The New(ish) Journalism

2084 - A Vision Of A Post "Yes" Europe

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 18:26:00 +0000

It was a fierce mild day in September and the hover-clocks were indicating thirteen. The New(ish) Journalist, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile drizzle, slipped quickly through the portal of Consensus Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent the laser scanners piercing his aged retinas.

The hallway smelt of damp croissant and cheap Bulgarovian wine. At one end of it a plasma fusion screen hovered two metres above the floor. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a newborn baby of about twenty five minutes, with the virgin inclinations of a smile. As always the face slowly began to fade away, the inclination vanquished, to be replaced by the mantra - NOT IF WE CAN HELP IT. The Journalist made for the lift. It was no use trying the instant teleportation matrix. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the wireless electric flux was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was fifty flights down, and The Journalist, who was one hundred and one years old and in constant agony, cursed the fifteen seconds he had to wait. All those seconds he waited, from each panel of the fusion wall reverberated the reminder, BRUSSELS IS WATCHING YOU.

Inside the flat he turned on his fusion screen. The communal leisure pursuit (or hurling as he once knew it) was on. The Northern Quadrant were leading the Eastern Quadrant by 3-16 to 2-10 in the All-Eurotopia Communal Leisure Pursuit Championship Final. The Easterners seemed completely indifferent even though there was nineteen minutes plus stoppages remaining. The Journalist sighed. The game was never the same once the players started getting paid. He moved over to the window: a decrepit, pathetic figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the constant tears smearing his gaunt cheek flesh. Damn leaky retinas. Damn lasers.

The Journalist reached for his eye ointment. He stopped. He gazed at the fusion screen once more. There was no change in the score. Northerners coasting to another triumph in the communal leisure pursuit. How surprising. "Ah fuck 'em! Just like those ould bastards from Kilkenny!" he muttered, as he turned once more for his ointment. He froze instantly, paralyzed by a long ingrained terror. How could he have been so stupid? Mentioning the forbidden ways out loud. Stupid, stupid old man. After all, his flat, like all others, was saturated with Ministry of Remembrance surveillance equipment. It was now only a matter of minutes.

New tears were forming. However these were not born of gappy retinas, but of regret. All of this suffering could so easily have been avoided. The stale hell that was Eurotopia would never have been if he and others like him had stood tall and done their diplomatic duty all those years ago... There would have been no mandatory decade of service in the Eurotopia Corps... There would have been no thirty year war with the Hated Chinese... There would have been no obligatory abortions in the aid of the communal fuel consumption... There would still be some ice at the North Pole... There would still be a Christmas... Damn it, there would still be hurling... If only he and others like him - the Irish, yes, that's what they were called, the Irish - had voted no in The Glorious Treaty. The callous benefit of hindsight, the ferocity of the lessons learned.

He heard the sirens outside Consensus Mansions. This was it. It was off to The Correctional Booths for him, to suffer for as long his rotten body would permit... Unless... He dived under his bed. He searched frantically for a few moments until he pulled out what he was looking for. A rudimentary homemade bodhrán, fashioned from a commemorative Consensus dish cloth won in a raffle many Hate Weeks ago and an antique smart car wheel. He began to bang on the bodhrán, weak yet insistent. It seemed time for one last wild one. He summoned every ounce of strength... "Yeeeeeeeeeooowwww!" The Banner Roar, alive and well in the Western Quadrant. He smiled broadly. He continued to beat the bodhrán, the rhythm emboldening him further. It was time for a song.

"Sinne Fianna Fáil,
A tá fé gheall ag Éirinn,
Buíon dár slua
Thar toinn do ráinig chugainn
Fé mhóid bheith saor,
Sean tír ár sinsir feasta..."

The hallowed couplets were being bellowed out for all to hear, at a volume which surprised even The Journalist himself. He stopped. He had caught his reflection in the window. A collection of small red dots were slowly making its way up his chest. There would be no booth for him. Not now. Not with such a large threat of remembrance amongst his neighbours. He needed taking down, and fast. He was glad his life was not flashing before his eyes. Why? Most of it was a twisted maelstrom of shite caused by his own indecision. Who needs to be reminded of that at their moment of passing? His smile grew broader still.

The dots were between his eyes now. There was a flash. The body of The New(ish) Journalist slumped to the floor, the bodhrán falling in unison. The instrument hit the ground and rolled clumsily away from the corpse, not stopping until it was once more concealed beneath the bed.

The drizzle continued unabated. The Remembrance Police cursed their luck. A soggy body was harder to burn.

The Sublime Idiocy Of The Valued Customer # 2

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Mon, 16 Jun 2008 22:25:00 +0000

INT - Any Ubiquitous High Street Entertainment Outlet. Again.

A valued staff member carrying a clipboard is quite clearly performing some sort of inventory check, again. He is wearing a company t-shirt and wearing a glaringly obvious name badge, again. A valued customer approaches him, again. This one is holding a copy of Now 69.

Valued Customer:
Sorry now, but this might seem like a silly question.

Valued Staff Member:
Yes?

Valued Customer:
(pointing to her copy of Now 69)
Was there one of these before this one?

Valued Staff Member:
(with a Herculean lack of sarcasm)
Well miss, there were actually 68.

This Sublime Idiocy Of The Valued Customer... It may very well become a series folks.

The Peculiarities Of The Irish Sporting Summer. On Television.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 11:26:00 +0000

Yesterday afternoon, as I sat nursing an angry stout hangover whilst watching Tipperary beat Cork in the Munster Hurling Championship, a profound sense of national identity threatened to overwhelm me. The cause of this impulse? The following nuggets of punditry by Michael Duignan and Cyril Farrell.

Duignan praising Eoin Kelly's first half goal:

"That's brilliance at its best Marty."

Farrell discussing the proximity of an Eoin Kelly free to the Cork posts:

"Sure that's like throwing nuts to a monkey."

Of course it is, Cyril. Of course it is... Now, I realise that sport is ordinarily not the remit of The New(ish) Journalism, but I felt that I must use this forum of mine to give props to RTE's televisual GAA commentary and analysis. There is a unique and vibrant poetry to it all. Is there another land in which thirty men attempting to decapitate each other with sticks would glibly be referred to as a "schmozzle"? Is such a colloquialism the result of a wild and pagan Celtic idiom at odds with the colonial structure of the Queen's language? Or is it merely a load of rural ráiméis? I suppose the answer to that question depends on you and your connection to The Parish. Or lack thereof.

A connection. Something that is once again missing at a major international soccer tournament. Euro 2008 is upon us, no Irish presence, and yet RTE still insists on getting Pavlovian on our asses. Advertisement and analysis seep forth at every opportunity, a constant bell ensuring our constant salivation. Yet there will be no food, no substance. Instead, a maelstrom of the inconsequential. Germany will win a match on penalties. Cristiano Ronaldo will cry. The Beeb will vacuously fawn and/or bemoan the lack of an English presence. Giles and Dunphy will self-contradict lyrical about the death of the game, the lack of "great players" and work ethic. You already know these things, and you don't really care.

Face it. The Irish people need a parochial interest in their summertime sport. Celebration of artistry is all well and good, but an emotional edge is our necessity. It comes with the involvement of your county team in the autumn. It comes with the well intentioned stutterings of our soccer team in the group stages and subsequent moral victory married with demented binge drinking. It comes with the glorious and hypocritical schadenfreude enjoyed when observing the pantomime that is Team Eng-Ger-Lund in such competition. Alas, it just ain't coming from Austria or Switzerland.

Still, at least Aprés Match is back on our screens. In celebration, the very first glimpse of the group's parody stylings on Irish television... A sketch on Barry Murphy's Friday night version of The End in 1994... Memories:

Yes indeed, glorious memories.

The Sublime Idiocy Of The Valued Customer

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 17:19:00 +0000

INT - Any Ubiquitous High Street Entertainment Outlet.

A valued staff member carrying a clipboard is quite clearly performing some sort of inventory check. He is wearing a company t-shirt and wearing a glaringly obvious name badge. A valued customer approaches him.

Valued Customer:
Sorry, do you work here?

The valued staff member slowly turns around. A weary exhalation of breath punctuates this cautious pirouette. There is a glazed look in his eyes, a curiously simultaneous marriage of indifference and vitriol.

Valued Staff Member:
Yes... Can I help you?

Valued Customer:
Yeah. I'm looking for a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. You know, the one where he hurt his finger.

Valued Staff Member:
Erm.

The Tom Waits Ticket Price "Issue".

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Thu, 22 May 2008 10:20:00 +0000

My take on the matter.

As the grotesquely knowledgeable Jim Carroll pointed out yesterday, Tom Waits is playing three shows in Dublin this summer. These will be in The Ratcellar, an all-seated marquee in the Phoenix Park. Tickets will be €116.25 and €131.25 and are available from Tuesday next at the ninth bell in the morning.

Obviously, these are rather expensive prices. Yet before one drowns in a stew of righteous indignation, one should take a step back from one's creaky pulpit. Take a breath. Consider. Tom Waits is a professional artist, surrounded by evidently skilled professional business people who want to make as much money as possible. The man has an utterly devoted fanbase and he never performs here. The demand for tickets will therefore be stratospheric so it makes sense that the price should soar in tandem.

Personally, whilst being a big admirer of the man's music, I don't think it is worth it. For that much cash I would have to be seeing Tom in a basement jazz bar in Paris, quadruple gin in my hand, saturated in cigarette smoke. His heavy delivery reverberating around the room as I weep silently for my recently departed Brazilian lingerie model with a PHD in metaphysics. After the gig Tom will sidle up beside my in my poorly lit booth, throw an arm around my shoulder, a torn packet of Gitanes on the table. With a click of his fingers Anna Karina walks straight out of that scene in Vivre Sa Vie and starts to sway, demure and interested. That devilish grin will linger a bit, "Johnny Boy, it's all gonna be okay!"

Probably not gonna happen in a tent in Dublin. Therefore, I'm not going to buy a ticket. As a consumer I have made a conscious and informed choice about a product. Boo! Hiss! Tom Waits is above capitalism and all those evils! Erm, clearly not. It is up to you then, Adult Consumer A, if you are willing to fork out. If you are sufficiently devoted to the Tom Waits legend then buy a ticket and go see him in concert with 6,000 like minded folks. If not, then shut up. Your whining is ridiculous.

The Great Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip Review. Episode # 2: The Galway Gig.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Sat, 10 May 2008 10:43:00 +0000

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip - Stress! @ De Burgos, Galway, May 8th.

Outside. Some greasy steps on Augustine Street. The drizzle is incessant, merciless. Well, as merciless as drizzle can be. And yet despite such meteorological pettiness, the queue continues to grow. Cheeky cans are quaffed and whimsies are spun, and the queue continues to grow. A peculiarly menacing gentleman in a floral umbrella, shorts, socks and sandals combo passes by. The queue continues to grow. The doors open suddenly. The queue shall grow no longer. There are no tickets left. Clutches of Galwegian musos meander home disappointed. There will be neither Dan Le Sac nor Scroobius Pip for them tonight, on this the first completely sold-out date of their Irish tour. The gentlemen responsible at Stress!! look content. As do the ticket holders.

Inside now. Damp do and sweaty Tiger beers. The breeze is shot to pieces. In the cosy confines of De Burgos, proximity to the artiste is paramount. Haste is required. We venture towards the stage. Whereon we witness the beginning of the support set. A comically hirsute Vince Mack Mahon are ripping it up. This foursome - Deviant, Hideous Penguin, Mikey Fingers, and DJ Tweek - now call Galway their home, having arrived here from corners as wonderfully disparate as Cork, Killarney and Roscommon. Their buzz is scratch perversion and those in attendance are really rather enjoying it all. It goes a little something like this... Sans Mantua '07 environs, of course.

Evangelical seems to be an adjective of choice when Master Scroobius Pip is discussed by critics. Apt. The crowd's reception of him and his suitcase of tricks is no less than rapturous. The niceties are kept to a minimum as he and Dan Le Sac launch directly into "The Beat That My Heart Skipped". The tempo is set. Then swiftly re-aligned. "Magician's Assistant" is next up, bringing it with it all the merriment and body movin' that a song about suicide can. Cue an ironic grin and self-aware joking from Scroobius. Is it enough?

More tunes. Chronology fails me now. "Development" sounds fuller and punchier than on the album. The props may have something to do with this. A lesson in entertainment from the bygone Tommy C perhaps? "Angles" is particularly impressive with Scroobius relishing in the visceral delivery of his parable. A Blair and Bush baiting piece of (un)spoken word poetry elicits one of the biggest cheers of the evening. An emphasis of the talent in our midst. Pip demands an instant frenzy for the thumping "Back From Hell". The neon brigade front left comply completely.

The best saved for last? "Thou Shalt Always Kill" is obviously glorious. The zealotry with which Pip's commandments are bellowed back at him makes it all the more enjoyable. Radiohead and Le Sac soundtrack the closing opus. "Letter From God To Man" exists as a definition of literate and socially aware hip-hop. Guns, bitches and bling pale into insignificance when in ironic discussion with a deity. Thomas Hobbes, bile from the Big Guy, a fucked up state of nature. With dancing. Which is nice.

Alas, that perpetual niggle of the hip-hop gig, it all seems like it is over too soon. Yet there are no complaints as the crowd begins to disperse, amiable and content. Dan Le Sac and Scroobius Pip seem quite satisfied themselves. As well they might. Job done. Sporadic flashes of brilliance. Tour finished. Their place on quite a few pedestals in Galway assured.

The Great Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip Review. Episode #1: The Album.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Sat, 10 May 2008 10:12:00 +0000

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip - Angles.

Let me get the versus issue out of the way from the get go. There is only one winner in the battle between Dan Le Sac and Scroobius Pip... And it is most certainly Master Pip. A poetic soul, an inquisitive inclination, an ear for a punchline. A discourse encompassing the evils of warfare, the hypocrisies of the NME brigade, and lurve. Impressive, no? Do not misunderstand me, Dan Le Sac is an artist of no little talent. However, would he ever have permeated the indie consciousness to such an extent without his able MC at his side?

The lyrical agility of Scroobius Pip is something to behold. Whilst he may not be the finished article in terms of flow, his keen intelligence more than makes up for this minuscule grievance. He tears the zeitgeist asunder on breakthrough hit "Thou Shalt Always Kill", hilariously underlining the many inanities of our very particular generation. A quote would be redundant at this stage, surely. He is prepared to examine the deeper issues too. Self-harm and alienation on "Magician's Assistant": "But then... what about me? / What kind of boyfriend am I? / Instead of living a life I was a big part of, you would rather die. / Instead of fighting through together and turning things around / You decided the grass was greener on the other side of the ground." "Reading My Dreams" is an exercise in subtle love poetry, an album closer of touching beauty and fragility: "I adjust to rest upon her sweet breast / And on her torso more so / In each others arms and with interlocked hands / Lay two smiling faces and one set of plans." And we return to the humorous once again, with this snippet from "Rapper's Battle", one of many examples of Pip's way with a punchline: "You can hear her every word, you would still never know me / Like Sean Penn could win 10 Oscars but he'll still be Spicoli."

There are moments of brilliance on this album during which the skills of both artists operate in dexterous and harmonious union... The thundering exclamation of Le Sac's beat on "Thou Shalt Always Kill" is the perfect foil to the urgency of Pip's proclamations. Le Sac's staccato composition on "Angles" deftly reinforces the uncomfortable lyrical narrative. Unfortunately it is not consistently so. There is a messiness to Dizzie Rascal nod "Fixed" that weakens Pip's sarcastic tirade. A confused pity. "Rapper's Battle" is a few edits away from a complete tune, Pip's vocals oscillating wildly throughout the mix. And whilst "Letter From God To Man" is quite the indie/liberal anthem, it would have benefited from slightly less noodling. Only slightly.

Angles is not perfect. There are flaws. However, these can and should be ignored. For this album is imbued with a freshness and urgency that leaves many contemporaries in its wake, be they within the realm of hip-hop or otherwise. Via the dexterity of Scroobius Pip the listener can be transported to a unique oasis of wit and inarguable potential. Once there the body pops are enabled by Monsieur Le Sac. Really, what more could one ask from a debut? They are, after all, just a band.

The Random Observations Of A Jaded Cynic. Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Accept The Truth As I See It And As Everybody Else Should Too. #1

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 21:08:00 +0000

I thought I was listening to The Kooks' new album Konk the other day. It turns out I was just standing beside a freshly painted wall.

Lawrence Of Arabia. In Topman.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 20:44:00 +0000

INT - A Trendy High Street Mens Clothing Boutique. By The Accessories Stand.

A man dressed entirely in white robes strides up to an immaculately coiffured but quite vacuous shop assistant. The man in white robes is none other than T.E. Lawrence, a man perhaps more popularly known as Lawrence Of Arabia. He carries himself with an unmistakable air of dignity and decorum. Derek, the assistant, is texting somebody with unerring rapidity. He does not even glance at his newest customer.

Lawrence Of Arabia:
Good day to you sir! I was wondering if you could be of assistance.

Derek exhales slightly. He still refuses to look up. He tosses his fringe in a spasm of misguided nonchalance. His thumb is a blur.

Lawrence Of Arabia:
Indeed... You see young man, I am about to embark on another military expedition with my Arab cohorts - their rebellion being most dear to me - and I wish to acquire some much needed clothing and supplies... First off, where do you keep your keffiyehs?

Derek:
Our wha?

Lawrence Of Arabia:
You know, your keffiyehs. I saw some youths gathered outside the local phonograph emporium. They were all wearing keffiyehs. And when I inquired as to where they obtained them, they said to come here.

Derek:
Wha?

Lawrence Of Arabia:
Damn it man, do you not even know what a keffiyeh is?

Derek:
Afraid not bud.

Lawrence Of Arabia:
How bastard tiresome of you!

Lawrence then storms out of the shop, knocking over a basket of checkered neon belts and string vests on sale for €2. Derek is about to settle back into his texting groove when another customer slowly enters the shop... It is Yasser Arafat.

Derek:
Alright Yasser man! Those new scarves you ordered came in! They're deadly, go really well with me scruffy Cons.

Yasser Arafat:
Sweet.

In Bruges. A Review.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 23:58:00 +0000

Martin McDonagh. A bona fide gifted playwright. Martin McDonagh. An Oscar winner. Martin McDonagh. A man whose scripts are prone to the odd expletive and even odder socially irresponsible diatribe... In Bruges. Martin McDonagh's debut feature as both screenwriter and director. In Bruges. A very satisfying and worthwhile cinematic experience indeed. Which is nice.

The buddy/crime/hitman templates have been well battered by mainstream movie makers over the years, yet they still permit a talented scribe a lot of room in which to maneuver. Thankfully, McDonagh is such a scribe. Theatre enthusiasts will already be aware of his effusive dialogic style - the Aran Islands trilogy, The Pillowman. The question is then, how his distinctive style translates to a tried and trusted cinematic (sub)genre. Allow me a brief digression, if you will... Thomas Schatz, a film theorist, once wrote that genre is both "a static and a dynamic system". There are tenets and conflicts within a genre that must remain constant throughout a genre's development. Yet the techniques with which the writer/director tackles this essential conflicts can change. Fluidity is key... Old Tom was spot on really. Basically, it is up to the writer/director to prescribe to or fuck with generic rules as he sees fit. A craftsman will always attempt to do both. As does McDonagh here.

Take the setting for example. Crime films and Belgian towns do not make for common bedfellows. Therefore the intrigue is instant. As is the subtle majesty of Bruges. The medieval architecture is bewitching and ethereal. It helps to lift McDonagh's narrative out of the dregs of genre - casinos, inner city whorehouses, country clubs - and allude to something more substantial. Yet the fairytale aesthetic constantly reinforces the fiction of proceedings. Is this meant as a parable? Entirely up to you.

The most important thing is that this is a bloody entertaining film. For me, McDonagh's dialogue here is on a par with any of his previous creations. His ear for the intricacies of Irish camaraderie/vulgarity remains unparalleled. The "fucks" and belly laughs are plentiful. This film is a twisted equal opportunities offender, yet is nevertheless in possession of an insistent heart. That heart's beat is supplied by the chemistry between the two leads. Ken (Brendan Gleeson) and Ray (Colin Farrell) are two lovingly drawn characters, but McDonagh would have been stranded without the pitch perfect realisation from both actors... Gleeson is brilliant as the withered and worldly Ken. His hitman-beginning-to-see-the-bigger-picture is one that effortlessly sidesteps the clichés normally associated with such roles. However, it is Farrell that steals the show. His is a blistering performance, alternating rapidly and seamlessly between slapstick comedy, vicious outbursts of violence, tender sweetness, and an all consuming depression. Ray is an idiot at times, but he is always a relatively well-intentioned sort. A man who is perhaps not really cut out for his current line of work.

Alas, it is time for a complaint or two. Whilst an impressive debut, there are still a few faults to be found in Bruges. McDonagh displays some moments of inspired directorial ability - the coke scene, the playground scene. However, he also quite often highlights his relative filmic inexperience. There are some occasional shifts in tone and pace that just don't sit right. Especially in the final reel. Which brings us to the ending. It is a very fine exercise in screenwriting technique and formalistic invention, but it grates somewhat with the breathless and irreverent messiness of what goes before it. The fervent machinations (and characters) of McDonagh's mind seem to have been reined in by the need for an oh-so-clever denouement. The result? A serious bang of contrivance. A pity. It's a confusion that often permeates a first feature. A narcissism on the part of a fledgling director coming from a sphere of prior adulation? Perhaps.

Ultimately, however, these are only minor quibbles. Any late upsets - and slight ones at that - are completely overshadowed by the fiercely enjoyable and energetic first two acts. This film is hilarious, yet there are also moments of visceral pathos and emotion. As the strength of the relationship between Ken and Ray becomes more apparent, one cannot but be touched by their respective moral dilemmas and existential ennui. A sense of decency and a nagging moral compass, "gay beer", and a contractual obligation to murder... Never easy is it?

State Magazine. Sweet.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 12:28:00 +0000

Having spent the weekend sporadically delving into the new Irish musical payload that is State Magazine, I would like to take this opportunity to offer a "bloody good show" to all concerned... A fresh and clean design, smells lovely too... An eclectic range of content, offering insights into the REMs of this world as well as the !Kaboogies... And most importantly of all, a talented and engaging pack of scribes.

I await the second issue with considerable interest. Until then, I shall make do with the second State podcast. Starring Choice winners Super Extra Bonus Party, a click forth would be quite worthwhile.

As is this fantastic blog, the Dalston Oxfam Shop. It is a treasure trove of nostalgia, bygone cool and kitsch. It is a library of old cassette tapes found on the dusty shelves of charity shops. The nuggets are numerous. And all available for download... The requisite hat tip must go to Nialler and his exceedingly high Blog Standard buzz.

Sweet find dude.

Mongrel. RIP.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 00:01:00 +0000

This is the cover of the very last copy of Mongrel Magazine:

A sad time folks. Despite my very real grief, I now present you with my epitaph for the publication. Composed in the idiom of their famous music reviews:

86%

Mongrel Magazine.
Mongrel Press Ltd.

Oh, the merriment. A bunch of Trinners types with delightfully pointless humanities degrees - probably - decide to festoon their witticisms and scorns upon Joe Public. Whoever the fuck he is. They nestle ironic editorials and willfully obscure slices of investigative journalism into a carefully manicured hedgerow of hipster ads. Who cares if the shops aren't even to be found in the country? Get with the times you square. Get the in-jokes too, or expose yourself as a retrograde culchie with damp turf for teeth. Where's your keffiyah, Snack Box? This really should be an annoying pile of shite. Trouble is, the writers are brilliantly funny. And namedropping it makes you cool... Bastards.
Cav.

The cur is dead! Long live State!

There Will Be Blood. A Review.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 21:16:00 +0000

My word. What a brilliant piece of cinema. A magnificent and strange beast. An insistently grim and austere glance into the true depths of humanity. Depths that are seldom entertained. Depths that defy scrutiny. Depths that are nonetheless laid bare with a gripping level of exactitude and care by P.T. Anderson. A director at the very height of his considerable powers.

First, the technical stuff. The script? Measured and brilliant, the work of a scribe completely in tune with the possibilities of his medium... The direction? Utterly unequivocal. Anderson knows exactly where his film is going, exactly why it shall reach its crushing destination, and exactly how uncomfortable/entertained his audience should be. Those opening fourteen minutes without dialogue are mesmerising. I honestly cannot remember the last time I witnessed such exposition of character with such economy of technique.

The cinematography? This film is a collage of some of the most ruggedly gorgeous shots I have seen in years. Robert Elswit is a genius. Utilising only the listlessness of the harsh Texan terrain and the murky gloom of oil spurts and wood shacks, he weaves one hell of a tapestry. The verve with which that first explosion was orchestrated left me breathless. It sears itself into the mind of the viewer; the fire a moment of exponential beauty amidst the consuming darkness. Vivid, visceral.

The music? Atonal, challenging, yet always operating as an invaluable aid to the characters on screen. In my humble opinion, Johnny Greenwood has gone as far as to re-invent the motion picture score. His work here really is that good.

And now onto the main event... The performance. Daniel Day-Lewis will never better this. Consider those words again. I mean them. His Daniel Plainview is a creature for the annals. An elemental and brutal force, the very embodiment of hate and desire. So twisted is Plainview's soul that it manifests itself in his physical appearance. The further he strives to disconnect himself from all that is basically human - "I want to earn enough money so I can get away from everyone" - the more golem like Day-Lewis' Plainview becomes. Eventually, he will limp, he will stagger, he will cough, yet importantly he will never relent. His voice will never quiver. And what an assured and charming voice it is too. Rich and textured, the vessel through which Plainview imparts many witticisms and wisdoms. Yet it never successfully disguises the viciousness within.

So what does it all mean? Who is Daniel Plainview? What is the point of There Will Be Blood, his story? Why should we care if he is just an evil bastard? Daniel Plainview is a metaphor. Daniel Plainview is greed. He is capitalism taken to its logical and unemotional conclusion. In fact, he is the very definition of meritocracy. Whilst intrinsically violent, he is nonetheless an impressively skilled and meticulous oilman. Be it through violence or trade, he will take what he is able to. Though you may wish it to be some form of quixotic nightmare, Plainview's course is clearly plotted via the core fundamentals of the American Dream. He is Horatio Alger, mutilated or not. His resplendent physical ends justify his murderous means. Always.

Some people may find this excess to be offensive, even tedious. Some people may argue for a lack of redemption, a lack of soul. They will ask why Plainview is the man he has become. Why does he hate his fellow man to such an extent? What are the Freudian implications and subtexts to his misanthropic ways? Where is his back story? Did his mother not hug him enough?

Rubbish. Plainview's is not a world that permits such emotional and intellectual considerations. They are meandering follies drowning in his ceaseless vitriol. They are like the grandiose and delusional Eli (Paul Dano, also astounding). They too shall perish; screeching, limbs flailing in attempted escape from the incessant demon Planview. Curiosity is ego. Ego is humanity. And it is totally redundant... Uncomfortable yet? Yes? Then ask yourself why this is so.

The answer is simple. You are uncomfortable because you have done exactly what Anderson intended you to do. You have peered into a fragmented mirror of your own soul. You have recognised your inner Plainview, your own aberrant wishes and dreams... And uncomfortable as it may be, you must scrutinise him too. Remind him of your control over him. For in us all lies that potential for unfettered evil. In us all lies that untapped and immoral charisma. There is no reason for it. There is no structure to it. It has no narrative. It simple is, as it always has been, since first we came forth from the slime.

It cannot be ignored. Plainview cannot be ignored. This film is a total mindfuck. This film is an absolute masterpiece. I'm finished.

An Inner Monologue Through Which Justin Timberlake Realises The Grand Folly Of His Musical Repertoire. Or Something Like It.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 23:06:00 +0000

INT - A Utopian Record Store Situated Deep Within The Mind Of The New(ish) Journalist.

Pop star Justin Timberlake slowly makes his way to the cashier's desk. He is fidgeting, nervous. He puts both hands on the counter whilst rubbing the back of his neck. An impressive feat.

Justin Timberlake:
Hey! I'm bringing sexy back!

Cashier:
Yeah? Do you have a receipt?

Justin Timberlake:
What? Actually, no I don't.

Cashier:
Oh, right. That could be a problem.

Justin Timberlake:
Well, it's still in its packaging. I never actually used it.

Cashier:
Oh, okay. Well, I suppose you could exchange it for something else.

Justin Timberlake:
Awesome dude! You got any coolness or credibility?

Cashier:
Nope. Fresh out of those.

Justin Timberlake:
Golly gee. Well dude, what do you guys have?

Cashier:
Let me see... Erm, we just got in some brand new sense of humour.

Justin Timberlake:
Oh gosh! A sense of humour? That all you got?

Cashier:
Yup. The ladies love it.

The cashier then proceeds to take a cream pie from underneath his counter and smacks Justin Timberlake right in the kisser. Both men remain rigid whilst the Benny Hill theme tune builds to a deafening crescendo in the store. With a polite insistence a newly formed tear struggles through the opaque dairy produce atop Justin's left cheek. He had just exfoliated that very morning.

Huzzahs & Bloggies!

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 00:46:00 +0000

My First Irish Blog Awards. Thoughts? Well, I must first express my surprise at this dignitary's appearance. What blinding gravitas and wit:

"Savage." I had such a good time on Saturday night. Such an orgiastic stew of pleasantries. Such a welcoming and friendly buzz. Such a surprise to witness the sweetness of Twenty in person. The necessary shoutouts then to the following: the awesome duo that is Nialler and Aoife, Ian the gentleman photographer, the Arts & Culture behemoth that is Sinead, Eddie Sans Clarity, a tequila slamming Una, and The Humblest of Housewives... There are many more people with whom I would have liked to shoot the breeze, but I was unfortunately unable. There were many shiny things in the room and somebody had swapped my Ritalin for stale orange Tic Tacs. Bastards.

Hearty congratulations to the deserving winners. A wizard show all round. Take a bow Mister Mulley, take a bow!

Super Extra Bonus Party. Choice.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 21:50:00 +0000

Super Extra Bonus Party are the winners of this year's Choice Music Prize.

Congratulations to the band, for theirs was quite certainly the most impressive Irish release of the past year. Congratulations to the judges for being willing to award such an eclectic and vibrant mix... Hip-hop from Kildare via Brazil. A precedent? Let us all hope so.

Those of you who experienced these guys for free in Róisíns on Saturday, I hope you appreciated it. It could be some time before admission is gratis again.

Mongrels.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 00:03:00 +0000

There were recent rumours that the much beloved Mongrel magazine had ceased to be. Whilst it has been aeons - well, just over a month - since last an issue of this fine publication graced the hipster milieus of Ireland, it simply is not the case. A new issue is due by the end of this month. (A quick nod to Aoife and David.) I am very glad that the magazine shall endeavour onwards, ever onwards. I would rather have missed the music reviews:

92%

James Blunt

All The Lost Souls

Atlantic

It’s become very fashionable to dismiss James Blunt’s music out of hand, just because "You’re Beautiful" got perhaps a little bit overplayed on the radio. But if you do the guy the service of actually listening to more than one of his songs, you may come to realize that he is a songwriter of incredible range and ability. I’m joking. Of course I’m joking. The guy is a wibbly voiced fool and I hope a bird shits on his head. My real score is 0.01% And even that’s being kind. Cunt.

Butler

Two friends of mine met James Blunt in the airport in Barcelona once. Apparently he was quite approachable and mannerly. He was on his way to his recently acquired villa in Ibiza. Fair play to him. I got the bus from Galway to Ennis yesterday. The heating was broken and a deranged Lithuanian woman kept stroking my knee. She had the aberrant, asymmetrical eyes of a Baltic knee stroker. I had no mp3 player, no reading material, and no machete... I was not on my way to a villa in Ennis.

There's a metaphor in there. Somewhere. Possibly.

Moi? On an Irish Blog Awards shortlist? Get thyself out of this town post haste!

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 22:56:00 +0000

Wow.

I really cannot get my head around this one at all. The New(ish) Journalism has somehow made the shortlist for Best Arts & Culture Blog at the Irish Blog Awards. A most intrinsically validating, surprising and deadly buzz. I mean, just check out the high standard of my fellow nominees:

Seriously, thank you so much to everybody who voted for this blog in the first place. Also, a massive thank you to those judges who then deemed the petulant ramblings of this New(ish) Misanthrope shortlist worthy. Finally, thanks to Don Mulley, Poetry Ireland - sponsors of this particular category - and all the other sponsors for making this whole awards shindig possible. Mesmeric legends, one and all.

Congratulations and good fortune to everybody in the running and I shall hopefully see most of you on the night... My frock is already in order so I'm off now to the unisex salon to get my teeth sculpted and eyeballs massaged. Or something.

Irish Blog Awards Nominations

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Sat, 02 Feb 2008 18:38:00 +0000

Aw shucks! I currently reside equidistant between the conditions of totally chuffed and perfectly bemused. Apparently there are enough benevolent souls amongst you to have garnered me a place on the (considerably) longlists for both Best Newcomer and Best Arts and Culture Blog at this year's Irish Blog Awards.

Although decidedly inferior to many of my fellow nominees, I shall take this opportunity to thank everybody who voted for The New(ish) Journalism. Seriously, you guys! I also want to take this next opportunity to apologise to all y'all for the sizeable cessation of activity here over the past month or two. Less daily buzz, more fortnightly buzz, at best. It truly has sucked, being unable to fully exploit this twisted soapbox dynamic. It is also going to change post haste. Distractions have been removed and things have fallen into their appropriate ass grooves and what not. Huzzah!

Oh, just in case you are wondering how I got to be so damn good, I owe it all to this baby right here:

Thanks again folks! And best of luck to the multitude of blogospheric legends also in the running!

No Country For Old Men. A Review.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 17:02:00 +0000

It is the wont of this blogger to be excessive in his appraisal of certain creative endeavours. And for that tendency I shall never apologise. A good thing too, because without an excessive superlative or two one might struggle to adequately describe No Country for Old Men.

Put simply, the Coen Brothers are back on form with this one. Their quirky and often glib cinematic idiom resonates throughout, yet it is reinforced with a thematic certainty and pathos not seen in a Coen flick in many a year. Since Fargo, to be exact. The gritty prose of McCarthy's novel is the perfect partner for their filmic intelligence.

This one had everything for me. Glorious dialogue, obviously... A collection of pitch perfect performances, at turns gripping and whimsical... A certain narrative unafraid to develop at its own pace, or to treat its audience as creatures of intelligence... Sumptuous cinematography in awe of the harsh beauty of its surroundings... In Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh we witness a behemoth of malevolence, the photo negative of humanity as we like to imagine it... That silenced shotgun.

Sure, this film is often gory. Sure, it is primarily a chase/suspense narrative. Sure, there are many lines lifted directly from the lexicon of Western sheriff simplicity. Yet it is the exactitude of manipulation of every aspect of this movie that makes it such a resounding success. Through their marriage of generic cinematic conventions and McCarthy's thematic concerns, the Coens have produced cinematic poetry. No Country For Old Men is a lament for bygone times, real or imagined. It questions the existence of men of decency and duty. It is also damn entertaining.

Finally, for those plebeian rows on Friday night who questioned the restrained tone of the final act, allow me a brief rebuke. You did not get it because your desire for a wham-bam generic resolution is exactly what the Coens are so keen to critique with this movie. Immediacy and petulance are now deeply ingrained in our society. And with them will always come immorality, incessant and impure. We crave something, therefore we must own it. After all, "you can't stop what's coming." The question put to the audience is how can any man - be he indeed old or young - live in such a twisted milieu?

This is not to say that inside every man there resides a miniature Shigurh, armed and ready to explode. Shigurh is a cinematic psychopath for the ages, yet he is primarily a symbol. This story is a parable folks. Michael Bay doesn't do them.

"Thou shalt always, erm..."

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 12:17:00 +0000

I fester still in a stew of ailment. Unable to leave the house over the weekend, my boredom over almost drove me insane. As did the grotesque amount of decongestants and Lemsip that coarsed through my veins... Immersed in this quixotic ennui, I was somehow inspired to compose a particularly Irish version of "Thou Shalt Always Kill" by good old Dan le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip.... It was a probably a mistake. Bemusing implications:

Thou shalt not steal from a direct victim. Be sneaky.

Thou shalt not respect political rivals or refuse false profits.

Thou shalt not take the name of Our Lord God in vain. Respect your Catholic roots or perish! Etc.

Thou shalt not think any Minister of Finance handling obscene amounts of cash without a bank account is a criminal... Some people are just nice.

Thou shalt not read the Indo.

Thou shalt not stop liking rugby just because we've become shit.

Thou shalt not "text-in" Ray D'Arcy.

Thou shalt not disrespect the single immigrant mother.

Thou shalt not judge her by any means contrary to the other.

Thou shalt not buy "smoothie-makers".

Thou shalt not customise Honda Civics.

Thou shalt not go into Coppers with your boyfriend's best friend, drink Baby Guinness and then puke on him.

Thou shalt not take advantage so easily.

Thou shalt not use poetry, art or music to get into girls' pants... The good/gullible ones are already taken.

Thou shalt not watch Fair City.

Thou shalt not attend an open mic if you live outside Dublin, Galway, Cork or Limerick... Rural Ireland is culturally retarded.

Thou shalt not return to the same club or bar, week in, week out, just because you may well pull a horrendously drunk young one you Tommy Hilfiger-attired gimp.

Thou shalt not put gap years and holiday destinations on ridiculous pedestals no matter how great they are or were.

Sydney - Just a city.
Cairns - Just a pit stop.
Fraser - Just an island.
Kakadu - Just a park.
Great Ocean Road - Just infrastructure.
Ayers - Just a rock.
Bondi - Just a beach.
The Opera House - Just a photo.
Kangaroos - Just bouncy mice.
Labouring a point - Just for kicks.

The Next Big Cliche - Just go and shut up.

Thou shalt give equal worth to tragedies that occur in non-English speaking countries as to those that occur in English speaking countries... Then organise a futile rock concert in a park with Scrooge Geldof, "raise awareness" and achieve fuck all.

Thou shalt remember that guns, bitches and bling were never part of the four elements... [Insert Limerick joke here]

Thou shalt not frequent repetitive generic niteclubs.
Thou shalt not frequent repetitive generic niteclubs.
Thou shalt not frequent repetitive generic niteclubs.
Thou shalt not frequent repetitive generic niteclubs.

Thou shalt not Pimp My Ride (on TG4).

Thou shalt not watch that homophobic Jehovah's Tart on Paisean Faisean.

Thou shalt not hate the English soccer team out of nationalistic spite.

Thou shalt hate them because of Fat Lampard, and they're shite.

When someone roars "Heeey!", thou shalt not scream "Baaaby!"

When I say "gift", thou shalt not assume "Grub".

When the DJ drops The Saw Doctors, thou shalt not form a hideous sweaty ring in the middle of the dancefloor. Yet probably will all the same.

(Ah, forgot where I was, hang on)

Thou shalt not quote Rihanna when it rains.

Thou shalt not shake it like a Polaroid picture after half a bottle of Mickey Finns.

Thou shalt not convince your less attractive friend she is a freak like ye.

Thou shalt call the place "Dingle", not "An Daingean", you self-righteous, futile, and antiquated Gaeltacht types... Regardless of how often Fungi goes AWOL.

Thou shalt not express your shock at the fact that Murph and Damo did not get into the club by telling the gigantic Polish bouncer that you will "bate the fuckin' crap out of him!"

Thou shalt drink for yourselves!

And thou shalt always... Thou shalt always... spill.

Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip 'Thou Shalt Always Kill' (Youtube)

An Electric Odyssey - The Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Wed, 05 Sep 2007 15:53:00 +0000

Mass as Gaeilge... Freaked out hippies... The excellence of Mixmaster Mike... The pathetic indifference of limbs... Miscellaneous meanders and the sublime Body & Soul... Chinwags and oxygen bars... A partial glimpse at Sonic Youth... Thou Shalt Always Enjoy Le Sac Vs Pip... A blinding Fujiya & Miyagi... The ramblings of Mani... "Thirty sheets for a yoke"... The End.

We awake with mass as Gaeilge on a builder's radio borrowed from benevolent neighbours. Buzzes are wrecked. Hippies are freaked out... The application of moistoned jelly babies to the foreheads of strangers... Bouncing into tea cups... Ducks and dives... Who knows when we shall be right again? Apologies, for it were not I.

Propped up against the back of the tent. Enraptured by the turntablism nous of Mixmaster Mike, emboldened by his ability to get a party started. Nonetheless unable to move an inch. Paralysed by aching limbs, a lack of sleep and completely ineffectual vodka... Feeling shall return but not yet... Not yet... Stop quoting Gladiator.

Des Bishop pleasing some crowd. The pic is a late addition.

Vodka is taking hold me thinks... The Comedy Tent... Jarlath Regan... A funny university student coda, one to which I can so relate. A joke about guide dogs cramming for exams, a 2.2 at the end of it all... My laugh is noticeably loud. Paranoia averted for now. Gerry Mallon comes on. The despicable and tasteless twat. He makes a joke about fingering his niece... Really.

In the Body & Soul arena now. Inadvertently disrupt a yoga class (or something), but it feels good to be there. Until... An army of butterflies descends upon our group of Flim Flammers as we idly chat shite. My brain is scrambled and this is the last thing I need. "Smile, smile" they say as I cling to the fragments of my broken ceann. The callous hippies. Cosmic revenge for mass earlier? Who knows... Hardcore kudos on the necessity of the drip by the way. You know who you are.

Get chips from Home Fries. They are the most putrid muck, festering in a pool of Satan's knob cheese. Then the rain starts... The biblical rain... Soaked, we venture back to our tents to recuperate, drink some more and prepare ourselves for the next onslaught.

Catch a bit of Sonic Youth. I am on my own now, isolated by my fervent compulsion to witness Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip first hand... They are entertaining, but little more than a distraction from my dwindling vodka supply and inability to achieve adequate sentence structure.

To Foggy Notions and Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip. And what a decidedly impressive show it is. Scroobius oozes stage presence. His flow is effortless. The Radiohead sampling "A Letter From God" is a peach. A slice of spoken word poetry keeps the audience thoroughly enraptured. However, it is "Thou Shalt Always Kill" that the punters crave, and the duo are aware. So aware in fact, that it quickly becomes something of a joke. At one stage the opening bars of the song creates a torrent of cheers only for them to cut the music instantly. The reason for doing so, according to Scroobius: "Fuck off, if we play that now you'll all leave and go see Sonic Youth." Not I, Scroobius. Not, I. But I see your point... The song itself is ab fab. "U2... Just a band!" Too right son.

Fujiya & Miyagi - "Cassettesingle". Incredible buzz.

Next up Fujiya & Miyagi. Words can not do justice to just how good this gig was. They commence with "Ankle Injuries" and it just gets better and better from there on in. Banter with the crowd is non-existant. However, in this case it would also be an irrelevance, such is the triumphant musicianship on display, and the frenzy the crowd is slowly being whipped into. "Collarbone" is such fun to dance to, inspiring a momentary spastic Macarena-like dance-off down the front. The band looks delighted, and slightly confused. "Cassettesingle" is another gem... The cheering never stops throughout the entire gig, and there is only one viable option for the encore... "Fujiya, Miyagi! Fujiya, Miyagi! Fujiya, Miyagi!"

We hang on at the front for a while and get chatting to Miyagi (David Best). Lovely bloke. Pictures are taken. Congratulations are heartfelt. A set list is procured. Nice.

We hurry towards The Go! Team to catch the end of their set. The atmosphere is incredible. The whole arena is engaged in bouncy delirium. New songs are rapturously received. Old favourites like "Bottle Rocket" even more so. The end comes far too soon for us latecomers, but the last song is a beauty. "Ladyflash" is spellbinding. The crowd continues to bellow its cheery refrain minutes after the band has left... Did not expect too much, but this was mesmeric.

The weekend ends way back by Pieminister at Primal Scream. An enjoyable greatest hits buzz. Nothing amazing, but fun all the same. Some last hurrah dancing and nonsensical chit chat with some girls from Naas. I get accosted by a Northside pillhead.. What language does Mani speak?

Body & Soul is wedged. We depart for the tents. I meet a fellow blogger on the way. He appears as devastated as I. Our souls lay bare on our sleeves. We say practically nothing but communicate enough through the festival smile... That vacant but heartwarming expression that indicates the joy within. You have nothing left to give, but it feels fantastic.

Back to the tent.

Warm tepid beer.

It will not relent,

This burgeoning Fear.

Now asleep, I repent,

The End is quite near.

An Electric Odyssey - The Saturday

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Wed, 05 Sep 2007 11:24:00 +0000

An immense Super Extra Bonus Party... A blogospheric union... Cian & Cyril and The Galway Nostalgia Buzz... The shameless karaoke of Bonde Do Jokey... Manipulative euphoria at the hands of The Polyphonic Spree... The Shaking of one's Rump... Pretentious pillheads and some trees... Staying in character, regardless...

Awake. Hangover. Quelle surprise. Gallons of coffee. A smoothie. Another bagel. Wheels are set in motion. A cheeky splash of Wild Bucky makes all the difference. To Bodytonic we must venture!

The Super Extra Bonus Party Air Hurley Buzz. Great pic. Via Nialler.

Wherein we find a superlative Super Extra Bonus Party. It may only be midday but the crowd is in the hundreds and decidedly in the mood. The band are in superb form, evidently buoyed by the reaction of said crowd. The sound is fantastic. The intro to "Everything Flows" melts this particular mind. "Favourite Things" is the undisputed highlight. Rodrigo surveys his dominion with an enormous grin. Those slain by this Newbridge posse smile back, utterly content. Huzzah!

My feet, Andy and Aoife. Nialler resides in the background.

Afterwards, I meet Aoife of The Indie Hour and we have a wee chat. An utterly charming lass. Cigarettes and Buckfast are shared, as are highlights and predictions. I, Horace (Ronan) and Andy extend our heartiest congratulations to Nialler (on visuals) and a clutch of the SEBP boys. Satisfaction and nonchalance seem to be buzzes of choice... A fantastic start to the day.

We bump into Cian & Cyril aka SiSi aka the 110th Street DJs. Undisputed heroes of the Galway club scene, it is great to see them perform at the Picnic. They seem totally relaxed pre-Bodytonic set, and we wish them the best of luck... There was no need. Their set is an absolute banger, a typically seamless smorgasbord of inspired tune selection. Bucky and these lads, the definitive Galway buzz. By 3.00pm it is all over, and I am spent. So spent that I miss Malajube in Foggy Notions. A twisted pisser. Was I wrong to do so?

We lie in the sunshine and chat to some new friends acquired during the 110th Street buzz. They are politely mangled, the cheerful victims of a class A onslaught. Yet we care not, for we too are under the power of another... The Wild Bucky. You schizo bastard. After a time, we compose ourselves sufficiently and brave the Bodytonic arena once again. The reason? Bonde Do Role.

The wise and venerable zeitgeist would decree that this is a live band that cannot be missed. Even in my wobbly and impressionable condition at the time, I would have to disagree. The tenacity of this trio of musical chancers is to be applauded, and for a few cheesy samples and shouts I was moderately entertained. However, on reflection this is perhaps the most vacuous performance I have ever witnessed. Oh look, it's two Brazilians simulating sex whilst shouting. They are sweaty too, like when you have a good ride... Look, I get it, it's meant to be a joke. However, how am I supposed to laugh when the punchline is in Portuguese? Never again.

I decide to take a walk. I take in some sights and sounds which I distinctly remember being impressed by... Names and places, however, escape me... I decide to take a break and partake in that particular novelty of the summer festival: the reggae cover band. Easy All Stars Radiodread breathe effortless humour into the grumpy intelligence of Thom Yorke & Co. Sprawled across the grass I sip warm Heineken from a €3 plastic cup, and smile. The slow approach of sunset during a festival, these are the peculiar times...

The Polyphonic Spree - Post Wardrobe Change. Splendid.

Bouncing baby Gandhi on a paraplegic elephant! The Polyphonic Spree blow me away, yet again. Whilst their last two albums never quite achieved the quixotic majesty of their first LP, it is in the live arena that it all makes sense. The ultimate euphoric buzz. Granted, making your average Picnic punter smile is like shooting a paralysed and blindfolded fish in a shoe box, but Tim De Laughter et al are just so very good at it... Their cover of "Lithium" is perhaps the highlight of my weekend. The encore and wardrobe change is totally expected, yet still breathtaking. That lone harpist must have felt like a king.

I miss Final Fantasy. I am seriously annoyed. The mojitos do nothing to quell my self loathing. Gaarrgh! Etc.

Next up, the Beastie Boys and the gig I had anticipated more than any other that day. An incendiary performance. Whilst getting on in years, this group has lost none of its vitality and venom. Hits like "Triple Trouble", "Brass Monkey", "Shake Your Rump", "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn" and a cathartic "Sabotage" leave me breathless. An intoxicated grin threatens to split my gormless mug throughout. Hugs and high fives are plentiful... The crowd clings to its ability to party. At this stage it is nobody's right.

The Chemical Brothers - "The Sunshine Underground". Immense.

And so the evening closes with The Chemical Brothers. Immersed in an ocean of pill heads, there was little choice but to give it our all. Which we did. However, a collective boredom within could nevertheless be detected. Such is the malaise of the dwindling super-group I suppose. A serious lack of quality recent material becomes quite apparent when the biggest cheers of the night are unanimously given to drops from the Surrender era... However, it must be said that nothing could compete with that version of "The Sunshine Underground"... Also, that sinister march of green robots was a work of freaky genius. A visual unquestionably designed to instill The Fear. Cheeky geeks.

Back to the campsite... Miscellaneous insanity... Brian wearing a sumo suit on the rodeo bull... A superb dismount... The ultimate moral victory... A rave in the woods... Malcontent vibrations... Pretentious scenesters sneer at the wellies with contempt... Grotesque levels of misplaced self-confidence... "I'm Rick James bitch!".... Will the catchphrases ever cease?

Our group dwindles to a mere duo. Handsome and I. A random decision. We assume different identities. He is Fontelle. I, Lavelle. We become androgynous amalgams of Northside scobes and Baptist preachers' wives... We take a walk throughout the entire campsite. People are entertained by our insanity. People are scared. People are both.

The madness eventually subsides as Wild Bucky relinquishes its grip on our enfeebled minds and we return to the tents. Sleep beckons, but first I must assuage one last desire.

I acquire a Caesar salad bagel. Satisfaction. Oblivion.

An Electric Odyssey - The Friday.

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Wed, 05 Sep 2007 09:51:00 +0000

Commencing with Pimms... An air of eloquence... Bastards on rodeo bulls... The unexpected surprise of the Origin Myth... Politely refined enjoyment avec Hot Chip... All My Friends at LCD... Disappearing tents... The first of many...

The author of www.slurdotcom.blogspot.com and some Pimms. Huzzah!

We arrive early at a festival for the first time ever. No stress. Tent up with minimum fuss... Commence with the mixing of the Pimms my good man! Damn you, more strawberries! Have you not heard? This is a boutique festival. You filthy, unrefined savage. This is no time to be cheap. For we are about to embark on a voyage of polite aural discovery, a meaningful discourse with our inner hippie... Can the coarse young consumerists of Ireland handle such a symbiotic relationship with nature? At €3 a pint glass, we shall soon see. Down with capitalism man!

The Pimms has been quaffed. Inhibitions have been nullified. Friends have been met. Rubbish has been talked. Resolutions have been made... "Outside the Silent Disco at 6.43? Yeah, totally. See you there!"... To the inner sanctum of the Picnic we meander.

This meandering brings us to our first act of the festival, and an unexpected joy at that. His name is Joe Driscoll, a New Yorker residing in the UK. He plays in a tent with a small stage and a clutter of clichéd shmoke paraphernalia. Multi-instrumentalism, quality beatboxing, intricate layering, and dexterous rhymes are this dude's bag... The vibe in the tent is extremely chilled out. Fragrant odours abound. "Origin Myth" is quite the tune... We depart, happier and expectant.

The wanders continue... Hot Chip are our next port of call. I chill out towards the back of the crowd, opting to take it all in rather than give it socks. The Pimms seems to have quietened my will to fully embrace. The show is nothing groundbreaking, but very enjoyable nonetheless. The shy "thank you" offered by the band during the breakdown of "Over and Over" makes me smile. Such a lack of egotism and willingness to impress the punters is to be applauded... If only a certain daughter of a certain Tamil Tiger would take heed.

More aimless meandering... I'm sure I caught a band or two, but I really can't remember who... Endure monumental boredom at the hands of Bjork. She seems to be aiming for a powerful marriage of theatrical splendour and subtle viscera. It feels like listening to a Bjork album on dodgy speakers. Sssh...

And so on to LCD Soundsystem, and a very good show. "All My Friends" was a transcendent highlight. The insistence of that opening piano always gets me. Hugs are exchanged with a gusto that borders on violence. A masochistic refusal to stop dancing. Shut up foolish body! There is more beer back at the tent. Sedation is imminent. Fear not... I make the acquaintance of a very nice girl from Maynooth called Sarah... The immediacy of the festival connection? Sigh.

An hour or two to find the tent of a new acquaintance... A tipple or two shared from the delightful Creek of the Badger... The first of many Caesar salad bagels... Abuse is shouted at that despicable Northside wanker in the rodeo bull stall. What did the tenants of Blue camping do to deserve this vacuous tosser? Why did he congeal here? The Tiesto, the horror... The tent cam confirms its status as a moronic idea... Eventually shut down after hours of semi-effort...

However this is not the time to ponder the implications. Prospects? We'll burn those bridges when we come to them... The second bagel. A sleeping bag. Teasing slivers of sunlight... The bastards.

Home From The Picnic

noreply@blogger.com (John Cav) — Mon, 03 Sep 2007 18:39:00 +0000

Oh dear. The weird post-festival dreams have already started. The latest one involved a Portuguese table quiz, speed dating whilst being chased by a grizzly bear, and the following creature coming to life:

So worth it though.

Goodbye for now blogosphere! A Lemsip and a perilous couch coma await...