Valentine's with Out Lines

Last night, Debbie and myself had the privilege of seeing Out Lines live. I’ve seen Kathryn Joseph and her musical partner Marcus Mackay twice before, when we’ve been lucky enough to have them visit London from what I imagine is their hand chiselled ice palace somewhere in the Highlands. Coincidentally, I’ve seen James Graham twice too, as front man of the Twilight Sad, when they supported Mogwai in Brixton and The Cure in Lisbon. The latter was in the biggest indoor venue I’ve ever seen, when my little niece Katerina dragged me and my colleague SJ through the crowd almost right to the front.

I much prefer smaller venues though, it’s more intimate, you can get a closer connection to the band, and they are both very expressive performers, with Kathryn’s little feral side glances while playing the harmonium or keyboard, and James’ forays away from the mike to flail and gesture and clench his fists, like a fire and brimstone clergyman behind his lectern, warning us that the end days are nigh. They would make a great fighting duo and I’m sure they could kick the shit out of me if they so chose.

If the two of them are the outward manifestation of the band’s intensity, then the beating heart is Marcus, serenely going about his business behind them, his drumming driving the warm blood through the body of the band and his soaring analogue synth playing giving an unsettling but beautiful backdrop to the magnificence of Kathryn and James up front.

All of this was enhanced by the venue, I’d never been to The Islington before and it’s great, from the staff, the bar, to the venue room adjoining it. The walls were draped in what looked like red velvet curtains, the spotlights were predominately red, it was like we were guests in a womb or a ribcage of something alive, washed with red light, listening to the beating heart of our host and its blood surging through the body of the beast.

The performance was beautiful, chilling, heart wrenching and most of all brilliant. Between songs, the bond between the band members was joyous and sometimes hilariously bawdy, the rapport between them was obvious and it was a pleasure to join them on Valentine’s night.

Out Lines were brought together to listen to and then tell the stories of people who don’t always have a voice, via a Glasgow based community art project Platform. And the album, Conflats is a magnificent tribute to those people, covering loss, abuse, sorrow but all with a layer of hope. Our Beloved Dead sends a shiver down you with the chilling “I’ll take you down with me” repeated chorus dipped in barely contained rage and melancholy. And their ABBA cover of lay All your love on me is given a dark, devastatingly sad new lease of life.

We didn’t get to say hi to Kathryn this time as we had to dash for our train, but I’m looking forward to hers and Marcus’s new album! Who knows, might catch a gig in Scotland too. And The Twilight Sad’s new album is out too. All in all a lovely date night on Valentine’s. Thank you!

The Buried Giant by Kazuo Ishiguro

This post contains spoilers – please do not read if you want to read the book in the future!

I finally got round to reading The Buried Giant by newly crowned Kazuo Ishiguro. Although aware of his work, it was my first novel of his that I’d read and I have to say I found it compelling and interesting. And after being slightly bemused by where the story was headed, and I have to say, I didn’t like many of the characters at times, it came to a great conclusion which left many questions unanswered. It’s readable, addictive, with a gentle prose like delivery.

The story is set in the early Dark Ages, that is, shortly after the fall of the Roman influence (around 400 – 600AD), and from a historical context, it would be true to say that little documentation remains from that era, or was written centuries after the events that allegedly took place.

What we do know is that the Christian (Romano) Britons and the newly arrived pagan Saxons (who would become the modern day English), live together side by side. Ishiguro captures this well, and adds the omnipresent weight of the understanding that more and more Saxons were arriving on the eastern shores of Britain and spreading west, squeezing the Britons into smaller and smaller territories.

However, this is an alternate, fantastical Britain being depicted, drawing heavily on the myth and legend of these islands. Fierce and stupid Ogres roam the land, sometimes stealing children. Pixies hide in forests and rivers, beguiling travellers. Boatmen adopt a Charon like role, ferrying passengers to an idyllic island where they will live in happiness but may not necessarily see another person. Although not common, sorcery is respected and feared. Monks allow crows to shred their flesh to absolve themselves of sin, carrying the guilt of people. And an old dragon spews a mist over all the surrounding lands which has a strange calming effect on the residents, both Christian and Pagan, making them struggle to remember their pasts and memories. Although this magic relating to the dragon’s breath isn’t revealed until later in the book.

Ishiguro also draws from the chivalrous romances of Arthurian legend too, and in the Buried Giant the Romano-British King Arthur has died some years, possibly decades, before. This was after leading a great victory against the Saxons and an uneasy peace treaty is in place between the Britons and the Saxon invaders/settlers. This combination of history, fantasy, myth, legend and romance was also successfully blended in the underrated film Excalibur by John Boorman and there were many times reading the book, where I was reminded of that movie.

So that’s the backdrop, what about the story?

The story revolves around two characters, a husband and wife Axl and Beatrice. They are old, they are tired, but they are devoted to each other and in love. They live on the outskirts of a warren like village community in the countryside, where everyone contributes to the good of all. Seemingly, because they are old and less important than the stronger villagers, they live further away from the central fires of the warren and are not allowed to keep candles due to some unspoken or unremembered accident which nearly led to a fire. Thus when their communal duties are complete, their evenings are spent in solemn darkness which adds to the melancholy.

They both have little reveries and flashbacks, but their memory is impaired by this mist. They both do agree though that they have a son, who lives in a nearby village, a couple of days walk from them. And thus they seek permission from the village leaders to find him.

Their adventure leads them, in both their trek and in the fragments of recovered memories, to meet sinister monks, witches, the aforementioned boatman, soldiers, an ancient survivor of Arthur’s court and the old King’s nephew (Sir Gawain), an exiled orphan boy Edwin who was bitten by a dragon and thus cursed and finally an accomplished warrior called Wistan, a Saxon, who was tasked with the mission to kill the dragon.

These latter three, Sir Gawain, Edwin and Wistan band together with Axl and Beatrice, and the final scenes culminate with an ascent up to meet the Dragon, Querig.

Throughout the book, little by little, more memories are whispered to Axl and Beatrice. Axl is recognised by both Gawain and Wistan as someone from many decades before. And these memories trickle back to the old couple, such that they end up fearing what they might remember of each other, who they were, what secrets they’d suppressed and might end up hating each other because of it. It’s searingly sad, because they love each other and memories may make that love perish. Their anxiety burns through the pages.

The overall theme though is one of guilt, the power of memory, revenge and war. The eradication of an enemy, the genocide of a perceived enemy is a modern as well as an ancient theme and this unsettles. Sir Gawain is noble, but he carries the burden of the great massacre, a murder of the innocents in the Saxon communities at the end of the war Arthur sanctioned. Although he did not personally take part in killing civilians, he was complicit and didn’t condemn his King. Thus, immune to the effects of the mist, he has adopted the role of Querig’s protector, to keep the dragon’s breath rolling over the land and to keep the memories of hatred suppressed, to ultimately keep the peace. At times his character appeared slightly unhinged, it wasn’t clear if Ishiguro wanted to portray some ambiguity in that, with the secrets he carried and his venerable age contributing to some form of dementia or madness. In other ways he may have adopted this persona as an affectation, to maintain the charade that his mission was actually to topple Querig and not protect her, and thus the populace saw him as a doddery old fool on a fool’s quest.

Axl also finds memories which hurt his heart, he was an important knight himself, “the knight of peace” and ultimately he was betrayed in this massacre, retiring into ignorant obscurity and hard work.

Wistan also carried a burden. He grew up with Briton’s as a child, trained with them, but he was a Saxon. And his Saxon king wanted the dragon dead, so the memories of anger would come to the fore, and thus it would lead to an uprising where the Saxons would deliver brutal revenge upon the Britons. Wistan is also immune to the Dragon magic and was the perfect choice to kill the dragon, his head would be clear, he would not forget. He wanted to hate the Britons, but he saw Gawain and the old gentle couple as decent folk. And thus, once he would kill the Dragon, he would train Edwin, the boy with the dragon bite, to be his protégé.

I won’t spoil the ending if you’ve read this far, I won’t say whether Axl and Beatrice find their son, or whether the dragon gets killed. But it is tragic and heart wrenchingly sad. It’s not a fantasy book. It’s a book about people, about love, regret and the aftermath of war, set in a fantasy setting. A boatman narrates the final chapter, where the ailing couple look to end their journey over a body of water. It’s left open to make your own assumption about what happens to them, or whether they, or their love survives.

But I definitely recommend reading it.

Yayoi Kusama, My Eternal Soul. Tokyo 2017

 

Following on from seeing her work in London last year, I was fortunate to visit this beautiful retrospective of Yayoi Kusama’s work in Tokyo recently. I haven’t blogged much recently, I’m struggling with my words. So today I share hers. In the entrance to the museum, a humble introduction to her life, her beautiful prose, like an epitaph, it set me up for the exhibition, to cherish every moment, from the giant colourful hall filled with 400 pieces of her work, milling with adults and children running around in awe and excitement, to the smaller galleries covering every decade of her long life. It struck me then, how we don’t have her for long. And as I read I felt sad how we live in a world of such rage and turmoil, where parents bury their children and the wise are shouted down. She’s fragile, a vulnerability pervades her. But she has led such a full life and planted seeds of gentle inspiration in many. There’s always hope.

“Message

Today’s world is marked by heightened anxiety connected to ever growing strife between nations and individuals, and to elusive prospects for peace. In the midst of such turmoil, we must, as human beings, be ever more vigilant and determined to build a better world through strengthened cooperation.

I have always been dedicated to my art, struggling day and night to create it. I intend to continue creating works of art as long as my heart keeps beating. I hope my fervent efforts might live on through those who view my art even after I am gone. my greatest desire is that my vision of a future of eternal harmony among people can be carried on.

In more than 70 years as an artist, I have always been in awe of the wonder of life. More than anything, this strong sense of the life force in artistic expression is what supported me and gave me power to overcome feelings of depression, hopelessness and sadness.

I have been guided by my belief in this power.

I am profoundly gratified that I have always had the fortitude to live with the unwavering dedication through the vicissitudes of my life’s long journey.

I believe that my mentality as an artist has sustained me throughout.

The creation of art is a solitary pursuit.

As an artist, I am committed to sharing my passion and inspiration. I wish to convey my message widely and I intend to continue my struggle until I leave this earth.

There is no greater pleasure for me than to imagine that my creative spirit, my expectations for art and my passion, may be felt even after I am gone.

I deeply hope that the life I have led and the ideals and worldview I have advocated might help the young people of today, and generations to come, create a world where spiritual and material suffering in human life can be overcome. This is my sincere wish.

The struggle is endless

I want to creat more innovative works

I am sleepless thinking about that

Thoughts of creating are yearning for the unknown

I want to pursue my struggle as an avant-garde artist

Until I expire

 

My heartfelt gratitude to all who have supported me in my life as an artist.”

Yayoi Kusama, Avant-Garde Artist.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

 

Although I've read many of his short stories, I've only just now read one of Ray Bradbury's novels. Something Wicked This Way Comes is a creepy tale of a sinister carnival arriving in small town America. Although at times I find his writing difficult to follow, it has a distinctive beautiful prose, I can imagine him battering out the words on a typewriter, so it comes across as a free stream of consciousness full of poetry, pathos and metaphor. He makes you feel.

The characters he assembles as the villains of the piece are the ranks of the carnival workers, the sideshow “freaks”, led by the tattooed ringmaster “Mr. Dark”, the illustrated man.

What I love about Bradbury’s writing is his male “heroes” aren’t muscle bound quip making jocks in the traditional sense. They are dreamers, they visit libraries, they cry, they regret, they appreciate wonder, they have an inner dialogue full of doubt. They feel real.

And below is chapter 10, in its entirety, is a very beautiful example of everything I love about Bradbury.

“Just after midnight.

Shuffling footsteps.

Along the empty street came the lightning-rod salesman, his leather valise swung almost empty in his baseball-mitt hand, his face at ease. He turned a corner and stopped.

Paper-soft white moths tapped at an empty store window, looking in.

And in the window, like a great coffin boat of star-coloured glass, beached on two sawhorses lay a chunk of Alaska Snow Company ice chopped to a size great enough to flash in a giant’s ring.

And sealed in this ice was the most beautiful woman in the world.

The lightning-rod salesman’s smile faded.

In the dreaming coldness of ice like someone fallen and slept in snow avalanches a thousand years, forever young, was this woman.

She was as fair as this morning and fresh as tomorrow’s flowers and lovely as any maid when a man shuts up his eyes and traps her, in cameo perfection, on the shell of his eyelids. The lightning-rod salesman remembered to breathe.

Once, long ago, travelling among the marbles of Rome and Florence, he had seen women like this, kept in stone instead of Ice. Once, wandering in the Louvre, he had found women like this, washed in summer colour and kept in paint. Once, as a boy, sneaking the cool grottoes behind a motion picture theatre screen, on his way to a free seat, he had glanced up and there towering and flooding the haunted dark seen a women’s face as he had never seen it since, of such size and beauty built of milk-bone and moon-flesh, at to freeze him there alone behind the stage, shadowed by the, motion of her lips, the bird-wing flicker of her eyes, the snow-pale-death-shimmering illumination from her cheeks.

So from other years there jumped forth images which flowed and found new substance here within the ice.

What colour was her hair? It was blonde to whiteness and might take any colour, once set free of cold.

How tall was she?

The prism of the ice might well multiply her size or diminish her as you moved this way or that before the empty store, the window, the night-soft rap-tapping ever-fingering, gently probing moths.

Not important.

For above all—the lightning-rod salesman shivered—he knew the most extraordinary thing.

If by some miracle her eyelids should open within that sapphire and she should look at him, he knew what colour her eyes would be.

He knew what colour her eyes would be.

If one were to enter this lonely night shop -

If one were to put forth one’s hand, the warmth of that hand would. . .what?

Melt the ice.

The lightning-rod salesman stood there for a long moment, his eyes quickened shut.

He let his breath out.

It was warm as summer on his teeth.

His hand touched the shop door. It swung open. Cold arctic air blew out round him. He stepped in.

The door shut.

The white snowflake moths tapped at the window.”

Doctor Strange

Growing up, I was always a fan of Marvel comics, but if I had to choose a favourite character, it would have been Dr Strange.

Surreal, dark stories, other dimensions, impossible worlds. The villains were sinister, cerebral, mystical, they attacked your soul, not your body, they infected your dreams and drove you insane. They bled your compassion, tempted you, wore you down and ultimately controlled you. Other comics were dominated by slug fests and simpleton brutes knocking lumps out of each other, which I wasn’t adverse to, but Dr Strange was altogether different, suspenseful, verging on the horrific and very unsettling.

The introductory panels of the first ever Dr. Strange story (from Strange Tales #110, July 1963), art by Steve Ditko

As a kid, I somehow managed to get a pulp pocket book edition of the first Dr Strange stories, originally published in the early/mid 60s. I devoured them, I read them again and again, poring over the art and trying to copy the illustrations (my artistic peak was at 9 years old). Steve Ditko was perfect as the artist, already a veteran of many a horror / suspense title prior to joining Marvel, his mix of dark and shadow and then the explosions of colour in fantastic worlds and spells, was a revelation to a young boy.

Nightmare, haunting your dreams. From Strange Tales #110 and below, other dimensions, explosions of colour and psychedelic threats in Strange Tales #126 (again, all art by Ditko)

“EARTH SHALL SOON BE MINE!” – they all say that. Shut up Dormammu.

And the hands! He drew hands beautifully. In the deadline obsessed world of comic books, it would have been easy to take shortcuts. As any artist will tell you, hands are one of the most difficult things you can draw, but Ditko appeared effortless in the way he conveyed hands. Whether the incantations of Dr Strange and his enemies, or the web slinging endeavours of Spider Man (who he also co-designed) the focal aspect of his art, was of lithe elegance, and the hands expressed so much in the narrative and storytelling. The other main artist at Marvel at the time was Jack Kirby, who I also love, it’s a generalisation but his heroes were stockier, powerfully drawn with thick lines and prominent shading. Thor, The Hulk, The Thing, those were the characters perfect for Kirby. But Ditko, his heroes were althogether more graceful.

And so to the film, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I laughed at myself, feeling a pang of that childhood thrill of expectancy… there was a new Doctor Strange story! The casting was great (see panel below and publicity shot from Empire magazine) and the story was fun, well paced and well acted.

It also captured the conceit and self absorbsion of Dr Strange, the surgeon, prior to his accident, his humbling, his descent into depression and his transformation into the sorceror supreme. All this was faithful to the comics. The great thing about Marvel is their heroes are flawed. Sometimes the flaws are ugly. I remember, when I was 10 or so, being absorbed by quite a dark personal storyline of Tony Stark battling alchoholism in Iron Man. This was more intriguing to me than him fighting his enemies. I loved Iron Man, but my faith in him was being challenged through the writing, creating this self destructive angry victim, out of control and stuck in a bottle, with such a dangerous weapon at his disposal. I was scared he was going to kill someone. It stressed me out!

I wont spoil the film, but I reccomend it. Mads Mikkelsen is a great camp luvvy of a villain (in the best way possible) and he gets some funny dry lines, as funny as you can be if you’re a zealous nihilst desperate to deliver planet Earth to a frightening entity in another dimension. Cumberbatch is sublime too. It’s a heavyweight cast and they all delivered.

And Stan Lee’s cameo is trippy, again, a little nod to the 1960s, which pepper the film. They even use Interstellar Overdrive by Pink Floyd at one point. And yes, the other dimensions are bonkers.

So go see it, it has a bit more depth than the relentless punch ups and groin thrusting of the Avengers films, and I think with Dr Strange being part of that franchise in the future, it can only improve things. By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, a respectable 8/10.

Ps – As for the reclusive Steve Ditko, it appears he’s still working independently. Oh to own one of his wonderful pieces of work one day!

Yayoi Kusama, Victoria Miro gallery

 

Undoubtedly I would say this is one of my favourite art exhibitions in recent years. In her autumn years, Yayoi Kusama, from the safety of her hospital and nearby studio, generates art of poignancy and moments you can feel.

The paintings and the pumpkins on their own are gorgeous, but it is in the magic of the three infinity rooms where you experience the real highlight. They are both intimate and eternal, an otherworldly, Alice in wonderland like experience, you climb in through the small door and and you are immediately transported, surrounded by mirrors to accentuate the cascading reflections of her work and your own image, as an awkward, unworthy traveler climbing into her dreams or her fragile heart and seeing something of her essence.

She is world famous, a recognised brand, but her art hasn’t lost any meaning, she works tirelessly, art grounds her, the polka dots that dominate her work are like a ward against her fear of self obliteration through the hallucinations that have plagued her since childhood.

‘One day I was looking at the red flower patterns of the tablecloth on a table, and when I looked up I saw the same pattern covering the ceiling, the windows and the walls, and finally all over the room, my body and the universe. I felt as if I had begun to self-obliterate, to revolve in the infinity of endless time and the absoluteness of space, and be reduced to nothingness. As I realized it was actually happening and not just in my imagination, I was frightened. I knew I had to run away lest I should be deprived of my life by the spell of the red flowers. I ran desperately up the stairs. The steps below me began to fall apart and I fell down the stairs straining my ankle.’

The first of the three infinity rooms is “Chandelier of Grief, 2016”, I was a bit stunned to be honest and I need to visit again, as my undoubtedly false memory is telling me the chandelier was slowly rotating, but I know it wasn’t. One thing to take note of if you are visiting their N1 Islington gallery between Old Street and Angel tube stations, is it can get very very busy. Times inside the exhibits is limited, controlled by some poor member of staff who has to check a stop watch to ensure people don’t get too immersed or lost in the dream. And of course to allow a new guest to get a chance to visit.

(all photos – Mel Melis)

Although there is no mandated route, the next mirror room to visit was the magnificent “All the Eternal Love I Have for the Pumpkins, 2016” – anyone who knows Kusama’s work will understand how the pumpkin, in combination with polka dots is such an important motif for her. I would have loved more time in this beautiful place.

"Pumpkins have been a great comfort to me since my childhood. They speak to me of the joy of living”

“They are humble and amusing at the same time, and I have and always will celebrate them in my art"

And the third room is outside in the lovely garden of the gallery, the infinity room called “Where the lights in my heart go, 2016” has little perforation holes to allow light in, which shine on the inner black surface to create intricate constellations of stars. In the silence and accompanying darkness you get a brief feel for floating in space, at least until the door is opened to allow the next guest in!

“When I was a child, I used to paint intently. The older I become, and the closer death approaches, the brighter my life gets day by day.”

In summary, this is a wonderful exhibition. If you want to witness for yourself the leftfield, sensitive and beautiful works of one of the world’s greatest living artists, then please visit. You’ll thank me. But mostly, you’ll thank her when you step into her magical infinity rooms.

It’s at the Victoria Miro at both of their gallery locations.

Shonen Knife, Bedford Rock City, May 2016

 

It’s amazing to think that Shonen Knife have been going since 1981, this was their 35^th year of touring and writing material, with fifteen studio albums of quirky punk pop behind them and a bonkers repertories of lyrically wonderful songs to perform, this was going to be great. For me, Bedford is my local town, so I didn’t have to go into London for a change. Bossman came up from Kent and we hit the venue Esquires.

The current line up saw the return of original member Atsuko on bass, joining her perma-guitarist sister Naoko with new member Risa on drums, who was the happiest person in Bedford it seemed! Atsuko revived her historical role of designing the band’s costumes, so the stage was silver sheen and sparkle!

Brill fan vid

Opening with the savage Konnichiwa! “Are you ready to rock? Yes!” with synchronised axes spraying the crowd with happy rock bullets and hair flying - they went straight into Twist Barbie

“Blue eyes, blond hair
Tight body, long legs
She's glamorous
She's welcomed by boys, ooh, aah aah”

Atsuko

They then embarked on a whirlwind set which squished in many of their classics and older songs including the cute love song Loop Di Loop, Riding on the Rocket, E.S.P and BBQ Party where the eclectic crowd went insane, their brilliant array of hairstyles, ages, musical tribes and social groups merging into a senseless seething mass of bludgeoning sweaty bodies and grins in the mosh pit. We stood on the fringes, enjoying the carnage!

“Riding on the rocket I wanna go to pluto
Space foods are marshmallows, asparagus, ice cream
Blue eyed kitty cat said, "please let me go with you"
Iko, iko everybody let's go”

Risa and Naoko

They also played songs from the new album, Adventure. As well as the punk influences, especially the Ramones, you can hear elements of British heavy rock, such as Sabbath and Motorhead, and little nods to Nirvana along the way (Kurt Cobain was a huge fan and they toured with them on the Nevermind tour). Stand out tracks with such as Rock and Roll T Shirt and Wasabi (Hot Hot Wasabi, why are you so hot?) were licked out and afterwards the band signed CDs and posters. The semi acoustic Green Tangerine was a very catchy break from the rock and punk.

“Green Tangerine, Fruit of sunshine, Tons of Vitamins, I me mine, I me mine”

The girls. And yes that man pretty much got mosh happy naked. 

I also got my rare 2000 yen note signed (show a 2000 yen note to any Japanese person and chances are they might never have seen one and they’ll deliver a cartoon style double take!).

Sometimes you don’t need earnest and well meaning, sometimes you just want to have fun and laugh. Shonen Knife delivered.

“We've always enjoyed writing songs about everyday things. Besides, there are already enough bands out there singing about pollution, war and poverty. While we all care very much about those things, we also feel that music should be fun” – well, yes.

Thank you Shonen Knife, from a very grateful Bedford Rock City.