Friday, 1 March 2013

The album is dead. Long live the album

Has the rise of digital really killed off the 'album' or do we need to separate our sadness at the loss of a medium from our frustration at a lack of innovation?

There's been a tumult of recent commentary revolving around (no doubt at 33⅓ rpm) the potential decline of what was once the 'LP' and now is the 'album'. The BBC has been the main culprit with admittedly excellent documentaries such as "The Golden Age of the Album" and "The Great Album Showdown" all indulging in a warm and fuzzy nostalgia for a time when vinyl ruled the world.

The love of vinyl is no bad thing, all that's associated with the physical means of 'putting on a record' makes sense to me despite my growing up in a predominantly post-LP era. The tangible nature of the format, the opportunities to indulge in extensive artwork and the obvious emotional investment required in taking time to care for the object itself are all facets of the black disc's appeal I can readily recognise.

Unfortunately, the underlining implication in all this retrospective affection is an erroneous assumption that the artistic validity of the album format itself (i.e. a collection of songs over approximately 45 mins) died along with the drop in vinyl production at the turn of the 1980's.

This patently isn't true; the subtext exemplar of an albeit understandable, rose-tinted fondness for the past, a rejection of the musical validity of the new, easily afforded by the distinguishable 'line in the sand' that is the 'death' of a format. It's too convenient to associate this with the perceived end of an art form, a perception which is, no doubt, subjugation for a notional tide mark representing the moment a glorious youth was lost forever.

Ironically, those who never experienced the proliferation of the 12 inch such as I - more familiar with the compact disc than anything - are now, themselves, superseded by a generation who may never experience a physical format of any kind.

It's tempting for those with vast CD collections to take a similar approach to the contemporary rise of digital music.

When we remember the unfettered excitement of a midnight album release (and the associated queues around the block they created) and then see the 'pilfering' of individual tracks from across the iTunes store filling out 'On-the-go' playlists with greatest hits, it's not too much of a stretch to imagine ourselves, at fifty something, plastered, pot-bellied and pie-eyed, across our own BBC Four programme, falling into the self-same traps as our fore-bearers.

Surely, one glance at any greatest album list published in the past 30 years would be enough to assuage any doubts about the album's continuing cultural significance.

Radiohead's paranoic distillation of millennial meltdown in 'OK Computer', The Strokes cathartic destruction of bloated, arse-end Britpop in 'Is This It?' and the romantic never world of hedonistic possibility The Libertines brought to 'Up The Bracket'; just three albums that, in their own, very different ways, successfully encapsulated the impact, appeal and artistic achievement of the best 'LP's of yore.

Radiohead, of course, were responsible for a defining moment in the digital music age, releasing the elegiac 'In Rainbows' as a download at the apparent drop of a hat.

This year, too, has already seen David Bowie unexpectedly release his first single in 10 years without anyone realising he was going to do so and My Bloody Valentine causing a twitter storm with the follow up to 'Loveless' released via their website.

The ease with which established artists can now make their work available is something to be cherished (even if it is questionable whether up and coming acts benefit from such a phenomenon - see Arctic Monkeys for a potential exception to the rule).

However, all examples appear to nod towards an as yet unseen potential for artistic expression and innovation afforded by the digital format. Without the restrictions of having to print artwork, surely the possibilities and scope are endless?

Rather than just an album cover and sleeve notes, why not a separate image for each track? Digital booklets are already a done thing but it feels like the tip of the iceberg and it doesn't just stop with artwork.

Perhaps - just as when LP's were first used solely for movie soundtracks, before artists like Dylan realised their full potential to be something much more - we too are in the fledgling era of today's digital format, waiting for somebody to utilise its possibilities, to create something that will in itself generate another paradigm shift in the development of the album, one as radical as that the LP catalysed some 60 years prior.

The only question is when and who?

We're waiting...

Thursday, 17 January 2013

His Master's Voice



"All I have is memories, and reminders of mortality."

The apparent demise of the high street record store HMV has triggered a whirlpool of personal emotions, not dissimilar, I imagine, to those experienced by Nipper the dog, the company's iconic trademark appropriated from an original painting by artist Francis Barraud.

Barraud's vision depicts a Jack Russell listening intently to 'his master's voice' played on a phonograph. With added poignancy, some suggest both sit atop a coffin, Nipper a demonstrable picture of loyalty and melancholy.

Although I could never show quite such sentiment towards what was, after all, another profit making corporation, its passing does, nonetheless, compel me to contemplate the passing of my own misspent youth and a period in time to which I feel I very much belonged.

If it's not that HMV going into administration makes me feel old, then, at least, it makes me feel no longer young, confused by the implications of a new era of music consumption seeming to threaten that which I most loved about the popular music world in the first place.

For all the sins of Virgin, Our Price and others, HMV was the last, ubiquitous bastion of music on the high street, the final totem of a time not solely about the music alone but about the experience of falling in love with bands and what they represent. We still have independent record stores, of course, but perhaps never again will the wider public appreciate that special environment in which to immerse oneself in something 'other'.

At the same time, I realise I may need to simply accept that fact. I find myself raging against a drift into lazy nostalgia, of thinking yester-year was unanimously better than now, disproved by nothing more than the fact that, despite all I've said, I actually can't even remember the last time I purchased a record from HMV!

I was going to write a fuller treatise on the theme until I came across the piece from which the opening quote of this blog is taken. Written by Guardian columnist Stuart Jeffries, it says all I want to say, including how, of all the high street names lost in this recession, the departure of HMV from our national conscience strikes harder to our hearts due to the emotive pull of music in all our lives.

Omnipresent access to music online is a wonderful thing and perhaps someone soon will fully utilise all the new opportunities for artistic expression it may afford the modern music artist. Yet, I see no signs of it to date and in the mean time such a wealth of music at my fingertips feels as much an inhibitor as an enabler.

Could it be I prefer less choice? Or is it that I've never loved 'music' just for the music itself but for something much, much more? Something the faceless, commitment free download of bytes of data can't help but undermine?

Thursday, 10 January 2013

For posterity...


...my intake in 2012...

Read...


Foundation - Issac Asimov
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man - James Joyce
Nobody Ever Says Thank You: A Biography of Brian Clough - Jonathan Wilson
Foundation and Earth - Issac Asimov
2001: A Space Odyssey - Arthur C Clarke
Strange Maps - Cartographic curiosities
Pushing Ahead of the Dame - David Bowie Song by Song - Chris O'Leary
Letters of Note - Shaun Usher
The Blizzard Issue 5 - Jonathan Wilson (Editor)
Proud Man Walking - Claudio Ranieri
XKCD - A Webcomic of Romance, Sarcasm, Math and Language
The Good, the Bad and the Multiplex - Mark Kermode
The Blizzard Issue 4 - Jonathan Wilson (Editor)
Revolution in the Head - Ian MacDonald
Despatches from the Sofa: The Collected Wisdom of Frank Skinner - Frank Skinner

Heard...

Battle Born - The Killers
The 2nd Law - Muse
Ocean Rain - Echo & The Bunnymen
Inside the Huddle Podcast - NFL UK
One Day I'm Going To Soar - Dexys
Four - Bloc Party
Coexist - The xx
Remain In Light - Talking Heads
Marquee Moon - Television
Greatest Hits II - Queen
Richard Herring's Leicester Square Theatre Podcast
New Boots and Panties - Ian Dury and the Blockheads
Searching for the Young Soul Rebels - Dexys Midnight Runners
Drive - The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack - Various
1982 - Status Quo
In the Belly of the Brazen Bull - The Cribs
Complete - The Smiths (CD Boxset)
Radlands - Mystery Jets
Rant - The Futureheads
Blunderbuss - Jack White
Sweet Heart, Sweet Light - Spiritualized
A+E - Graham Coxon
The Ladykiller - Ce Lo Green
Sonik Kicks - Paul Weller
Django Django - Django Django
Dizzy Heights - The Lightning Seeds
Like You Do...The Best Of - The Lightning Seeds
The ArchAndroid - Janelle MonĂ¡e
Exile on Main Street (Deluxe Edition) - The Rolling Stones
Help! (Remastered) - The Beatles

Watched...

Slade in Flame - BBC4
The Girl - BBC1
Freddie Mercury: The Great Pretender - BBC4
Mad Men - Season 5 (Blu-Ray)
The Killing III - BBC4
Storyville: From the Land to the Sea Beyond - BBC4
The Hour - BBC1
Crossfire Hurricane: The Rolling Stones - BBC2
Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists (Blu-ray)
Skyfall
50 Years of Bond Cars: A Top Gear Special - BBC2
Chas & Dave: Last Orders - BBC4
Avengers Assemble (Blu-ray)
Dr Who - BBC1
The Hunger Games (Blu-ray)
The Woman In Black (Blu-ray)
Kill List (Blu-ray)
Planet of the Apes - Film4
The Thick of It - BBC2
Russell Brand: From Addiction to Recovery - BBC3
Alien 3 - Film4
Brief Encounter - Film4
The Descendants (Blu-ray)
The Muppets (Blu-ray)
Aliens - Film4
When I Get Older - BBC1
Faster, Higher, Stronger: Stories of the Olympic Games - BBC2
Nowhere Boy - Film4
Alien (DVD)
Quadrophenia: Can You See the Real Me? - BBC4
The Secret History of Our Streets - BBC2
Make Bradford British - C4
Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars - BBC4
The Genius of David Bowie - BBC4
David Bowie and the Story of Ziggy Stardust - BBC4
The Artist (Blu-Ray)
The Guard (Blu-Ray)
Evidently...John Cooper Clark - BBC4
Punk Britannia - BBC4
The Armando Iannucci Shows (DVD)
Marion and Geoff (DVD)
Twilight - Breaking Dawn Part 1 (Blu-Ray)
Hugo (Blu-Ray)
Mark Lawson talks to...Mark Gatiss - BBC4
The 70's - BBC2
Tyrannosaur (Blu-Ray)
We Need To Talk About Kevin (Blu-Ray)
Mark Lawson talks to...Frank Skinner - BBC4
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (Blu-Ray)
Drive (Blu-Ray)
Being Human - BBC3
Rise of the Planet of the Apes (DVD)
Upstairs, Downstairs - BBC1
Time Team - C4
Call the Midwife - BBC1
Noel Fielding's Luxury Comedy - E4
Room 101 - BBC2
Blade Runner (Blu-Ray)
Armando's Tale of Charles Dickens - BBC2
Sherlock - BBC1

My New Year's Resolution, for the second year in a row, is to read more.

Friday, 21 December 2012

That was the world that was

It's a common misnomer that the Mayans predicted apocalypse. If anything, that ancient civilisation were more concerned with 2012 marking the end of a cycle. The death of one age and the dawn of another. A moment of physical or spiritual renewal. As in Arthur C Clarke's most famous novel, the alignment of the planets provides a focal point in the development of the human species...

In 2012 a transformation certainly seemed possible. As the Paralympics gained welcome gravitas in the sporting galaxy, the new human condition was symbolised by the quite remarkable performance of the athletes, o
verachieving when they had every right to underachieve, burdened more by a society's negative perception of disability than their physical or mental impingement's themselves.

The ceremonies book-ending the Olympic Games served to epitomise all that is great and all that is galling about modern day Britain respectively - Danny Boyle's opener encapsulating the eccentric melting pot of British culture, its closing counterpart a ramp down from the euphoria, a cynical treadmill of popular recording artists...and George Michael! As a yin and yang, they worked in harmony to show us both how far we've come and how far we still have to go....

As the public clamoured for tickets, I picked up two to a Mens Football tie at Wembley Stadium, the over-eager teams of Gabon and South Korea huffing and puffing their way to an enjoyable, if anything but super-human, nil-nil score line.

Thankfully, that dearth of footballing excellence was offset by a springtime trip to Barcelona, a pilgrimage to that temple of tiki-taka, the Camp Nou, in which an Argentinian perfected metronomic clinicism and I had the pleasure to witness one of the 90 plus goals he scored in the calendar year.

During a period in which English football was beset by racism and rank opportunism, Messi's humble, self-effacing odyssey shone a light for football fans to guide them through the void as if the very personification of that Olympic torch, itself illuminating the darkest back waters on its own epic journey through the country.

In film, two super heroes dominated the cinematic box office, firstly the Dark Knight and then a secret agent, but hot on their heels, and somewhat more pointedly, a determined girl from a disadvantaged background applied herself with compassion and ingenuity to conquer a 'Games' of a very different kind.

On the small screen, the BBC dramas Sherlock and The Hour won over my heart, whilst others went dotty for Downton, and Mad Men made a welcome return to our screens, if no longer to be found on BBC4, the channel which again surpassed itself in providing an outlet for some of the most thought provoking and high quality programming from home shores and overseas.  

My favourite album of the year came from the former Dexys Midnight Runners, Kevin Rowland and 'Big' Jim Patterson, reforming to release a long-player bent on self-transformation and personal restoration, not only with the assistance of some sublime soul music but a bonafide bout of comic wherewithal to boot. It was titled 'One Day I'm Going To Soar'.


The political landscape was pocked and marred by the ongoing reverberations caused by the Leveson Inquiry into Press ethics, shining a spotlight on the shady relationship between the press, police force and Prime Minister - David Cameron might be forgiven for mumbling Shakespeare's 'My Kingdom for a horse' in his dreams at night.

Meanwhile, and speaking of Kingdoms, 2012 saw the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II, pageantry and pedantry in equal measure throughout the land. Yet, as the divine right of the monarch was celebrated across the UK, in Switzerland the only nod to divinity was in the naming of the so-called God particle, revealed for the first time in the Large Hadron Collider at CERN. Despite some scaremongering, the end of the world was not nigh.

Perhaps the spectre of apocalypse loomed largest in the stunning revelations of child molestation at the BBC. Jimmy Savile's exposure the trigger for a raft of accusations and arrests which undermined our trust in one of the nation's greatest public institutions.

A relief then, to arrive at the corporation's annual Sports Personality awards, an escape from the maelstrom and a welcome time for reflection in a year when sport provided the prism through which to view humanity at its finest. What a delight to see the purple and red shirts of the 'games makers' who, without cynicism or inflated self importance, oiled the wheels of the Olympic charabanc so merrily.

Stealing the show, however, was Martine Wright, the lady who lost her legs in the terrorist atrocities the morning after London's successful bid was confirmed, triggering her journey towards competing in that same event seven years later. If anyone symbolised our achievements in 2012 it was the sitting volleyball player who taught us to embrace both tragedy and triumph in equal measure.

While some prattled about the death of one world, NASA's Rover begun extensive exploration of another, furnishing us with the most stunning images ever seen of the surface of another world and suggesting a possibility Mars may once have sustained life. Perhaps it will again as discussion of colonisation and human existence outside of the confines of our own 'blue marble' is pontificated once more.

Considering certain predictions, perhaps it's just as well - or perhaps, like our inspirational Paralympians, we should focus on conquering ourselves before we try and conquer the world, Earthly or otherwise. Perhaps that's the way to finally complete the transformation to a 
super human species and this time, when we do, we'll be sure to take everybody with us...

Friday, 16 November 2012

'M' is for mother

Skyfall not only successfully tip-toes the fine line between the hard-edged realism of Craig era Bond and the self referential familiarity of the character's 50 year history but offers a thematic depth to which past films in the series have dared not aspire.

Judy Dench's 'M' has brought a wonderful dynamic to latter Bond films, her matriarchal authority over the eternal womaniser a delight to behold, her snide remarks in Skyfall preventing any over-sentimentality during the less subtle nods to the Bond legacy.

In this, her seventh film, the role reaches Oedipal levels of complexity. Surrogate mother to both Bond and Javier Bardem's unnervingly sinister Silva, the latter bent on revenge for her past betrayal, she comes to personify Britain itself (herself) - the nation, the motherland - forcing Bond, and by proxy the audience, to question the meaning of loyalty to country.

Indeed there is an overt link drawn from 'M' to Queen and from Queen to country - a hacked laptop threat displaying her gurning face backed by the Union flag, the same flag latterly draped over each coffin in a line of fallen operatives, 'M' looking on them with an icy, Boudiccan stare. When Bond at one point suggests "there's life in the old girl yet" he could just as easily be referring to the country as the head of MI6.

I accept I may be artificially colouring the film with a recent personal motif i.e. Britain finding its post-imperialistic place in the world, yet as in the film the Secret Service struggles to defend itself to a 'Leveson style' Inquiry, so too, in reality, Britain's established pillars of media, government and justice attempt to redefine themselves in this era of ultimate accountability.

Are we any longer willing to accept that 'mother knows best', the secrets of these once impenetrable organisations now coveted vehemently in the public interest following revelation after scandalous revelation?

Silva's thoughts are clear and Ralph Fiennes' excellent Mallory, Parliamentary representative and symbolic of the Prime Minister's guilty conscience, appears to think not, ordering 'M' to exit quietly from the top job in penitence for her misdemeanours.

Yet far from taking a partisan view, the film navigates its way through a thorny issue with poise. 'M' counters in a stirring statement to the Inquiry, that new, unseen enemies, now, more than ever, require men operating in the shadows to counter their threat...

So what of our Shadow-player? - Agent 007, washed up and worn out; left for dead in the film's opening montage; soul searching in a shot glass. Betrayed? Perhaps. Loyal to Queen and country? Forever. Yet never before have we seen him contextualised like this. "Women want him and men want to be him", yet in Skyfall, his portrayal is as tragic servant, a pitiful son unable to break the maternal ties, the only ties he has.

Even his brief sexual liaison here is cold and calculated, promising femme fatale Sévérine an escape from the madman's clutches only to use her plainly as conduit to Silva. As she suffers her reprisal in front of him, Bond quips, perhaps in an attempt to shrug off his hurt at another lost innocent, or perhaps his reinforcement of that same cold hearted clinicism adhered to by his 'true love', 'M'.

Every passing Bond film feels like a new dawn, reacting to the criticisms of its immediate predecessors - Brosnan's Bond is somewhat derided now but courted 'best ever' acclaim from some quarters post Goldeneye - the milestone of the 50th anniversary only serves to burgeon this desire for ongoing renewal.

As Bond returns from the wilderness, attempting to prove himself fit for service deep in the bowels of the relocated MI6, a psychologist attempts to employ a word association test: "Hobbies?" the Doctor suggests. "Resurrection" replies Bond.

His 23rd return may just be his most miraculous to date.

Sunday, 4 November 2012

Charity ends at home

How distant that summer seems now. How absurd our dreams of utopia. As autumn brings wind, rain and darkened skies so too that symbolic torch of light seems to flicker and fade from our collective memory. It was always to be that way, of course, but could anyone have predicted such a sense of betrayal...?

The unmasking of Jimmy Savile strikes to the heart of a nation that seemed so sure of itself but a few months ago. The crimes of the man, as hateful and numerous as they are, only reveal part of the horror. More significant is the question of how this was allowed to happen?

The fact it was, for decades, and under the blind eye of one of our greatest and most celebrated public institutions, only adds to the sense of shame. Even more unnerving is the number of people claiming to have known, or at least suspected, his transgressions. Yet, to a man and woman, they never thought, or felt able, to unveil them.

This is the most frightening revelation. One man nesting himself in a protective cocoon of contacts so stymied by fear of his power and influence that none would speak against him; not dictator, nor terrorist but light entertainer!

Pillory Savile, pillory the BBC, rightly, but don't ignore that worm of the soul which allowed each of those individuals to ignore such crimes. Something not inherent to institutions or organisations but to the heart of everyman.

***

It's been a difficult time to call myself a Chelsea fan. A team that continues to employ John Terry, who, on the balance of probability, racially abused a fellow player. Many at the club ignore the facts to protect their own, citing his utter commitment on the pitch as if that mitigates against all.

Irrelevant, insignificant and further evidence of unwillingness to accept responsibility. Against Shaktar Donetsk in a recent Champions League match, Terry sported a captain's armband brandishing the logo of a registered charity campaigning to rid the game of that very ill which he had helped cultivate.

***

Charity. "His many years of work for charity". "The thousands of pounds he raised for charity". Celebrities who throw themselves so wholeheartedly into such an arena have always bothered me. Frankly, I question their motives. To erase the guilt of their own success? To shift focus from their otherwise considerable flaws? In Savile's case, it seems to be both these and worse - a convenient way to access the vulnerable.

Every year I bridle at the eagerness of our celebrity aristocracy to lend their services to Comic Relief or Children in Need, asking myself if altruism is just a myth?

By all means contribute money - anonymously; set up a foundation - anonymously; visit a homeless shelter without a camera crew following your every move.

Perhaps many do, I hope so, but when Savile's uncloaking follows so closely the rank exposure of cyclist Lance Armstrong as the most prolific cheater in sporting history - a man supposedly representing the values of his own 'Livestrong' campaign - it becomes the ultimate manifestation of those fears, embodied in men who were once acclaimed respectively as the greatest celebrity fundraiser and greatest sportsman of our time!

***

Just last weekend, I was in my local off licence. As I queued at the counter, ahead of me, a threatening and aggressive character begun tacitly abusing the young Asian man serving him. "I don't like him" he exclaimed to everyone and no one in particular; "he's different" he mumbled almost incoherently under his breath. The implication was abundantly clear.

Yet not one of us in that queue acted. No one called him to account, no one defended this poor man from the abuse he was receiving. I felt my cheeks blush and my blood boil but I too chose to turn my head away, ignoring that which I knew had taken place.

Who's responsible for Savile, Terry, Armstrong and their ills...?

I am.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing" - Often attributed to Edmund Burke

Monday, 22 October 2012

Jocky's Desert Island Discs: Disc 8 - Geno - Dexys Midnight Runners

After my penultimate Desert Island Disc placed so much import on the deeper potential of pop music to inspire political and intellectual ambition, this last entry in my octonary of musical delights offers a pure, uncomplicated joy borne of an infectious and down right rapturous tune.

Geno by Dexys Midnight Runners may well be seen as a somewhat throwaway ode to soul singer Geno Washington, front man of the 1960's blues group the Ram Jam Band, yet it's also one the most enjoyable three and half minutes of music ever to top the UK charts, a feat it deservedly accomplished in May 1980.

Bobbing up and down on a wave of brass, singer Kevin Rowland's staccato yelp is augmented by backing vocals that evoke the chants of the football terrace. The song crashes into the chorus with a surge of drums beneath a wonderful melody and punctuated by more bursts of brass; then, in a final hurrah - and as if to reiterate its vibrant musical charm - the song exults once more before returning to the chants of the baying throng.

I'd challenge anyone to listen to it and not feel lifted. Yet, scratch beneath the surface and - contrary to its rather one track reputation - you'll find a lyric unveiling a poignant vignette on chasing your idols.

Supplanting himself, the young upstart, onto that vacated pillar, Rowland initially appears to clamour for our adoration in the same way that he himself once adored... "And now just look at me as I'm looking down on you".

...But is it as simple as that? The transience of fame, the crassness of standing on stage in front of wide eyed fans and the unquestioning arrogance of youth are all alluded to, despite our protagonist's admitted intentions to acquiesce fully to the fame game. After all, he admits, it was what he was 'built to do'.

That same 'looking down on you' however, belies a disdain for such idolatry of which he himself is guilty - the shadow of a catholic upbringing perhaps? Maybe just a stark realisation of the absurdity of placing such import on a soul singer. Someone who, like most idols, will ultimately prove themselves all too human.