The bloke in front is really annoying me now. Earlier on during the set, he was a mild irritation - a fly buzzing in the background, occasionally knocking against the windowpane - now he's a next door neighbour undertaking a major DIY job at 10pm on a Sunday night.
There he is, right in front of where we're standing - quite near the front of the stage in fact - chatting to his mates, leaping about all over the place to pull 'amusing' faces at girls, raising his arm in the air and doing some weird flicky thing with his fingers when he hears a song he thinks he recognises; except the flicky thing is neither in time with the music nor in keeping with the fact that he's at a Goldfrapp show. Kasabian, maybe, Oasis definitely - but not Goldfrapp.
Where do these people come from? I wonder. And at what point do they decide, yeah, you know what I'm going to pay thirty quid to see that dirty bird with the lalalala song who isn't Kylie - what's her name? Sounds a bit like one of those Starbucks coffees...
I'm aware I'm sounding like some old fella at the back who shushes people at Bert Jansch gigs but you know, if you come to a gig, get in the spirit of the thing! I'm here with someone who works at EMI and so traditionally we should be the annoying freeloaders who don't appreciate the ticket price and talk in loud voices all the way through the show. But actually we're both real fans. Much earlier in the year, I waxed in this very blog about Seventh Tree by Goldfrapp and I still stand by what I wrote - it's one of the albums of the year and no doubt will end up in many end of year Best Album lists. Mind you, it will be at position 87 much further behind more superficially exciting stuff like Glasvegas or Bon Iver - neither of whom, incidentally, I have been able to listen to more than once. But that's pop for you.
Talking of overrated things, I went to see Damon Alban's Monkey opera last week. I was reviewing it, so again, you could argue that my opinion doesn't hold as much weight as someone who paid good money for a ticket, but I have to say I really didn't like as much as I thought I was going to. Maybe it was the whole expectation thing - everyone I know who had seen it either in Manchester or at the Royal Opera House or in one case, Paris, darling! Everyone was raving. The costume, the music, the choreography... oh what a tremendous show, they all said.
My view... well, you can read the review. When I phoned in the star rating (three out of five) so they could have this for their editorial meeting, I distinctively got the impression that they were surprised I hadn't shouted "Five! No, fuck it, six out of five - it's a mindblower, my friends, start queuing now before it's too late!"
And who could blame them? Everyone else seems to have loved it and you know what, it is spectacular and the music and costumes are good, but come on, if it's supposed to have a story then let's have that made preeminent. As it was, even if you religiously read the surtitles (the show is in Mandarin, Parklife fans) you mainly got the libretto which only embellished a story you were supposed to already familiar with. On the subject of the surtitles by the way, they weren't 'sur' at all but 'side' - the stage was flanked with screens which forced any audience member keen on finding out what the hell was going on to constantly turn his head from stage to screen and back again; the cast must have thought they were watching crowd at Wimbledon. Monkey Tennis indeed.
Come to think of it, the side-titles were the wayward star of the opening night: during one particularly incomprehensible Mandarin moment, we swiveled our heads round to find out what had just been said and were greeted with a random string of letters splayed across the screen "ttttttttttyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.. aaaa" as if a small child had been given free rein with the keyboard in the backstage side-titles suite. This was quickly replaced with the blank screen familiar to anyone who has had Powerpoint presentation issues. Shortly after this, we were treated to the sight of Damon's manager panicking past us towards the side-title suite with a large dose of Short Shrift.
I went out to see some new stuff last week too. I missed cutesy Brooklyn threepiece Chairlift at the Dublin Castle who lots of people seem to be looking at because I was having an interesting conversation in the restaurant over the road (one of the bonuses of being an A&R spectator is that if I don't fancy going I don't have to - brilliant!) Next night, I was asked out by a mate to see some more new groups that the industry are currently foaming up over.
First up, we went to Bar Rumba on Shaftsbury Avenue - not the usual venue you'd expect to find the future of music - a basement underneath the cinema and shopping centre. The band were female fronted and called Pageboy. My heart sank during the first song because the singer - seemingly styled by the Partridge Family in high-cut flared jeans with braces and fringe over her eyes - had one of those voices which is keen on revealing everything in one line of a song - vowel-stretching, yeah-ing, yelping and showing plenty of Come Awns, she was intent on proving just how damn good a voice she had. In my head I was forming sentences like Duffy singing for Toploader, but once the second song began it was as if the voice felt its work was done and the human being could come out and it was actually pretty good - more like Ann Peebles or Amy Winehouse, authentic, soulful and melodic. Bizarrely, I was greeted Bob Stanley who was watching Pageboy too. Kind of like seeing John Martyn at a McFly show.
Next up we braved the doors at the Hoxton Bar and Grill and got away with not having the right trousers. We were there to see the brilliantly-named Ou Est Le Swimming Pool, an inevitably East London threepiece who turned out to be a Klaxons-with-rapping combo with a neat line in chorus and very strong voices. Handsome fellas too - although the keyboard player had something of the night about him.
Still, at Monkey, at Pageboy and indeed in a club almost entirely full of Hoxton fashionista (the type who all have three jobs - DJ, photographer, club promoter - as well as three simultaneous haircuts) I fortunately didn't encounter anyone remotely as irritating as the gurning buffoon at Goldfrapp. Of course, mid set, as the fawn and stag mask-wearing backing vocalists stood back for some wonderfully pervy folk dancing (a brilliant juxtaposition of maypole- and pole-dancing) I walked up to him and had a word. He was instantly subdued and massively apologetic, promising never to behave like such a twat again and everyone around me slapped me on the shoulder and offered to buy me a pint.
No, of course that's not what happened. What actually happened was this: I pretended he wasn't there and after a while, aside from occasionally looming up like baboon in a wildlife park, he really didn't bother me. A response, I think you'll agree, very much in keeping with the warped English repression of a Goldfrapp show.
Showing posts with label Goldfrapp. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Goldfrapp. Show all posts
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Thursday, 1 May 2008
"Your Call Is Of No Importance To Us"
I've had a week of quiet frustration. It's almost as if I've been living out the lyrics of Dark Side of The Moon. What is it about modern Britain that makes otherwise intelligent people turn into idiots? My friend Andy wants to write a book called Nothing Works, in which he will catalogue every example of British disorganisation: call centres, public transport, PIN sentries... It's become easy to dismiss this sort of rage and frustration as being that of a Grumpy Old Man and I agree I'm sure I never used to get this annoyed when I was younger. But then that's surely because This Country's Going to the Dogs... Isn't it?
Last week I was trying to get across town from Holborn for a meeting with Geoff and Charlie in Charlotte Street. I was tear-jerkingly late already but decided foolishly not to walk but to get a bus. After a few, blissfully traffic-free seconds on Kingsway, I found myself stationary at green lights by Holborn Tube in steaming traffic.
Me: (To the driver) Can I get off before these lights please? There's nothing coming up on the inside lane so it's quite safe
Driver: (stares resolutely ahead)
Me: (Louder this time) Can I get off here please? - I've checked the road, there are no bikes, I won't get run over and try to sue London Transport...
Driver (slightly wobbling his head whilst tweaking a dial above it)
Me: Can you hear me in there?
Driver (slowly turning in my direction) Normally, when people shake their heads, they mean No...
Me: (Deliberately not rising to his tempting sarcastic bait) Oh, I thought you might have had some form of Tourettes...
Driver (Immediately very angry) You what? Tourettes!?
Me: (Really happy I've got him riled).. Yes, perhaps a strain which causes involuntary nodding but prevents the sufferer from actually saying anything.
Fortunately by this time, we had miraculously arrived at a bus stop and the driver had to let me off instead of caving my head in with his ticket machine. When I recounted why I was late to Geoff, he recommended this for any similar scenarios: ask nicely, then, if they ignore you - they usually do unless you're an attractive woman - simply pull the emergency lever above the door and get off. Why didn't I think of that?
To add petrol to the bile I've been trying to changing broadband provider this week too. It's been an odyssey of three month cancellation notice, inexplicable 'mac' codes and BT line availability. But the real pain and torment, the thing that really gives me a deep set desire for violent revenge is the call centre.
Me: I've phoning because you phoned on Saturday - it's about my broadband subscription
Sky: Yes, there's a problem with it
Me: Why?
Sky: Your old provider hasn't freed up the BT line
Me: OK, what about the box? You can still send me the box right? So I can set that up in advance?
Sky: No, it's been declined. Because the line's not free.
Me: So how do I (struggling with the powerful logic) 'free the line'?
Sky You have to phone your current provider or BT and get them to free it
Me: And then you can activate my broadband?
Sky: Then we can reactivate your order
Me: Do you have the number for BT? I'd rather eat my own head than speak to my current provider
Sky: (Not reacting to my ranting tone) Hold on, sir.... yes (gives me the number)
I phone the number she gives me. It turns out to be for a Barclays Insurance call centre. Maybe she did react to my rant and gave me the Barclays number as punishment. I grit my teeth and phone my current provider. I age another year whilst listening to the hold music. Eventually after a few pleasantries, I get down to business:
Me: I need you to 'free my line' apparently
Be Unlimited: Your line?
Me: Yes, my line. I'm changing providers and my new provider can't... er provide me with broadband unless they have the BT line
Be: You need to give them the 'mac' code..
Me: I've given them the 'mac' code
Be: OK. You need a ticket then
Me: What?
Be: Have you visited our website?
Me: Yes, of course, but I'm on the phone to you now....
Be: You need to raise a ticket for this on the Website, sir
Me: But I'm phoning you now, can you raise the ticket for me?
Be: No, I can help you once you have a ticket number
Me: Can't you do anything without a ticket?
Be: No, you must raise your ticket, sir and then I'll have the ticket number.
Me: OK, would you excuse me I just have to go and shoot myself...
I gently put the phone down then go into the front room and shout swearwords at the wall for a full minute. Geoff (yes, him again!) told me how, when confronted with questions which take them out of their remit, call centre operatives respond with a wall of silence. The more angry you get, the more articulate in your rage, the less they say, until they eventually put on a recording of some tumbleweed. At least I didn't get that. That would have sent me over the edge and as Geoff suggested, I be first in the queue for a ticket to Mumbai to demand satisfaction .
So along with this, plus the rain, the financial meltdown, and several people I really need to speak to about the Scottish band not getting back to me, it's not been the best week. But let's face it, eveyone apart from maybe the Queen and Rod Stewart has to deal with this stuff too. So in the spirit of cheering myself - and hopefully some of you - up, I thought I'd list five things that for me at least are making the world a better place right now. It's a bit bloggish, I know, but hey, look at what it says on the tin!
1) The Goldfrapp Album
FACT: The best album of the year so far! I actually won't have that gainsaid by anyone. And it's not as if I'm a big fan of them or anything. I'd kind of written them off after the last album; I was bored of the glam electro schtick and frankly I never bought the smuttiness either. But this is Kate Bush and Nick Drake, Nick Bush, Kate Drake... What's not to like? It fits perfectly into my current obsession with English Whimsy at the moment (Pink Floyd, XTC, Kate Bush, Sandy Denny...) but this is genuinely the sort of album that everyone will like. Every song is crammed to the brim with effortless hookage. It works privately on an iPod and publicly when you've got friends round for middle class snacks. It also sounds great in a shop: Agnes B and Fred Perry were both playing it the day I was killing time in Covent Garden a couple of weeks ago. And no, I wasn't buying - what, do you think I'm actually making enough money to buy clothes? It deserves to do as well for Mute as Play by Moby did. By the way, I think I may have invented the term English Whimsy judging from the confused looks or ridicule I get from anyone when I describe my current listening habits.
2) Dexter.
I missed this first and maybe even second, time around. It's a truly great TV thriller - you care about the characters, there's backstory galore and it manages to have a lightness of touch, whilst being about very disturbing things. Best of all is that it features the permanently raised eyebrows of Michael C. Hall, who played gay brother Michael Fisher in Six Foot Under. I've just had to check his name on Wikipedia and have discovered that I am actually watching Season 1, which means there are two more left to see! This cheers me immensely. I won't go into the details of plot line because I'm convinced that most people reading this will be thinking: Dexter? - that's soooo 2007! but for those of you who haven't heard of it or didn't bother, it's really very good. I have to confess to being a bit of a time fascist when it comes to TV. I'm aware that this makes me sound like a twat but I'll only watch shows that I think I'm going to get something lasting from -whether from the content, from the people who are writing or directing or from the sound of my own laughter; I have no interest in reality competitions or sport or famous actors. Dexter is very much in the great writing camp but I confess I think Hall is brilliant, his face is a riot of constrained emotion.
3) After Eights
I know, I KNOW! Like English Whimsy, everyone I tell about my love of the wafer thin mint looks at me as if I'm mad. There's a stigma attached to them like Babycham or Twiglets, something of Abigail's Party and 1970s surburbia - a time when avocados were the height of sophistication and were called avocado pears. Well maybe I am mad - I'm mad for these little fellas anyway. But they are delicious - and after a hard day's of not getting calls returned and rocking a three month old to sleep I know there's some fun to be had in that little green box. And you know what, Walthamstow seems to be home to European After Eight mountain - you can buy them for a pound a box! As they say in Newcastle, mint!
4) Supergrass
Just think, Supergrass have been going for 14 years - that means that if you or I had seen them as they are now but in the Britpop year of 1994, they would have been a band who had started in post punk year zero 1980. And yet, they still seem like a young band. Maybe it's because Gaz Coombes keeps pulling new, younger Coombes family members out of his hat to join the band. The latest is a willowy Kasabian-haired guitarist who fits in perfectly. Whenever I see them I'm always filled with a righteousness that stems from the fact that they haven't released a bad single in their entire career and yet resolutely never seem to be able to shake their early pop image - like Orson Wells, they did it all young and are spending the rest of their career in the shadow of their early achievements. They were superb at the Astoria two weeks ago, and the crowd - at a glance a bunch of teenage nutters going mental down the front; on closer inspection a bunch of 30-somethings reliving their youth - received them like Gods. But I couldn't help thinking how unfair their lack of BIG CROSSOVER is. The last time I saw them live, there was a little known band supporting them who also went on and failed to capitalise on their early promise. But I for one am glad Supergrass are still together - unlike the Libertines.
5) Princess Maddy and Esther's Smile
I was going to talk about Zinfandel and how frankly, after having been an evil villain trying to ensnare Princess Jasmine for an hour before washing said Princess' hair and reading her a bedtime story, pouring one or two glasses of this down my neck is a wonderful experience. But actually, it then struck me that watching my eldest daughter's Maddy's furrowed brow whilst she is mid-Jasmine ("Daddy, pretend you're Aladdin and you want to marry me but the Sultan wants Jafar to marry me and you have to be Jafar and you capture me and then you rescue me when you're Aladdin again OK? OK? OK?) watching her excitement and frown of concentration is really so much better than booze. Esther now weighs almost 12 lbs (she was only 6lbs when she was born in January!) and for the last month or so just hasn't stopped talking bollocks. She is also a big smiler. I don't recall Maddy ever smiling so much - she was always incredibly intense, even as a baby. Hmm can't think where she got that... Esther likes to smile. Sometimes when, defeated after the day's rock, pop and call centre battles, I come home and sit down in my armchair with a grumpy man's glass of red, Esther will beam at me with her electric blue eyes and everything will be alright again.
Last week I was trying to get across town from Holborn for a meeting with Geoff and Charlie in Charlotte Street. I was tear-jerkingly late already but decided foolishly not to walk but to get a bus. After a few, blissfully traffic-free seconds on Kingsway, I found myself stationary at green lights by Holborn Tube in steaming traffic.
Me: (To the driver) Can I get off before these lights please? There's nothing coming up on the inside lane so it's quite safe
Driver: (stares resolutely ahead)
Me: (Louder this time) Can I get off here please? - I've checked the road, there are no bikes, I won't get run over and try to sue London Transport...
Driver (slightly wobbling his head whilst tweaking a dial above it)
Me: Can you hear me in there?
Driver (slowly turning in my direction) Normally, when people shake their heads, they mean No...
Me: (Deliberately not rising to his tempting sarcastic bait) Oh, I thought you might have had some form of Tourettes...
Driver (Immediately very angry) You what? Tourettes!?
Me: (Really happy I've got him riled).. Yes, perhaps a strain which causes involuntary nodding but prevents the sufferer from actually saying anything.
Fortunately by this time, we had miraculously arrived at a bus stop and the driver had to let me off instead of caving my head in with his ticket machine. When I recounted why I was late to Geoff, he recommended this for any similar scenarios: ask nicely, then, if they ignore you - they usually do unless you're an attractive woman - simply pull the emergency lever above the door and get off. Why didn't I think of that?
To add petrol to the bile I've been trying to changing broadband provider this week too. It's been an odyssey of three month cancellation notice, inexplicable 'mac' codes and BT line availability. But the real pain and torment, the thing that really gives me a deep set desire for violent revenge is the call centre.
Me: I've phoning because you phoned on Saturday - it's about my broadband subscription
Sky: Yes, there's a problem with it
Me: Why?
Sky: Your old provider hasn't freed up the BT line
Me: OK, what about the box? You can still send me the box right? So I can set that up in advance?
Sky: No, it's been declined. Because the line's not free.
Me: So how do I (struggling with the powerful logic) 'free the line'?
Sky You have to phone your current provider or BT and get them to free it
Me: And then you can activate my broadband?
Sky: Then we can reactivate your order
Me: Do you have the number for BT? I'd rather eat my own head than speak to my current provider
Sky: (Not reacting to my ranting tone) Hold on, sir.... yes (gives me the number)
I phone the number she gives me. It turns out to be for a Barclays Insurance call centre. Maybe she did react to my rant and gave me the Barclays number as punishment. I grit my teeth and phone my current provider. I age another year whilst listening to the hold music. Eventually after a few pleasantries, I get down to business:
Me: I need you to 'free my line' apparently
Be Unlimited: Your line?
Me: Yes, my line. I'm changing providers and my new provider can't... er provide me with broadband unless they have the BT line
Be: You need to give them the 'mac' code..
Me: I've given them the 'mac' code
Be: OK. You need a ticket then
Me: What?
Be: Have you visited our website?
Me: Yes, of course, but I'm on the phone to you now....
Be: You need to raise a ticket for this on the Website, sir
Me: But I'm phoning you now, can you raise the ticket for me?
Be: No, I can help you once you have a ticket number
Me: Can't you do anything without a ticket?
Be: No, you must raise your ticket, sir and then I'll have the ticket number.
Me: OK, would you excuse me I just have to go and shoot myself...
I gently put the phone down then go into the front room and shout swearwords at the wall for a full minute. Geoff (yes, him again!) told me how, when confronted with questions which take them out of their remit, call centre operatives respond with a wall of silence. The more angry you get, the more articulate in your rage, the less they say, until they eventually put on a recording of some tumbleweed. At least I didn't get that. That would have sent me over the edge and as Geoff suggested, I be first in the queue for a ticket to Mumbai to demand satisfaction .
So along with this, plus the rain, the financial meltdown, and several people I really need to speak to about the Scottish band not getting back to me, it's not been the best week. But let's face it, eveyone apart from maybe the Queen and Rod Stewart has to deal with this stuff too. So in the spirit of cheering myself - and hopefully some of you - up, I thought I'd list five things that for me at least are making the world a better place right now. It's a bit bloggish, I know, but hey, look at what it says on the tin!
1) The Goldfrapp Album
FACT: The best album of the year so far! I actually won't have that gainsaid by anyone. And it's not as if I'm a big fan of them or anything. I'd kind of written them off after the last album; I was bored of the glam electro schtick and frankly I never bought the smuttiness either. But this is Kate Bush and Nick Drake, Nick Bush, Kate Drake... What's not to like? It fits perfectly into my current obsession with English Whimsy at the moment (Pink Floyd, XTC, Kate Bush, Sandy Denny...) but this is genuinely the sort of album that everyone will like. Every song is crammed to the brim with effortless hookage. It works privately on an iPod and publicly when you've got friends round for middle class snacks. It also sounds great in a shop: Agnes B and Fred Perry were both playing it the day I was killing time in Covent Garden a couple of weeks ago. And no, I wasn't buying - what, do you think I'm actually making enough money to buy clothes? It deserves to do as well for Mute as Play by Moby did. By the way, I think I may have invented the term English Whimsy judging from the confused looks or ridicule I get from anyone when I describe my current listening habits.
2) Dexter.
I missed this first and maybe even second, time around. It's a truly great TV thriller - you care about the characters, there's backstory galore and it manages to have a lightness of touch, whilst being about very disturbing things. Best of all is that it features the permanently raised eyebrows of Michael C. Hall, who played gay brother Michael Fisher in Six Foot Under. I've just had to check his name on Wikipedia and have discovered that I am actually watching Season 1, which means there are two more left to see! This cheers me immensely. I won't go into the details of plot line because I'm convinced that most people reading this will be thinking: Dexter? - that's soooo 2007! but for those of you who haven't heard of it or didn't bother, it's really very good. I have to confess to being a bit of a time fascist when it comes to TV. I'm aware that this makes me sound like a twat but I'll only watch shows that I think I'm going to get something lasting from -whether from the content, from the people who are writing or directing or from the sound of my own laughter; I have no interest in reality competitions or sport or famous actors. Dexter is very much in the great writing camp but I confess I think Hall is brilliant, his face is a riot of constrained emotion.
3) After Eights
I know, I KNOW! Like English Whimsy, everyone I tell about my love of the wafer thin mint looks at me as if I'm mad. There's a stigma attached to them like Babycham or Twiglets, something of Abigail's Party and 1970s surburbia - a time when avocados were the height of sophistication and were called avocado pears. Well maybe I am mad - I'm mad for these little fellas anyway. But they are delicious - and after a hard day's of not getting calls returned and rocking a three month old to sleep I know there's some fun to be had in that little green box. And you know what, Walthamstow seems to be home to European After Eight mountain - you can buy them for a pound a box! As they say in Newcastle, mint!
4) Supergrass
Just think, Supergrass have been going for 14 years - that means that if you or I had seen them as they are now but in the Britpop year of 1994, they would have been a band who had started in post punk year zero 1980. And yet, they still seem like a young band. Maybe it's because Gaz Coombes keeps pulling new, younger Coombes family members out of his hat to join the band. The latest is a willowy Kasabian-haired guitarist who fits in perfectly. Whenever I see them I'm always filled with a righteousness that stems from the fact that they haven't released a bad single in their entire career and yet resolutely never seem to be able to shake their early pop image - like Orson Wells, they did it all young and are spending the rest of their career in the shadow of their early achievements. They were superb at the Astoria two weeks ago, and the crowd - at a glance a bunch of teenage nutters going mental down the front; on closer inspection a bunch of 30-somethings reliving their youth - received them like Gods. But I couldn't help thinking how unfair their lack of BIG CROSSOVER is. The last time I saw them live, there was a little known band supporting them who also went on and failed to capitalise on their early promise. But I for one am glad Supergrass are still together - unlike the Libertines.
5) Princess Maddy and Esther's Smile
I was going to talk about Zinfandel and how frankly, after having been an evil villain trying to ensnare Princess Jasmine for an hour before washing said Princess' hair and reading her a bedtime story, pouring one or two glasses of this down my neck is a wonderful experience. But actually, it then struck me that watching my eldest daughter's Maddy's furrowed brow whilst she is mid-Jasmine ("Daddy, pretend you're Aladdin and you want to marry me but the Sultan wants Jafar to marry me and you have to be Jafar and you capture me and then you rescue me when you're Aladdin again OK? OK? OK?) watching her excitement and frown of concentration is really so much better than booze. Esther now weighs almost 12 lbs (she was only 6lbs when she was born in January!) and for the last month or so just hasn't stopped talking bollocks. She is also a big smiler. I don't recall Maddy ever smiling so much - she was always incredibly intense, even as a baby. Hmm can't think where she got that... Esther likes to smile. Sometimes when, defeated after the day's rock, pop and call centre battles, I come home and sit down in my armchair with a grumpy man's glass of red, Esther will beam at me with her electric blue eyes and everything will be alright again.
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