Dance & Drink & Screw

I learned yesterday in The Guardian that my borough, Tower Hamlets, has the highest concentration of swine flu patients in Britain. The borough's centre for Tamiflu distribution has, apparently, a line up snaking round the corner, with colour-coded rooms depending on whether you are infected or not - a melancholic scene from 28 Days Later left on the cutting room floor. Kevin said that our tower block must definitely have some cases, which I agree because it's been ages since I've shared the elevator with somebody else. Some of the graffitti on the elevator goes like this:

David is Gay (to which I added "Love", and then someone added "Rocks")
Pigs live here (to which I added "oink oink!")

Yesterday, we walked through Victoria Park, sat on a bench and watched the hundreds arriving for the Lovebox Festival (Florence and the Machine, Doves, Groove Armada, NERD, Gang of Four, etc.) I kept thinking to myself "welcome to swine flu central!" I even saw Nikki Grahame from Big Brother 7 in the crowd, looking so skinny her knee bones were poking in one direction while her legs moved the opposite way.

Later, we slipped under the covers with a bowl of bombay mix and watched an interesting, quirky American indie date film, In Search of a Midnight Kiss, which I think one of you recommended aeons ago. It left me puzzled with straight people's mating behaviour. Then we watched trailers for upcoming films and I despaired.

Bjork asked the audience to attend her gig dressed completely in white. It was the best gig of my life. The venue was like a cave, but all the bodies shimmered.

We were sitting outside, enjoying the summer sunshine, when a cataclysmic event took place in the sky. Pieces of rocks flew towards the earth, exploding like bombs. One of them hit a crowd nearby. The little boy that escaped tried to explain to an adult that many people were killed. Another one of these comets nearly missed us, exploding behind my back. We were in no hurry to get away - too transfixed by what looked like make-believe.

We swam, played hide and seek and catch before Bjork's concert. The man perusing the pet shop never owned a dog - he only liked cats. I wanted to buy him a dog so he could change his mind - I just knew he would. We'd put our credit cards together and buy the best dog in the shop. He'd see. He'd understand.

Later, at Henrique's very crowded and labyrinthine home, I had trouble finding my suitcase and kept missing my flight. His parents gave me a bedroom in the servants' quarters.

If you went to an arena filled with 20.000 people and a giant spider walked on stage, what would you do? Would you stare or record it on your camera phone, or would you dance to the tunes it played on its guitar, it's white eyes captivating you on the big screens provided? I chose the later at The Cure's gig Thursday night, which now completes my dream of seeing my four favourite teenage bands live (the other three being Morrissey, Siouxsie and the Banshees and Suede).

The 02 is a very odd venue: a sort of culmination of everything that's anti-rock in its suburban shopping mall design, yet a perfect host for bands the size of The Cure, who need all the air they can suck out of you with their psychedelic guitars and nostalgic pop. Their set had a lot of tracks from the new album, 4:13 Dream, which is in my opinion a revisit to their Wish period, mixed with more famous tracks - culminating in an encore devoted to their first singles. They were supported by White Lies (which we sadly missed, thanks to meeting friends beforehand for a pint and good conversation), Crystal Castles (ragdoll dance manchine extraordinaire) and Franz Ferdinand ("Walk Away" and "Michael" are their pop masterpieces - everything else is a bit middle-of-the-road). We danced all the way through the Cure's set and got the people behind us shuffling on their feet; sadly, the majority of the audience chose to sit through the night. We ate overpriced chips and hot dogs. We exchanged many txts with friends sitting far away. We left in an orderly fashion and forgot to buy a Cure T-shirt to replace the battered one used as a pyjama sometimes.

My brasilian friend Vini suggested we go to a bar near Canary Wharf, owned by an eccentric ex-cop from Chicago. It was a proper lock down, with the owner dancing on the bar counter, in a judge wig, to ABBA, the Weather Girls and Bye Bye Miss American Pie (and I don't even think he was gay). Umbrellas were passed around for "It's Raining Men" because the owner used the bar's water hose on us. He then maniacally scribbled a lesbian fantasy dialogue, turned off the music and made two girls (whom he introduced as professional actresses) act them out. Some customers were smoking indoors with not a care in the world, and some wore glittery cowboy hats. I drank a delicious glass of cold water to satiate my dehydrated body.

I'm considering seeing the Pet Shop Boys at the O2 this summer.

I spotted my first Meth Head yesterday in Mile End. He was trawling the aisles of the local Budgens supermarket, picking up random items then putting them back on the shelves. His face and neck were covered with sores and open wounds; he had that dirty, grimy look that is so recognizable from websites like FacesOfMeth.com. He eventually left the supermarket without buying anything and headed for the Tube, but not before lifting a squashed cigarette from the pavement.

Mile End is going all Camden on my ass. It now has its first goth/alternative/rock n' roll pub - with indie nights on Wednesdays, free cinema (and popcorn) on Sundays, and a stage for all the Eastend Neogoth and Emo bands to cry their hearts out. (Heads up, sushidog) The Victoria was until December a non-descript local pub with an older, working class clientele, a karaoke machine and an underused back garden. A Thai restaurant on its second floor shut down a few months after its inauguration. naturalbornkaos checked with me the pub's programme and we both agreed that it's an interesting new venue for London, with a lot of potential. I've now just got a message from him with a link to this Livejournal post, and The Victoria has, apparently, The Most Gothic Toilet in London. COOL!!!!

I think a night out at The Victoria is in order. It's fairly easy to reach for many of you, and there's always crashing space at my flat for anyone who lives too far away.

I'm excited with the prospect of a five-minute walk home after watching a gig. :-)

Photo by ismaSan

Cadogan Hall, the venue where The Magnetic Fields played the three last nights of their European tour, resembles a 70's religious cult gathering hall. The seats are plush, the floors carpeted, but underneath the comfort is something oppressive, perhaps clinging to the heavy brown curtains that circle the hall and rise beyond the church-like pews on the second floor. Light fixtures swirl patters on the walls that are either meant to hypnotise or encourage sing-a-longs to the "cumbaya" soundtrack (probably an obscure Quebecois band that never made it into the 80s) pumped out while the audience arrives. Cadogan Hall usually hosts classical music concerts, but on this particular night it opened its doors to a combination of oddballs, shy-types and queers that love Stephin Merritt's songs.

The opening act is an unprepossessing Australian called Darren Hanlon who has been supporting The Fields during this tour. He plays bitter sweet songs on his guitar with the voice of Paul Simon. What starts out as somewhat charmingly twee soon becomes grating when Darren forgets lines to his songs, or starts laughing mid-song because someone on the second floor has a view of his profile.

After a brief brake, The Magnetic Fields enter stage and take their positions. Some brief chit chat between Claudia Gonson and the audience is cut short by Stephin Merritt, who is not in the mood for being charming or friendly. They play the new album almost entirely, but also songs from "69 Love Songs", The 6ths and The Gothic Archies. They play a long set, including an interval for the audience to visit their merchandise stand, and for the band to refill their tea cups.

Stephin spends the whole night ignoring Claudia's nagging, playing the role of a grumpy husband. She's one of his oldest friends and collaborators, and they seem to have an old couple's relationship that keeps the rest of the band, and the audience, entertained. It all comes to head when Claudia stands up from the piano, wraps herself with her microphone's cord, and breaks into "Yeah! Oh, Yeah!", which I now realize is the ultimate soundtrack to bad housemate relationships (she lived with Stephin at the start of their careers):

Are you out of love with me?
Are you longing to be free?
Do I drive you up a tree?
[and Stephin replies]Yeah! Oh, Yeah!

The audience laughed often through out the night; even if you know The Fields' lyrics well, you can't help giggling when they are sung with such melodramatic sincerity. They are not meant to be taken so seriously.

After the show had started, a couple ran down the aisle and found some empty seats beside us. He was a man in his late 50s, thick glasses and bald; she was thin, probably his age, straw-like blond hair. She made a big fuss as she went through her purse, hacked her lungs out on the aisle, sniffed some powder through a circular contraption, drank bottled water, flicked her hair left and right, popped various pills into her mouth - all the while laughing loudly at everything sung on stage. Everyone began to turn their heads and throw curious glances at this woman. To me, it was as if the couple had wandered in off the street; I couldn't imagine either one of them owning a Magnetic Fields' CD. Perhaps they were members of Cadogan Hall and had received discount tickets. Soon, she leapt off her seat and ran outside for a cigarette, leaving her husband behind. He tapped his knees to the songs, then grew quiet and contemplative when "Old Fools" was played.

When she returned, she immediately sucked away attention from the stage with her loud laugh, her fidgeting and rustling around. A girl in front of us shushed her. The woman stopped on her tracks, shocked. The girl smiled and shushed her again. Suddenly, the woman sprang across the aisle, pointed her finger at the girl and said "I've got six months to live!" The girl smiled, as you do when dealing with someone slightly unhinged. The woman joined her husband, returned to her laughing, but occasionaly stared at the girl with big, black eyes, or waved her finger in the air during "The Nun's Litany" as if those lyrics about prostitution and pornography were in reference to her censorious enemy.

Then she was off again for another cigarette break and we didn't see her again until the concert was over: she had cornered some young boy who was also smoking outside and she had to be gently extricated and guided home by her silent husband.

Although Stoke Newington is just a neighbourhood in North East London, it feels very much like a self-contained village. Stoke Newington High Street, the main road that leads to it, is lined with aromatic Turkish restaurants and trim Mediterranean men straight out of a Fellini film. Lesbians have been slowly migrating to Stoke Newington these past ten years (Kevin and I lived with a trio of crazy ones in Stokey when we first moved to London) and their presence is felt everywhere; but it's also home to large Hasidic and Afro-Caribbean communities. Church Street, the prettiest artery running through Stoke Newington, carries all kinds of fancy restaurants, second-hand books and clothes shops, and even has an entrance gate into one of London's oldest cemiteries, Abney Park Cemetery.

Ryan's Bar, on Church Street, has a basement that welcomes local bands:

Hellium and Eggs carry a torch for the sixties that casts shadows of The Kinks and The Who. Two of them on stage, many instruments between their feet and hands. The sixties was never this fun.

HillBilly and the Bonfire conjure beautiful songs out of tragedies, their sound firmly placed in the folk tradition. Either you pay attention to the lyrics or you catch yourself drifting off, stuck to the ceiling.

Guess What live in the same decade as Hellium and Eggs, but prefer to explore soundtracks to french lounges and secret agents. There's a glitter of psychedelia behind their venetian masks.

Pissinboy proves on stage that there's more to Italy than sappy ballads and Eurocheese Dance. I hear the Velvet Underground in his sound, but also Guided by Voices. The audience's favourite.

Patrickbruel end the night, shifting between noise experimentation and poppy indie. They jump; they fall down; they lose guitar strings. They could have gone on and on if the owner of the bar hadn't come down to announce that all proceedings must stop at 11, like the clock at the end of Cinderella's ball. Because there are no carriages to take us home, we stand on Church street and give moral support to the smokers. We explain to a new friend the aphrodisiac powers of Bride of Chucky and despair at the chilly wind that is so unsummery.

***

I've developed a crush on a band from Melbourne, called Cut Copy. They do everything with the 80s and indie pop that makes me happy.

While most goths have travelled up north this weekend for the shabby & stinky (or so I hear) bi-annual Whitby Goth Festival, I've got the Love Music Hate Racism Carnival arriving just outside my door... and it's free! Ha. I know The Good, The Bad and The Queen will be playing, as well as Patrick Wolf. Full line up here. Should be fun, if the weather permits. I can see myself rocking out with a veggie hotdog in one hand and a plastic cup of beer in the other.

Something found over at morrissey_shot:

Morrissey Loves Music, Hates Racism
Press Release From Love Music Hate Racism: 25 April 2008

Morrissey has personally stepped in with a significant financial contribution to the Love Music Hate Racism campaign in order to allow their 30th Anniversary Rock Against Racism concert to go ahead in Victoria Park, London this weekend without financial loss or burden to the charity. In addition to his own contribution he has rallied his management, booking agency and promoters to make up the majority of the £75,000 deficit LMHR was faced with after their main sponsor pulled out.

Morrissey commented, "This is a historic event spreading an important, anti-racist message so it must be allowed to go ahead. Love Music Hate Racism got in touch and explained that the NME had pulled its support, possibly as a result of their association with me, and asked if I could help as they had not been able to replace them. This is something I am committed to and we appreciate everyone coming together so quickly to make it happen."

K2 Agency, Live Nation, Pacifica Artists Group and SJM Concerts are all associated with Morrissey and have made donations to Love Music Hate Racism at his request.

Is anyone else confused by the NME's behaviour? Surely they wouldn't want to disassociate themselves from such an event, especially with their upcoming court case against Morrissey? (where they have to answer to articles they printed which implied Morrissey was a racist.) If the NME was run by mature people, they'd continue supporting the event, even with Morrissey joining in as well. Their behaviour reminds of the kid who won't share his football with other kids unless he gets to choose who plays.

Maybe Le Moz will make a surprise appearance?

The new Breeders' album, Mountain Battles, is very good. What's even better? Seeing them play live (they play Koko again tonight, in case you want to catch them.) The last time I saw them was a few years ago, in a venue in Blackheath where the smoking ban was already in place (which didn't stop the sisters lighting up on stage and smiling like teenagers at the nicottine-craving audience.) I ran into kirsten2 and yaruar that night; it was the first time they met the actor who plays my boyfriend Kevin. Last night, The Breeders' spirit was as sprite-ish as ever - with a constant stream of jokes between the girls and the occasional banter with the audience - but they were this time around more determined to play their short, but sweet, set through the new album (with the obvious classic tracks from Last Splash thrown in for good measure).

As "Cannonball" reared its head, and the house broke into one massive pogoing, it dawned on me that it is the best song of the 90s. It's perfectly recognizable to anyone who remembers the decade, and yet hasn't been desecrated by appearances in shitty TV shows like The OC or car advertisement (please don't prove me wrong.) Everyone in their right mind wants to be the bong in a reggae song.

Legend says that the sisters still live in Dayton, Ohio (where they were raised) and are so laid back that you'll bump into them at many local house parties. Judging by the way they strut on stage as if they were the roadies, and not the band itself, I believe this legend wholeheartedly. What I also believe is that the world needs more girls like the Deals, and more lack of pretention, in general, when it comes to rocking out on stage. Can't you just see them in a 24-hour diner after the gig, having a coffee? What you can't see - and thank God for that - is a journalist from Heat magazine wishing to interview them.

On the way to the gig, I was fantasising in the tube about running into Rachel Stevenson, from the band Fosca. She'd be together with Dickon Edwards, the band's singer, whom she'd introduce to me after I said hello and complained that "In-Joke for One" has been stuck in my head for the past week. I then forgot this fantasy when I had to switch to the Northern Line train heading towards Mornington Crescent. When the train stopped at King's Cross, and the doors opened, who do I see standing there? Dickon Edwards! He was looking slightly pensive, hand tapping the side of his face (maybe wondering how long before his own train came.) He never looked at me. I had this brief urge to shout something like: "In-Joke for One! Love it!" but then I stopped myself; it would have made him, as well as the people in my carriage, think I was a complete nutter. The train doors slid shut and off I went to the gig, slightly mystified.

Other people at the gig: As Bad As a Smile, The Backyard, The Daily Growl, Gary Likes Music, The Onion Field, Rahim Live, Mark Farley and The London Paper
Stuff on YouTube: Overglazed and Cannonball
One photo: Kim Deal

Sons and Daughters - photo by hidden_shine. More here.


Sons and Daughters played ULU last night, supported by hype-band-of-the-moment Black Kids, and Fangs. By the time Kevin and I arrived, I was nicely tanked from a couple of pints drunk around the corner from Russell Square Tube. Silky Bonaduchi was there to stamp our wrists with stars and usher us into the world of student unions.

It's criminal that students (and everyone else) get charged £2 for checking in their coats. It should be no more than £0.50.

Fangs had just stepped on stage when we arrived; they played the kind of racket that leaves audiences indifferent, pushing them towards the bar. When they were over, we mistakenly thought Sons and Daughters were next. We stood through Black Kids' set instead, which wasn't as bad as the washed out acoustics and nearly mute mics made them out to be. We could pick a faint hint of The Cure mixed with Robert Plant, a groove to their sound that possibly translates better on record. You be the judge.

We were close to the stage, central, by the time Sons and Daughters came on. The singer wore a purple T-shirt/dress over black panties, Patti Smiths' face emblazoned. Immediate brownie points. A slow track starter was a deceiving trick to play on an audience later assaulted by fast, dancey numbers. They meshed The Clash circa Combat Rock with garage rock from the 60s, and some 70s glam too. One track in particular had me bouncing around in a manner that would make Marc Bolan proud, though current single "Darling" failed to sparkle.

I noticed three strange things: there was a lack of little girls (the ones you usually find at gigs, jabbing their way to the front in the hopes of seeing something); a not-unpleasant perfume hung over the crowd; and many of those standing quite close to the stage were as stiff and still as security guards. To me, the whole point of being close to the stage is to dance - hell, even at the back I'd be bopping along to their sound! - but these people wouldn't budge even as I stirred up a storm within my little bubble, shoulder to shoulder with them.

It wasn't a mind blowing gig, but it definitely injected fun into my Tuesday night and made me curious about their latest CD.

Why would anyone bother showing up to a Stereo Total gig if they are just going to stand in the corner and not dance? You are not watching the greatest musicians on earth; there are no pyrotechnics on stage; nobody is going to get naked (even though the singer did try to make one audience member strip down to his socks). You've got no other choice but to dance to their cheesy beat.

The first time I saw Stereo Total was two years ago, on my 30th birthday. Their supporting act was an electro pop duo that got the crowd excited enough until Stereo Total's low-key, humorous entrance. Last night was no different: an up-and-coming synthesized mess called Miss Pain took us back to the bad side of the electro 80s before Stereo Total climbed the stage as if they had just rolled out of bed. What started out as a few people bopping along in the front soon turned into a mini-rave, as almost everyone in the grotty club danced themselves into a dripping sweat.

Their new album is brilliant: it's a combination of rockabilly rock and synth pop that wouldn't go amiss in a John Waters' movie. Some of the songs are inspired by Bruce LaBruce's The Raspberry Reich, which made me smile ("Heterosexuality is the opium of the masses"). At one point, the singer whisked on stage a French girl in a beret (how can you go to the gig of a French-German duo and not run into people wearing berets?!) for a three-way simulation. When she announced they were playing their last song, a genuine roar of "NOOOO!" ran through the crowd. It's been years since I've seen an audience demand so passionately for a band to return for an encore. The night ended with Miss Pain and some audience members climbing the stage to dance through their last songs. It was a great, tiring, sweaty night.