Cosmonauts

 

“Do you know what ‘Sputnik’ means in Russian? ‘Travelling companion’. I looked it up in a dictionary not long ago. Kind of a strange coincidence if you think about it. I wonder why the Russians gave their satellite that strange name. It’s just a poor little lump of metal, spinning around the Earth.”

…

“And it came to me then. That we were wonderful travelling companions, but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal on their own separate orbits. From far off they look like beautiful shooting stars, but in reality they’re nothing more than prisons, where each of us is locked up alone, going nowhere. When the orbits of these two satellites of ours happened to cross paths, we could be together. Maybe even open our hearts to each other. But that was only for briefest moment. In the next instant we’d be in absolute solitude. Until we burned up and became nothing.”

Both of these extracts come from Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, the beautiful and tragically sad tale of unrequited love and existential emptiness.

I read the book, coincidentally, shortly after visiting the Science Museum, and let me make this perfectly clear, the Cosmonauts exhibition is inspiring, beautiful and wonderful. But it’s also frightening and sad. When I saw Sputnik 2, and the model of the capsule where poor Laika had the dubious honour of becoming the first mammal in space, I clutched my own chest, forcing myself to not shed a tear, and imagined the poor stray, who had been ‘rewarded’ for her obedience and intelligence, expiring in the emptiness in the cold, dark silence of space, without anyone to comfort her, without any chance of returning home to the handlers who no doubt missed her and mourned her as soon as they locked her in the capsule. Space is cruel, and progress is cruel.

The exhibition celebrates the success of the Soviet Union’s dominance in the space race, until at least 1969 when Kennedy landed the cold war coup of the century, literally on the moon.

Until then though, the American’s languished behind the scientific creativity and genius of the Soviets. Led by their Chief Designer Sergei Koralev they streaked ahead. First satellite, first man in space, first woman in space, first spacewalk, they ticked off successes whilst the Americans struggled. It was only when Koralev died that the Americans really caught up and the funding partially dried up in the USSR.

The exhibition is a celebration of the space race, Sputnik is of course commemorated. The “Beep… Beep… Beep” it generated is plastered all over one wall. The Russians thought little of the launch of Sputnik, it had a small passing reference dedicated to it in the official Soviet newspaper Pravda, but when the rest of the world caught sniff of it, the story exploded and the Soviets realised they had a massive propaganda victory. I remember the tale of the American who happened to be in Moscow when Sputnik was launched. He was relentlessly teased in the street with Muscovites making the “beep” sound at him. And I love how Koralev wanted Sputnik 1 to look beautiful, because one day he knew it would be housed in museums around the world. Truly it is an iconic marvel.

 

Three of the Cosmonaut heroes are also celebrated.

Yuri Gagarin

“I saw for the first time the Earth's shape. I could easily see the shores of continents, islands, great rivers, folds of the terrain, large bodies of water. The horizon is dark blue, smoothly turning to black, the feelings which filled me I can express with one word, joy.”

The first man in space, Yuri Gagarin, with his handsome film star looks was a global superstar. After surviving space, he sadly died piloting a prototype plane, which immortalised him forever as the tragic and beautiful youth. He had a huge following, and the first country he visited outside of the communist bloc was The UK. Although he sat next to the Queen on an official dinner, his visit was instigated through an invite by the Amalgamated Union of Foundry Workers in Manchester, he himself had been a steel worker before joining the military. Massive crowds followed him everywhere and little anecdotes such as him refusing an umbrella to show solidarity with the crowds getting rained on won him hearts. He was the darling of the press, even the right wing press.

The other thing to note about Gagarin, is he was tiny, perhaps only 5’3”. I assumed he would be tall, but cosmonauts were partially chosen (aside from the gruelling mental and physical fitness they endured) on their size, they needed to fit in the capsules to take them into space.

Gagarin and Leonov (source Russia Today)

Alexei Leonov

Leonov was the first man to conduct a space walk. I remember watching a BBC production on Cosmonauts and he talked candidly about how he avoided disaster when he nearly didn’t make it back to the spacecraft.

His suit had slowly expanded due to the pressure, which meant his hand had slipped out of the expanding glove and he couldn’t grip to climb back to the safety of the Voskhod 2. Had his ship swept beyond the sun and orbited into the darkness, the cold would have killed him instantly. He only had minutes. He took a risk to save his life, he slowly vented air from his suit into space and although suffering from the bends, he mercifully was able to get his hand into the glove and climb back into the craft. The phlegmatic Leonov didn’t want to make a fuss so didn’t mention the issue to base while he was trying to save himself.

But he and his crewmate Belyayev had another brush with death on the same mission, the module the cosmonauts were on, landed hundreds of kilometres off course, and for two nights they endured sub zero temperatures waiting to be rescued. To airlift them they needed space for a helicopter to land, so the cold ravaged men on board had to ski with their rescuers to reach a point where they could finally be safe.

Leonov was, or rather is, a romantic, an artist and we’re lucky he’s still with us to regale us with his tales of adventure and joy at seeing the birth of the day from the dark crescent rim of the Earth. He was a painter, and on each of his missions he would draw and this tiny little exhibit was one I was particularly fond of. His pencil set, with wrist ring and individual threads for each pencil (to stop them floating off) and his little painting “The Rising of the Sun” March 18th 1965. Those are the pencils he used.

“I have had two dreams, to be a pilot and an artist – I succeeded in achieving the former and became a cosmonaut. But not the latter. Still, all my spare time I dedicate to painting”

Valentina Tereshkova

“Anyone who has spent any time in space will love it for the rest of their lives. I achieved my childhood dream of the sky.”

In 1963, Valentina Tereshkova (calling sign “Chaika” – Seagull in English) became the first woman in space, orbiting 48 times over 3 days, clocking up more time in space than all the American astronauts put together up to that point. The former factory worker was selected with four other women from over 400 applicants and from those five, she was the only one who made it to space, it took nearly two decades for another woman to achieve the same goal. As well as being the first woman in space, what made her ascension to the space programme even more remarkable was that she was the first civilian to make it. She was given an honorary title in the Soviet Air Force during her training. The Science museum has two of the most precious artefacts on display. Her flight suit with the striking dove of peace emblematic on her chest, but also the actual module she flew into space in, from Vostok 6. The solid looking dented old sphere must’ve been so tiny in the depths of space.

Still alive, the fiercely patriotic Tereshkova had volunteered, as recently as 2013 to go on a one way space mission to Mars.

War and Peace

Many of the biggest scientific breakthroughs come through military funding. At the height of the cold war, space engineering and advancement contained the implied threat of nuclear war. If you can launch a rocket into space and land it fairly accurately, then you can attach a warhead to it and obliterate your enemies. And falling straight down, it’s almost impossible to disable.

Thankfully the doomsday clock did not strike midnight during the cold war, and the old enemies, the USA and the main power rising out of the ashes of the Soviet Union, Russia, have a tense but less antagonistic relationship.

Many of the space missions are collaborative affairs now, genuinely science based, multi-country and a standard for international cooperation and friendship. Even in the height of the cold war, the respect between Astronauts and Cosmonauts and their respective governments was genuine. In 1971, the Apollo 15 mission left a small sculpture by Paul Van Hoeydonck on the Moon for “the fallen astronaut” commemorating the deaths of both American and Soviet travellers.

The artist with a replica of “the fallen astronaut” from his website. (not part of the exhibition)

And in 1975, the artist and dreamer Alexei Leonov, in his second space flight, commanded the Soviet half of the joint Soyuz – Apollo mission, where the Soviet craft would dock with the American Apollo craft commanded by Thomas P. Stafford in a symbolic act of union to commemorate the thawing of relations, the end of the cold war and the end of the golden age of the Space Race. Leonov of course drew portraits of both sets of crewmates.

Zond 7 and the tribute to Gagarin

The final room of the exhibition is dedicated to Zond 7. In 1969 the Soviets sent an unmanned spacecraft around the moon with a mannequin onboard, equipped with various sensors around its body, to measure radiation levels, as a pre cursor to a planned moon mission. The mannequin’s face was based on the image of Gagarin. It’s a beautiful serene space washed with blue and pink light. The Soviet’s never made it to the moon, but the American’s did.

Cosmonauts – at the Science Museum until 13th March 2016.

Joygaze!–Gig and Album reviews, Pinkshinyultrablast, The Go! Team+Glockabelle

 

Pinkshinyultrablast, 11th May 2015

One of my most played albums of this year has been Everything Else Matters by St. Petersburg shoegaze outfit Pinkshinyultrablast. So it was great to be able to catch them with regular gig buddy the Bossman on their first UK tour when they played at Hoxton Bar and Kitchen on the 11th May. And yes, I am a little embarrassed that they’ve since embarked on a second UK tour and it’s taken me months to write this! So I’m treating this as an album review too (which is also late!)

They play hook laden shoegaze, punctuated by blasts of razor sharp guitars and overlaid noise, the album itself is a beautiful thing. The opening song “Wish We Here” starts delicately, with its vintage analogue synth sound pulsing over you, singer Lyubov’s fragile otherworldly vocals, then a steady building, a marimba beat, synth bass, another layer of synths… then it hammers you, (lots of) guitars, bass, crashing drum runs, more vocals. It’s a fantastic album, great to run to on a darkening moor, it feels like a winter album.

I imagine they write in a shack, holed up in a snowy pine forest somewhere in the Baltic and their music permeates through the ice encasing their studio, firing out refracted light and colour into the night sky. They are an aurora borealis band, people of the sky consigned to live on the ground. What am I talking about? I have no idea, so buy the album. You’ll get it.

Photos © Mel Melis

You can never have too many effects gadgets (below)

Other standout tracks include Marigold and the fun Holy Forest, with it’s quirky beat and spiky riffs. The video is the band’s homage to martial arts.

Pinkshinyultrablast–Holy Forest

Played live the songs are more savage, noisy, the kind of wonderful ear battering you expect from an intimate venue like the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen. The last time I was there was to see Roman Remains, the Duke Spirit side project, which I reviewed here.

The Go! Team + Glockabelle, June 17th 2015, The Village Underground

As well as the late review of Pinkshinyultrablast, I also wanted to review the return of the ever brilliant and fun Go! Team. I think I’ve seen them six times, maybe seven, probably four of those times with my friend John from work, who I also went to this gig with. They are almost certainly the band I’ve seen the most times out of all the gigs I go to. Why? Because they are the most fun live act you can ever go and watch, that’s why. See my review+photos from a gig they played at Icelandairwaves in 2006, here and here.

But before I wax lyrical about the Go! Team, special mention must go to their support act Glockabelle. Ten things I know about Glockabelle.

1. She’s French. She sings in French.

2. She plays retro Casio-tone organs. Several of them. At the same time. Really fast. Impressively fast.

3. She also wears thimbles and plays metal glockenspiels. I mean made of metal. Not like heavy metal, although I’m sure heavy metal glocks could easily be part of her repertories. (I initially thought they were xylophones, but lucky I googled it and learnt xylophones are wooden and glockenspiels are metal… phew no-one will realise I’m stupid… seeing as “glock” is in her performer name!)

4. Her drummer was dressed as a cat. He hid under a blanket during the gig and the audience were encouraged to entice him out.

5. She has covered Bach, The Ramones and the Tetris theme

6. Her songs are eccentrically brilliant. Regardé

Wolf BBQ by Glockabelle

7. One of them is about a washing machine and contains the lyrics “splish splash, splish splash… aaaahhhhh!”.

8. She sells her EP on a stylish personalised USB. I bought one. It’s the future.

9. She was very gracious and had a photo with me. Even though it looked like I was wearing hideous novelty braces (that’s my bag shoulder strap, honest!)

10. She sings one of the songs on the fab new Go! Team album (Catch me on the rebound)

Which brings us nicely to the Go! Team.

Another album I’ve been playing again and again this year is The Scene Between by the Go! Team. It’s a near perfect bundle of joygaze energy (if no one has invented the term Joygaze, I’m claiming it ™) – a similar template to their previous offerings, danceable, endearing, noisy, jangly, guitary, heart warming songs and beats which make you grin from ear to ear and even… dance (not me though, ok, a bit). Songwriter Ian Parton has refreshed the line up, he’s kind of like Professor X of the X-Men, except he plays about seventeen instruments instead of reading minds and has a red and white striped “where’s Wally” tee shirt instead of a wheelchair. There are some new superheroes in his band, only the effervescent and irreplaceable Ninja has been retained. Added to Ninja and Ian there’s Cool Geography Teacher, Disney Princess, Joan Jett with immaculate hair (circa 1977) and Road Warrior Drummer Lady (or Sam, Angela, Cheryl and Simone respectively). The new album is better, more polished, more addictive than previous offerings. And they clearly love playing live! A real treat is The Art of Getting By, an uplifting anthem reminiscent of a 1970s fizzy drink commercial telling us to get on, love each other and do huggy stuff whilst drinking a refreshing beverage. All the songs and little skits are great.

Smattered through the live set were the live favourites as well as the new songs. Audience participation is optional, but I’ve never seen people not engage. I imagine if audience members didn’t, then I’m sure Ninja would reveal a taser with lovely pink flowers drawn on it and zap some electrified love into their twitching suddenly dancing carcasses.

Here is a bunch of clips I took at the gig. Best viewed full screen as I’m useless at filming.

The Go! Team, Village Underground, June 2015

 

Finally, a couple of photos. Can’t wait to see them live again.

dälek, Hackney Oslo, May 1st 2015

As I’ve got older, the experience of a gig goes beyond enjoying the music and the company of good friends (in this case my long time gig buddy Bossman)

It also, more recently includes sampling new drink and food, exploring a new venue or part of London, so on Mayday we ventured to Hackney Central to enjoy all of the above experiences where we went to the great bar and kitchen known as Oslo.

I spent a lot of my childhood in Stoke Newington, so I had an inkling as to how far Hackney is from central London by public transport, however, I will say it’s well worth the bus or train ride.

It’s a great venue for food (the burgers are amazing), drink, conversation, with great staff and fast service. The band were sitting behind us enjoying some pre-gig beers and food. And of course they have a gig / club venue attached to them. This review from the Guardian pretty much sums it up.

The gig space itself is intimate with a great view of the stage and fantastic acoustics.

As for the gig itself, dälek were fearsome hip hop noise merchants, churning out brutal beats and grooves overlaid with beautiful white noise with the MC, dälek, throwing himself into the moment with his lyrics. Their energy live is just astounding.

As this article points out on their long absence and return to the live scene and recording, they do take from the more brutal end of shoegaze noise combined with the scalding power of rebellious hip hop and rap. Together it’s a powerful combination.

I love all sorts of music and these guys are so unique and eclectic. Sometimes I love my music to be quiet and contemplative, but sometimes I want the noise to consume me, so I break into fragments, atomise, become nothing. And when I reform, I’m renewed and refreshed. This is what I wanted that night. Noise. The Beautiful Noise.

Defining Beauty, British Museum

 

The new exhibition at the British Museum considers the depiction of beauty in Ancient Greek art.

I marvel at the sophistication of the works that are to be on show and I’m so glad I re-joined as a member. I’m very much looking forward to visiting.

As a teaser, the museum, via their social media platforms, has been sharing various photos of artefacts and artworks to be displayed as part of this exhibition. Today, as part of a focus on International Women’s Day, a beautiful bronze figurine of a Spartan woman running was shared.

Ironically the birthplace of democracy, Athens, kept their women like property, locked up, covered up and having no function in society other than marriage and child bearing. Unlike their Athenian sisters, Spartan girls did sports, had a good education, owned land and performed important civic duties as Spartan men were almost to the man, full time soldiers. Other Greek city states, or rather the men in those states, who provided the contemporary anecdotal soundbites we draw upon, looked down upon the Spartan women, snootily calling them "thigh showers" for their unashamed prowess in athletic pursuits. There was even an athletics meeting for women, in honour of the goddess Hera (Goddess of Women), which took place every four years at Olympia, although this was separate from the Olympic games.

So, here's the lovely figurine of a beautiful Spartan runner showing her athletic thighs, lifting her skirt to maximise her ability to accelerate. It dates from around 500BC, there is a dynamism in this work of art, it really is lovely, she’s so elegant. And where was she running to? I’d guess she was going to kick an Athenian in the balls.

Defining Beauty, From March 26th, British Museum.

PJ Harvey, Recording in Progress, Somerset House, 5th February 2015

 

After a lengthy morning at the Russian Consulate, submitting my business visa request, I decided to take an early lunch and make the relatively short walk through the sleet to Somerset House, to see if there were any returns of the sold out run for PJ Harvey’s Recording in Progress.

(photocredit © Seamus Murphy)

I didn’t hold much hope, they seemed to be the hottest tickets in town, more an interactive art installation than a gig as such.

© photocredit – Me! (Mel Melis)

It’s totally pot luck, the artists are working, the glass is one way, they cannot see you, they are recording their new album, not putting on a show for you, you might get to hear polished songs, you might just get some discussion, tuning of instruments, jamming, drinking of coffee. So when I asked the security guard in hope, his eyebrow raised itself and he announced with a giant grin. “I think this is your lucky day!” he then led me to a side room in Somerset House’s New Wing, introduced me to another staff member who confirmed that yes, this was the first time they’d ever had a no show and I would be welcome to join the session in progress. I had missed the first fifteen minutes or so, but I didn’t care! The planets and stars had aligned and the gods favoured me! I was going to get to see PJ Harvey recording her new album!

He requested that I deposit any recording equipment (no photos, recording or filming - it was strictly prohibited*) for safe keeping, allowed me to hang up my coat and then led me to the lift to drop me into the stony depths of the catacombs under Somerset House where I was led into the viewing area.

A devoted huddle of acolytes, a tiny number (between 20-30) for an act who can fill massive venues, were politely gathered around the big window spaces looking into the white room, the former inland revenue staff gymnasium that constituted the recording studio in the basement of the historic Somerset House on the Strand. Like me, most of the people there were little. Perhaps our fragility delivers us to the lyrics and powerful themes of PJ Harvey’s work, perhaps I just made a massive generalisation, but I didn’t care, there was plenty of room to see! Peej herself was wearing all black, headphones on, her black hair cascading down in waves, either side of her face. She was testing her vocals on one of the new songs, which turned out to be the “The Revolving Wheel” I believe. Her long time collaborator John Parish listening intently, brow furrowed in concentration as she played the chords she wanted him to reproduce on his acoustic guitar. Flood the producer bounced energetically around the room alternately clutching a cup of coffee and a red moleskine notebook, occasionally scribbling something down, occasionally offering sage advice. “You could bring in the instruments one by one” he suggested on one such foray from his two seater sofa, a statement more than a question. “No” remarked Polly laconically, with a smile. Perhaps a polite reminder that this was her album and vision. Flood didn’t argue, he smiled back. This seemed like a team without friction, a professional but easy going atmosphere to work in. A photographer, I’m guessing Seamus Murphy who created the wonderful films accompanying PJ Harvey’s brilliant last album “Let England Shake” duelled with Flood for centre stage, taking shots of the artists. Also in the room (I think) were the drummer Kenrick Rowe and Terry Edwards, who was ready with his saxophone as well as another unidentified musician with a wondrous beard. A couple of sound engineers dipped in and out at times too. Mick Harvey was also there, sitting next to John Parish, he seemed in a quietly jovial mood, perhaps because the onus was on Parish for the next few minutes. And then some magic happened, Parish played on an acoustic guitar and Polly sang. It was beautiful. We heard the whole of “The Revolving Wheel” from the new album. At the end, I, like many other people in the audience resisted the desire to clap. I saw the two girls in front of me clasp each others hands more tightly. I saw other people smiling in loving appreciation, me too.

The band then seemed to be building up to play a more complete, multi-instrument version of the song, perhaps a version which would end up on the album. The anticipation was building as they tuned up and jammed little elements of it. Mick Harvey’s guitar delivered some pounding bluesy derivatives of the main chord structures but unfortunately our time was up. We were asked to leave the viewing area.

I got perhaps twenty-five minutes of the forty-five minute allocation and I was chuffed to bits. I feel fortunate to have struck lucky. And I can’t wait for the new album. I walked away, the sleet had stopped, the sun was threatening to show its face and I returned to work a happy guy! Best lunchbreak ever!

Big thanks to the very friendly and accommodating staff at Somerset House.

*Fear not! Although recording was prohibited, I did make an “artist’s impression” from memory. Up to my usual excellent standard as usual I’m sure you’ll agree :). I’m not sure there were any big tape reels whirring away, seeing as we are now in the digital age… I think I kind of merged it with an episode of Hawaii-Five-O in one of the police computer rooms. But it kind of works right?

©Mel Melis (not that anyone would steal this….!)

The allure of travel, a tribute to London and Paris

 

In the guts of London, forgotten verges,

Detritus, piling up, centuries of it,

the train rocks slowly through grime town,

Black bricks loved with painted colour,

Before sinking into the depths,

Of the dark ant tunnels,

And emerging in the bright new place,

The hollowed hull of the beautiful whale,

hedgehog smothered in chimney spines,

St Pancras,

I could go upstairs,

Jonah the explorer,

walk past Betjeman, tip my hat,

Bid him good day as he’s frozen, looking up,

At the cathedral ribs of this place,

Whilst the plonking tinker of amateurs,

on pianos, rattles, in my ears,

But instead,

I look longingly at the snaking jabberers,

Excitable, planning trips, or returning,

To Paris, From Paris,

I pause, I want to be there too,

To fall in love, to drink red wine,

Puff on a cheroot, write bad poetry,

I’m Wilde, Hemmingway, that other guy,

Some dude in a cravat,

A wit, a dandy, someone you want to beat up,

Spilled absinthe,

Looking louche as I watch to Seine, the people,

But work calls, more tunnels,

Then Marylebone, I love you too,

Perhaps tomorrow.

©Mel Melis 2015

Joan Fontcuberta, Science Museum. What to see.

 

This exhibition at the Science Museum looks great, can't wait to visit.

Joan Fontcuberta is a photographer artist who holds up a mirror to the news and our bombardment of information with a playful but serious series of works.

When you read a news article or look at a picture or photograph, which may or may not have a "helpful" caption... do you take it at face value? Do you question its integrity? Do you research and challenge the validity of the message it conveys? Do you make up your own mind? We've all been duped by someone, even by people in supposed authority. The world is becoming a place where news and information is readily available, however it's also readily dumbed down or perverted to suit a cause. I don't trust anything I read, especially knee jerk shares of sensationalist rubbish.

A summary of Fontcuberta’s projects and brilliantly believable hoaxes can be found in this guardian article.

But, what to believe? To me the internet is about pictures of cats. I only trust pictures of cats. I believe in cats.

The Miracle of Dolphin Surfing, 2002

Gigs of 2014.. so far

I haven’t blogged in a while, I’ve been flat out with work. I need to start writing again. A simple way to kick off that energy is to share some music and some pictures of gigs I’ve been to this year, to fire some synapses, give me some ideas, to stir some passions. Then maybe, who knows, I might blog again. Soon!

Cate Le Bon, Friday 7th February. Islington Assembly Rooms

My first gig of the year was back in February, Cate Le Bon at the Islington Assembly Rooms. It’s a venue I’ve never been to before, but I instantly liked it, nice high stage so a shortarse like me can get a decent view and a reasonably quick serving bar. It’s also part of the council buildings Arsenal start or end up in as part of their bus tour of Islington when they’ve won a trophy.

So who is Cate Le Bon? She’s released three albums to date, the first impression is one of Nico. But she’s also inspired by the likes of Syd Barrett and in some songs that really comes through with the quirky interludes or the psychedelic aural assaults, but it would be unfair to pigeon hole her. She’s a fantastic singer/songwriter. Some say her lyrics are dark, but I don’t see that, they are ambiguous, ambivalent, you take from them what you want. She’s fantastic live, would definately see her again. John from work was also impressed, as we were with the pre-gig Upper Street meze.. just don’t tell anyone we did something that louche.

Two of my pics from her gig. All photos © Mel Melis unless credited

The Stranglers Saturday 8th March, Hammersmith

And so to the Stranglers and their 40th Anniversary Ruby tour. My first ever gig was the Stranglers. Alexandra Palace, Hugh Cornwell’s last gig, the last gig of the original line up. I’d seen them a couple of times since, but then wasn’t so fussed about following them live although I always loved their music. So I felt inspired to go to this gig, sentimentality and curiosity as Jet Black, the oldest man in punk (probably undisputed at 75 years young) would play drums in a few songs. As prep’ I was catching up with their old albums, Black and White (their third album) was the one I homed in on, a lot, a brilliant, dark and claustrophobic post punk classic. JJ Burnel’s brutal basslines are especially sinister on this album and the themes of Orwellian post-apocalyptic control and dystopia hammer through the album. They didn’t disappoint, they played for a fucking age. It was truly epic and it was an emotional moment when Jet Black played in the middle of the set, then at the end. Bossman came with me, and he loved it too, we stood there gawping as classic after classic was belted out.

Live forever! (as Ray Bradbury would oft say)

JJ Burnel, the hardest man in punk.

Jet Black (the oldest man in punk) and JJ Burnel (hardest man in punk)

Jet Black (minus hat and shades)

Roman Remains Weds 23rd April, Hoxton bar and grill

Myself and the Bossman, we’ve always loved the Duke Spirit, those Hackney scoundrels playing their melodic 60s infused retro punk, so it was interesting to hear two of their members, Leila and Toby had formed a dark electronica act. This was to be their first UK gig. We’d never been to the bar and grill before, but it was great, got a burger before, walked into the venue and bang! Great acoustics, great view. Rum and cokes. We had a blast! The band were great too. Pick of the live tracks? Gazebo – it’s one beautiful tune. Shared below.

The interior of the “grill” bit of the venue.

Roman Remains!

Joshua Homme (+ secret guest Mark Lanegan) Mon 16th June, Royal Festival Hall

As part of James Lavelle’s meltdown (sadly I’ve never seen UNKLE and I bloody love them) I got the offer from John from work via his other friend John (who was a beneficiary of my two-hundred redials to get Kraftwerk tickets) to see Joshua Homme play an acoustic set. So he reciprocated with this opportunity - What a lovely decadent way to spend a Monday night. Homme was engaging, funny, chatty and played acoustic versions of QOTSA songs as well as a couple of covers.

But having always had a man crush on Mark Lanegan I had to restrain myself from seal clapping when the old bear loped onto the stage and together they played One Hundred Days and Hanging Tree. Beautiful.

Brian Jonestown Massacre, Tuesday 1st July, The Roundhouse

I was embarrassed to say I’d never heard any BJM before (actually a BJM sounds like a sexual act? Sod it, I’ll carry on using the abbreviation and by using the word “sexual” this blog post might get more hits. Although they’ll probably be disappointed.. BJM! BJM!)

Anyway, The Bossman made the recommendation. And what a psychedelic masterpiece of a band they are. Guitars everywhere, effect pedals everywhere, tamborines and jangly wonderment and noise. I only had my iphone, so no decent pictures so I’ll share a video instead. I have to say though the gig was enhanced for me, because I was utterly dehydrated from an inter-work 5 a side game where no quarter was given, it was a hot day, I was tired and bruised. My mind was drained of it’s usual spark and the music soaked into me, I was a happy zombie sucking down pints of cola as the two beers I’d tried to have earlier in the evening had just sent me into a soporific tailspin. I was glad to be sitting in the seats up in the circle. The roundhouse is a fantastic venue.

So what’s to look forward to? The big one is Kate Bush in September, I must’ve signed up to her mailing list at some point in the past and got a pre-sale email. So I bought tickets, I’m skint, but happy! I wonder whether she’ll be able to sing any of her early work? Artists’ voices change in time, so hopefully there’ll be new arrangements. But if it’s new stuff only, I don’t care, it’s Kate Bush. She’s British music royalty, her music brings a lump to my throat. It’s beautiful.

But before then, Mogwai @ Koko … their new album is astounding. It’s almost danceable, listen to Remurdered, when the synth jumps in half way through, it’s jumping. Those miserable socially conscious Scotsmen… I would hug them all, and embrace their white noise!

The Front Door

 

Can you mourn the passing of a door? It’s funny what we might consider precious. What we instil such emotional value into, memories or things. The heavy old hardwood door, older than me, a fond memory of growing up, ubiquitous through my childhood and early adulthood. Now a dark moss green, but painted so many times over it groaned and juddered reluctantly when you dragged it into its snug old frame. Painted over like the Edwardian tiles in the outside porch, black marble fractured with tiny capillaries of imperfection, depicting gold and russet autumn blooms in relief, hidden under coat and undercoat, coat and undercoat. At least that’s what I think is under the layers, a memory plucked from childhood, I’m surprised at my own sentiment, this memory pulled from a file which modern life has deemed insignificant, but the nostalgic part of me still holds dear. I’d be scared to remove the paint, in case I’m disappointed. I believe in the flowers, that is all I need to reassure, to warm my heart.

I think of the old mechanical metal bell, still working today, you twirled the little sycamore seed like handle, and it trilled cheerfully, even in its venerable age the door sung for visitors, like a bird exalting the Spring, the lengthening days and the whisper of love. And above the bell, the heavy satisfying weight of the ornate knocker, only yielding against the door itself. The dull dour thud resonating through the house, laconic, humourless, a boom of metal on wood, an old wood, a wise wood. But hardly anyone used the knocker, because the bell was a joy. Everyone loved the bell, a childlike glee would overcome even the most sour face, scowls replaced with beaming smiles. Everyone would marvel at something so old sounding so wonderful. A robust mechanical bell! In my mind, the knocker and the mechanical bell are old friends, unlikely friends. The knocker at peace with the bell getting all the attention, because when someone did choose to use him, he would boom wilfully, so everyone could hear him knock.

Over those decades, those hard winters and occasional hot summers, the old door watched the other doors in the terrace die and be replaced. The old hardwood brothers and sisters burnt or ditched, their mechanical bells singing no more. UPVC and cheap wood replacing the cumbersome assurance of the solid old originals. And the door would breathe, once a year, following the seasons, breathe in over spring and summer, out again in autumn and winter, the wood contracting, expanding. Breathing imperceptibly.

Many decades ago, when my parents moved from the condemned tenements of Pentonville, the door was already middle aged. The grew old with it. What is a door? The door provides peace, a focus and the portal to the haven of home. A home, a roof over our head, that most ancient of human needs. If you believe in your door, you feel secure in the sanctity of your space. And our door held a magic. Protected us. No one invaded our space.

But tonight, someone hurt our door, someone invaded our space, it wont recover from the forced entry of burglars, ripped from the frame I felt an unnatural emotional response, it threw me, memories of mum and dad, of running to school, kicking through leaves, playing in the garden on my trike, of happy and sad times. Tonight, the old door’s been bolstered, bolted, it’s protecting my mum and dad’s old house for just one more night. Tomorrow, the old wood will lie flat, we’ll replace it, its slow breathing will stop. We’ll remove the mechanical bell and the knocker. They’ll stay with us, we can’t part with them. But we’ll say goodbye to our friend, the old door.

Evocation (The Burial of Casagemas)

I went to the Courtauld Gallery a few weeks ago, a few days prior to the Becoming Picasso exhibition closing.

I keep making the point that I’m an enthusiastic amateur when it comes to appreciating art, but from what I’ve seen, Picasso’s blue period is intensely interesting.

The paintings inspired by his friend, the poet Casagemas, who’d committed suicide in Paris in 1901 are sad and poignant.

The painting I found the most beautiful was Evocation (The Burial of Casagemas) painted that same year.

Blue is always an appealing colour to the eye, we are naturally drawn to it and a gallery space hanging with some of the most magnificent “blue” Picassos was a special privilege.

The picture in this blog post doesn’t do justice to this painting, it’s big and subtle, full of depth and sensitivity. Picasso was making sense of the death of a loved one. The corpse of the poet lies in the bottom left, mourners cry and bid him goodbye, but Casagemas is ascending to heaven, death rides a white horse. And his companions, his angelic host, are naked prostitutes, standing on clouds. One of them drapes herself round his shoulders, a last kiss before he leaves this world.

What a wonderful painting.

Kraftwerk–Autobahn at the Tate Modern. 6th February 2013

Hello 2013.

When the Tate announced they were going to be hosting a series of gigs by Kraftwerk I was of course excited, they were to play a classic album over 8 nights, covering a large chunk of their back catalogue from Autobahn (1974) to Tour De France (2003). Much sampled, Kraftwerk are engineers, pioneers, but the most part they are musical geniuses, I had to try and get tickets. I’ve been a big fan for years, they’re a band who deliver songs about computers, radioactivity, roads, trains, vitamins and robots with a deadpan credibility, combining soaring emotive melodies with the starkness of industrial synths. They were technological pioneers with their home made instruments / drum kits. In many fields, it’s when science combines with arts that the most intriguing work is generated and Kraftwerk uniquely sit awkwardly and majestically apart in the musical space. Their fans range from socially awkward computer geeks, punks, hippies to dance/techno heads.

Little did I, or anyone else know, that the Tate, in homage to the computer technology of the 70s, would be using a ticketing system which had the total capacity of 16k.

Within seconds of the tickets going on the market, their website fell to pieces, leaving the many thousands of fans no alternative but to telephone, how retro.

After possibly three-hundred (perhaps more) redials, using two phones, over three hours, I finally got through, to speak to a sore throat suffering croaky young man, brow beaten by the sheer battering of phone calls he and his colleagues had suffered that morning. He timidly offered “sorry for the long wait”, knowing that for some people this was a invitation to savage him. I was fairly sanguine though, I’d got through, this young man was my ticket to tickets, there was no way I was going to upset him!

I managed to get four tickets for the opening night, Autobahn. It was a cold evening on the South Bank, the dim blue glow on millennium bridge drawing us towards the imposing beast that was the Tate Modern. The gig was to be held in the huge space of the turbine hall. It seemed apt that the former power station be host to the band whose name means “power plant” in German.

As far as gigs go, this was one of the most polite I’d ever been to, we were issued with 3D glasses and cushions going in. Me, Neil, John and John then strode down to the front and got a good pew. Once the beeps and whizzes of “Robots” started to jangle behind the curtain… people inevitably stood up, so with cushions discarded, the curtain dropped and we were given a memorable show. Somehow, these elderly German gentlemen managed to pull off the outfits, one piece cat suits with no dubious bulges, hernias or Camel-toes on show (I’ve looked it up, it’s kamelzeh in German – heh!).

Photo from the opening track “Robots”.

With the sublime Robots out of the way, they then played through the Autobahn album. The title track is a 22 minute beast, although it seemed to have been cut down to around 15 minutes. It was a brilliantly fun advert for classic German motoring of the 60s/70s, with the 3D imagery thrusting VW Beetles and old Mercedes cars towards us rubbing our fallen Britisher faces in the wreckage of our once proud manufacturing industry. (I’m sure this wasn’t their intention)

The album itself is perhaps one when Kraftwerk were finding their modern sound, really exploiting the new technology. It isn’t their best in my opinion, but it’s certainly groundbreaking. And being less than 40 minutes long, they were soon through the more ambient “B side”. It was a lovely starter.

Then they rolled through their back catalogue. The crackle of Gieger Counter rolled into Radioactivity (it’s in the air for you and me) and we were off on a whistle stop tour of their albums!

Some songs were faithful to the original, some were given a modern, dancy twist. Kraftwerk have been playing a number of art galleries around the world and it’s quite apt they seemed to give a slot to each album covered chronologically. It was like walking through an exhibition, as much a historical retrospective as a gig.

(another pic from Radioactivity)

The turbine hall, that immense space was perfect for their sound, there was no distortion, the synth bass really punched you in the chest and of course, they were musically perfect. Trans Europe Express was much better live than the studio version, you could feel the train powering down the tracks (and see it hurtling towards you on the 3D backdrop).

Here’s Ralf Hutter (the only original member left) during it. Couldn’t fit the train in, sorry. I love the fact Afrika Bambaataa sampled this for his pioneering hip-hop track Planet Rock.

Tracks from Man Machine (every song played other than Metropolis) and Computer World were well represented (they didn’t play Pocket Calculator to my disappointment though) and when Numbers came on it felt like an insane techno German sesame street learn to count song. Superbly mental. The visuals were overwhelming, numbers throwing themselves at you, in multiple languages, a total savant meltdown.

Vitamin is a fun pop-dance song too, about a ridiculous subject. The 3D tablets cascaded towards us, I resisted the urge to snatch at them. I’d have only got a handful of virtual laxatives probably.

It was a real privilege to be there, I was lucky to get tickets. One of the best gigs I’ve been to. We were all a bit lost for words afterwards. And I leave you with Neon Lights, one of the most beautiful songs ever written, quite apt for the South Bank and London.

Cheers Kraftwerk!

The Magnetic North, Purcell Rooms. “Hunting for Remoteness”

Last night me and my mate John from work went to see the marvellous Magnetic North at the Purcell Rooms on the South Bank. It’s a project pulled together by Orcadian musician, Erland Cooper (of Erland and the Carnival), in collaboration with Hannah Peel (who released her own solo album and is part of John Foxx and the Maths) and Simon Tong (previously guitarist of the Verve/Gorillaz)

It would be a disservice to try to pigeon hole the album they’ve written (Orkney: Symphony of the Magnetic North) but twist my arm and I’ll suggest it has elements of folk, electronica with subtle pop sensibilities, it hints at sadness, loss, nostalgia. There are soaring uplifting waves which soak into you, evoking the spirit of the album, the wind swept barren beauty of the Orkney islands and young Betty Corrigall, the seventeen year old “Orcadian girl who in the 1770's killed herself having been cast out by her village after becoming pregnant by a visiting sailor.” – quote nabbed from the band’s facebook page.

The evening started with the debut of the film Hunting For Remoteness, which complements the album. Prior to the film being screened, I could sense a nervous shuffle in the seat next to me, John, the big Yorkshireman, let on that he would love to take his family on a holiday to Scotland, but something has always stopped him, a deep seated fear. His cultural references of remote communities in Scotland are based on only two sources; the films The Wicker Man (the original, not the dreadful remake with Nicholas Cage) and Lars Von Triers Breaking the Waves. Also, and he didn’t admit it, but I could tell, he subliminally feared Mel Gibson’s Braveheart character too, the frighteningly outrageous mullet, the blue face paint and the tightly defined calves, built from years of wearing high heels…

But I believe the beautiful film allayed these fears for him, no ritual sacrifices or having your head stoved in by a swinging oil rig boom which drives your loved one to speak with the voice of God and commit tragic acts of self neglect. (sorry, spoilers)

The film was beautiful, it reminded me a little of Sigur Ros’ film Heima, the way the music, the musicians, the land, folklore, history and the generosity of the local people were intertwined in the creation of the songs and music, directly when a local choir contributed to the album. The story of poor Betty is particularly sad, the band members making the pilgrimage across the heathland to find her remote gravestone, far apart from the community, the churchyard, the consecrated ground, away from her family even in death. Erland says Betty visited him in a dream, asked him to write an album about Orkney. Well I’m glad he took her advice! The film was gentle, occasionally funny, very moving, mixing locals’ commentary, soundbites from the band members, extracts of recording and performance, but also interlaced with the staggering beauty of the islands and that nature that inhabits them. I’m certainly sold on spending a holiday there (and I think John is too). The people, the landscapes, the history, it just sounds perfect for someone who wants to get away from it all, do some walking, exploring and resting (which is mine and D’s favourite sort of holiday).

The gig was fab, the core three members were joined by strings, brass and drums on stage and they gave us an engaging, friendly, enthusiastic and brilliant performance. On the walk to Blackfriars Station, it rained, but I didn’t care, the South Bank was dark and beautiful, twinkling with the pale glow of Christmas lights strung in the trees and I was warmed by the magic of the Orkney Isles. I hope Betty Corrigall is pleased with the musical results of her visitation!

All photos © Mel Melis

The Wallace Collection, Arms and Armour

Just a couple of minutes walk from my work’s London offices is the Wallace collection. One of the things I love about London is that a gallery of this significance can end up little known amongst Londoners and tourists. London is teeming with galleries and museums, it’s a hotbed of culture and learning. This is why it’s my favourite city in the world.

I wasn’t aware of it until I started walking past it, on my walks two and from work. Marylebone with it’s quirky shops and great pubs is a wonderful part of our capital and the Wallace collection, in the relative quiet of Manchester Square is a little serene part of it. Like most museums and galleries in London, it’s free, which is brilliant of course.

Although it houses sculpture, ceramics, furniture and paintings; including work by Frans Hals “Laughing Cavalier”, Rubens, Gainsborough, as well as a number of Venice paintings by Canaletto, what I enjoy most about the exhibition space is the Arms and Armour, especially the Oriental gallery, these exotic curved swords, tulwars, scimitars, katanas. Some of them seem very top heavy, with the blade getting progressively wider towards the point, then tapering to a deadly sharpness at the tip. It makes me wonder how they could possibly be wielded.

I always had it in my head that a good sword should be able to balance on the hilt, so the weight was equally distributed between the handle and blade respectively. I think I heard it in something like Time Team, where a modern smith shows us how a sword was made Mediaeval style. Of course this would have been in the European tradition. I may have made that up of course, but it seems sensible. Having a top heavy sword would be difficult to swing and recover, you’d need exceptionally strong wrists (ahem), otherwise you’d have to use it more like an axe, where you are relying on strength of swing and impact to keep the initiative as opposed to a flurry of accurate attacks from a more balanced blade. Anyway, I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about… so I’ll shut up and share a pic of a cool display of eastern weaponry.

And a suit of armour. Indian I believe. Some helmets had a little fine and light chainmail veil. Probably not for any defensive reason, but merely to hide the face of your assailant. Is fighting someone faceless more sinister? Or is it so the attacker can hide his own fear, to not give the game away that he is utterly terrified?

Quick geek observation : This armour looks a little like one of the Ring Wraiths duds in Lord of the Rings (the movie)

A samurai sword, a katana, displayed in the traditional style, to honour it. The inscription says the scabbard is 19th century, but the blade itself (recently) repolished is from the early 15th centure, of the Mihara school, Bingo province, South West Japan.

Samurai sword steel can be folded around 200 times in the making of the blade. I always thought it was because it somehow made it sharper, but it seems it was because the steel was full of impurities and the incessant and continued folding removed those impurities and porous qualities, making it immensely strong. Seeing something of this age always makes me think of its story, how many souls had it stolen? Who owned it? From century to century? What they were like?

And the workmanship can sometimes be of incredible quality. Some weapons were of course ceremonial, but others I’m sure were owned by powerful men, to draw blood, to maim and kill. You can imagine how in ages past, beautiful swords and weapons could be thought of as imbued with magical powers.

Another interesting aspect of the museum is you can look into the history and composition of every piece of weaponry, no matter how small. There are catalogues along the walls which you can reference. I picked a dagger at random to demonstrate, this dagger in isolation is course beautiful, but in terms of the collection itself, it is a relatively unremarkable item.

So… this savage but beautiful dagger for instance is Moghul Indian 17th century (ref 1384 in pic), with a jade, gold and agate hilt. The scabbard however is Turkish from the 19th century, the original scabbard seemingly lost. Note how even though the scabbard was made approximately 200 years after the dagger itself, whoever owned it commissioned that they should use the same white jade designs on the scabbard, to make it in keeping with the hilt. This was clearly a treasured item, worked and reworked, repaired and passed down. Perhaps it was a war trophy, from a defeated foe? An Ottoman general’s booty? Once again, I’m making it all up, so I’ll shut up. But it does make you think, every item in the collection has a story. Was the Ottoman general himself defeated, hence his dagger ended up auctioned and displayed in London?

As well as the Oriental and Eastern galleries, there are European arms and armour, equally savage. This fine fellow stands tall and imposing in one of the rooms, I felt sorry for the horses, I’m sure they had no concept of the aesthetic coolness of their armour. Poor beasts! In the cabinet behind him, you can see some evil looking polearms.

A monstrous gargoyle mask, used as a visor on a european helmet. Totally shit inducing. (I’ll get the reference next time I pop in, for now make do with “totally shit inducing” – which I’m sure is not the description in the catalogue)

And a beautiful mace head, I believe forged in Milan. Look at that work, it would almost be a privilege to have your bonce stoved in by it. *clump!* “Thank you sir!” *falls over*

Anyway, I’m digressing into farcical nonsense, can’t wait to go back, apparently (because I’m a numpty and didn’t realise there was a lower ground floor) there is another gallery of further Eastern arms and armour in the basement. This is a temporary exhibition and it’s only on until 26th March 2012, so get your skates on if you want to look at curvy swords and daggers and imagine yourself as a powerful sultan, draped in silks and fine ladies whilst whimsically sipping tea and writing poetry as your eunuch Oud player plucks out another classic ditty in your court.