play faster, louder, and more furiously than on record.

As they rattle through their set it becomes clear that there's a divide between dark and light within their music. This can be seen just by looking at the assembled band, who all seem as if they’ve stumbled in from different acts (which they pretty much have): violinist Geri Holton could be from a bare foot folk band, all softness and light, while the assembled guitarists and drummer look like the remnants of a '90s stoner rock outfit (except they’re far too young). These varying influences, crashing together are what make the band more than a run-of-the-mill indie-folk act, and is why they’re a group to get excited about.

Keep your peepers peeled, there’s more to come.

Civil Unrest @ Debut

Civil Unrest, part of Coming Up festival has one clear aim – to galvanise political thought through performance, photography, debate and, curiously, food. While it certainly raises a lot of interesting issues, it’s a confusing and messy process that feels, at times a little bewildering.

But perhaps we just don’t have the cajones. On arrival at Debut, there certainly doesn't seem to be any hint of an impending revolution. We're informed tonight’s production has been delayed by half an hour. Do we kick off? Of course not. We chat politely and have a nice glass of wine. The only slight moment of disagreement comes when a man objects, very mildly, to handing over £4 for a beer. He still pays though. No need to cause a fuss.

Things heat up slightly when we’re led through police barricades into a queue for food. To set the tone for the political injustice to come, the filth, who are patrolling the venue, begin kettling us, banging their riot shields and shouting, which is effective until you remember that you’re not actually protesting your rights. There’s not a lot to be upset about when you know you’re about to receive award-winning grub from Street Kitchen’s Head Chef Mark Jankel.

The kettling process also means that the exhibition of protest photography and art suffers. Works are mounted on the chain link fences, but with the surging crowd it’s hard to take it in. A video above us plays footage from the student protests, and there's a charred painting of David Cameron, but it's all but impossible to actually look properly at the display. Perhaps that’s the point.

Sat at long wooden tables in a mock prison canteen, it’s here that the organisers' aims become clearer. Our food is presented in polystyrene trays and my hospitable fellow inmates and I get talking about the issue of prison control, debating with a fervour that the organisers were hoping for. Jankels' meat dish melts away at first touch, the roasted vegetables are tender, and the dessert, a pear cheesecake mousse, is delicious. As the prison guards bring round some Courvoisier punch, I begin to think that life in the slammer might not be so bad after all.

I worry the play is going to be overly earnest, especially as it deals with the politically charged student riots. But the actors' use of space instantly breaks down any inhibitions. They use the scaffolding mounted above us, while the tables we're sat at become beds, pavements and prison cells, as they move around and over us. Riots clash, flares are set off, and the whole thing proceeds at such a pace that there’s no time to feel awkward.

The story involves a family of siblings at each other’s throats about the rights of the police and the protestors. However the story doesn't particularly matter. The characters are merely ciphers, raising different issues. While it is clear that writer Ben Ellis is on the side of the protestors, things are not black and white. Each character, be they police or civilian, is flawed.

Though not as flawed as the event’s supposed highlight – a debate featuring amongst others, Simon Hughes MP. It's ruined by lack of time. Hughes hasn’t seen the play and so tries to use the platform for a speech to press the Lib-Con message, which is met with resistance and heckles of ‘wanker’.

The fact that there is no time for the audience to be heard is perhaps why we leave with a sense that there hasn’t been a chance to tie our thoughts together, but it seems Civil Unrest has at least succeeded in bringing a more vocal audience to this kind of theatre.

How to survive an open mic night

I’m standing watching a middle-aged man with the hair of George Lucas and the girth of Richard Griffiths sing an old Appalachian folk song about having sex with a twelve year-old girl. He’s wearing braces without irony and, I suspect, long johns. As he moves on to bellowing a chorus about how he’s going to remove her knickers with a dagger and screws his eyes shut to emphasise how this is a very serious moment, I’m finding it very hard to supress tears of laughter. “At least,” I think to myself, “it can’t get any more surreal.” Oh how wrong I am.

We’re in the upstairs room of the LHT Urban Bar in Whitechapel for the Spoonful of Poison open mic night. Downstairs is a traditional East End boozer where geezers are putting the world to rights, but up the rickety stairs is a whole different world. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. And landing in an episode of Father Ted.

Next up is the self-titled ‘worm lady’, the kind of woman who would be rejected by Britain’s Got Talent on sight for being too mental. She’s apparently a regular and delivers several poems about the sexual habits of worms in a slightly preachy headmistress style. She’s accessorising with a bum bag, which she’s managed to customise so she can nonchalantly sling it over her shoulder, and some neon pink socks. You wonder what tragedy has occurred in her life that she only has worms as a subject matter, until she gets on to her most ambitious verse yet – a treatise about how great civilisations are built on, yes, you guessed it, the hard work of worms. It’s surprisingly engaging, although the tears of laughter are once again streaming when she announces its arrival with probably the greatest sentence ever uttered: “This next one’s about civilisation…and worms.”

Thankfully there’s then a small break which gives us all a chance to calm down. I cast a wary eye around and end up talking to a very sweet poet with long flowing hair and an incredibly soft voice. She’s apparently an open mic regular and says that she comes for the sense of companionship. She gives me a CD even though she only has a couple left because she thinks I’ll enjoy it. She’s very excited when I tell her I’m writing an article about the night and tells me that it’s a shame that the talents of the performers are unknown outside of the open mic community. For a second I think she’s joking but then I realise she’s deadly serious.

A couple of non-descript comedians follow – one with musical accompaniment, one without, and then an acoustic Jack Johnson-meets-The Automatic act who are relatively forgettable. Another break and then the star turn of the night takes to the stage – Jazzman John Clarke. Clearly an open mic legend, the Jazzman plays a bamboo flute and recites surprisingly good beat poetry in the style of Gil Scott Heron. Except his subject matter isn’t the Bronx, but Lewisham. He looks a bit dirty and has huge glasses that make his eyes comically large but he’s the first act of the night that hasn’t made me cringe completely. He’s also a kindly figure, taking the chance in the interval to publicise several South London charity projects he’s involved with and ask us for clothes donations. If he got on the same bus as you, you’d probably try and avoid him, but he’s actually a nice guy.

If things had started to take a slightly less surreal turn, we’re soon back on track with the next couple of acts – a burlesque styled poet, a comedian whose routine entirely focuses on panda sex and a musical act whose commitment to tunelessness is almost commendable. As the singer howls like a banshee and bangs a synth indiscriminately, my eyes are desperately scanning the exit. Is it bad form to leave halfway through an act? By the time she gets to the shamanic chanting I reckon that this might actually be what hell sounds like. The bell signalling the end of the set sees palpable relief etched on everyone’s faces and also signals my cue to leave.

It’s been a somewhat overwhelming night. I’m still in a bit of a daze as I head home, but I muse that as mad as these people are, the fact they have a place they can express themselves and be encouraged has got to be positive. The kindly poet was right about the sense of community, and even the bad acts are received politely. It’s been a very entertaining night, if not for the reasons intended. I also leave with a vastly improved knowledge of the sex life of a worm. Which isn’t bad for a Thursday night.