Review - Arctic Monkeys, Humbug

With their third album, I’m glad that the Arctics have produced something which, certainly from the view of more mainstream critics and significant portions of their fanbase, will no doubt be received as a challenging ‘departure’. Whether this perception of Humbug actually holds any water is meaningless , the cold hard truth being that the Monkeys decision not to repeat either the grubby social realism of Whatever People Say I Am.. or the hit and miss transition of Favourite Worst Nightmare is a bold and welcome one.

As much as I loved those early songs of petty lovers tiffs, drunken taxi rides and knuckle-headed bouncers, I’d heard it all before. The Streets, The Rakes, Franz Ferdinand…the list goes on and on. Of course, what set Arctic Monkeys apart was the sheer lyrical wit and dexterity of Alex Turner’s words, and the breathless, youthful spunk of the music – the pounding drums, the whippet-like guitars, the glorious scum of four talented young upstarts unleashing their world on an awestruck and devoted listenership. Their debut performance on Jools Holland remains one of my favourite TV appearances by any band, ever.

But commercial success brings money, and money takes you away from that world which spawned those wondrous tales of chancers, prostitutes and young tykes out on the pull. In content, sound and delivery, Humbug is far removed from Whatever People Say I Am… There are echoes of Favourite Worst Nightmare, and, more importantly, the expansive pop and lyrical themes of Turner’s dalliance with Miles Kane in the Last Shadow Puppets. Moreover, this new record brims and bulges with the Californian desert in which it was mostly recorded. The addition of Josh Homme as producer is clearly significant – his work with the Queens of the Stone Age has always been a massive influence on the Monkeys. Humbug is therefore profoundly imbued with its surroundings, from the expansive guitar solo of ‘Crying Lightning’ to the muscular drums and sun-drenched harmonies of ‘Potion Approaching’.

A word of warning – to use a reviewer’s cliché, it’s a bit of a grower. In fact, one criticism is that, having heard many of these songs live on radio or the recent web transmission, the sheer verve and power that I’d expected largely fails to materialise on the LP itself, almost as though there was a wilful decision to create something purposefully layered and difficult to penetrate, like a tiny present trapped in reams of wrapping paper. There is a definite coldness to songs such as ‘Dangerous Animals’, which rewards repeated listens but lacks the rockist wall of sound that the Monkeys have assumed when playing the songs in concert. Humbug therefore needs to be approached with both patience and an open mind, for this is a pretty much hit-free affair.

Having said this, ‘Cornerstone’ provides the closest thing to a ‘Fluroscent Adolescent’ or ‘Mardy Bum’, James Ford’s production harnessing the beauty and simplicity of the song – a moment of complete effortlessness, a melody and tune so instant that it seems amazing that it hasn’t been done before.

The real glory of Humbug is to be found the lyrics, which cement Turner’s place as the best wordsmith in music by a nautical mile. Earlier this year I read an interview with Nick Cave (another key influence on the new Arctics material) in which he professed that, for him, confessional writing was a dead-end, and that it is far more interesting to explore the depths of imagination. Listening to Turner’s voice and words on Humbug, this view struck a chord. In many ways the subject matter of these songs are more personal and poignant than before – proof that a move away from songs directly addressing young, Northern life has not tainted the power of his writing. Humbug takes in everything from a lovelorn male desperate to find a mate who resembles his former flame (‘I thought I saw you in a rusty hook/huddled up in a wicker chair/I wandered over for a closer look/and kissed whoever was sitting there’), jetlagged reunions punctured by passionate caresses (‘and we feel asleep in the car/’til the bumps woke me up in your arms and the tide took me to your mouth’), and even Turner’s penis, which he labels ‘My Propellor’, urging his lover to ‘ave a spin’. The sexual hormones are more potent and dirty-minded than Favourite Worst Nightmare, with desire found in hitherto asexual items such as pick ‘n’ mix and seatbelts, so it’s comforting to know that Turner may have a career in erotic fiction if the new album doesn’t sell.

This, however, seems unlikely. For me Humbug is easily the best thing the band have produced, and the annoying thing is they’re still only 23. That the band have come this far and remain unscathed is to be admired, just as their willingness to develop their creativity should be applauded. I welcome Humbug, and not because may well serve to reduce some of the more lumpen MOR elements of their fanbase, but because it is a forward-looking record that creates its own world and invites the listener in, as well as indicating a potential for truly great things in future.

8/10

Poem of the day - Sestina: Altaforte, Ezra Pound

Some Ezra, sestina-style:

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

Film Review, 'Public Enemies'

Michael Mann’s films are always shot so beautifully, and this is no exception. And, don’t get me wrong, of all the mainstream releases (apart from maybe Harry Potter, but I’m afraid I’ve never been down with Rowling or the films, it just doesn’t grab me) this is by far the most interesting film out there. But it’s a poor film by Mann’s standards and essentially a rehash of Heat (1995).

Famously, and perhaps to its detriment, Heat brought together De Niro and Pacino. For Public Enemies Mann has called upon two Hollywood mainstays of this generation, with Johnny Depp in the role of heroic, fatally-flawed bad guy and Christian Bale as the dedicated, straight-talking cop. Depp is John Dillinger, a real-life robber who terrorised American banks in the early 1930s http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Dillinger while Bale plays the FBI agent tasked with bringing Dillinger and his gang to justice http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melvin_Purvis

It may be rather unfair to draw such direct parallels between the two films, but I was really struck by the obvious links, the only tangible difference being that the hot, sexy LA underworld of Heat has been replaced by roaring Midwestern vistas of greens, browns and blues. Both films try to level the playing field between supposedly evil villain and righteous good-guy. Which is an interesting idea but so overdone, and poorly executed in Public Enemies when compared to other films of recent years, notably The Dark Night and The Assassination of Jesse James. In addition, the Pacino role acted by Bale is given very little depth, so we are left with the rather wearied interpretation that he was merely a guy ‘doing his job’, maaaan. In Heat Pacino’s character is beset by family problems and his duel with de Niro becomes more than work. Here, I wanted to know more about the Bale character, and was left unsatisfied.

Instead the majority of the narrative focuses on Depp’s Dillinger. And in particular an emphasis that the man had a fatal weakness: love. Which is, again, a horribly clichéd dramatic device – you know the thing: ‘aww, well he robbed a few banks but he never took the poor people’s money, and he loved his girl - bless him’. As fantastic as Marion Cotillard is as the object of Dillinger’s passions, I felt that this strand of the story detracted somewhat from the overall development and actually failed to make me feel any kind of sympathy for him. Subsequently, by the end of the film I couldn’t care in the least what happened to Dillinger – if he lived, died, went to jail or escaped.

I liked the way that the film explored the ineptitudes of the police force in a way that seemed believable rather than obvious. The film is looking at a period in American history where the FBI was still very much a hybrid organisation, fighting against the weaknesses and backwardness of a state police system which allowed Dillinger to carry out robberies on state borders and thus escape detection more easily. In some ways a film that took this context as the driving force behind the narrative would have worked much better - rather like David Fincher's Zodiac was more a film about police workings than the crimes being investigated. Purvis could have been a very compelling character, but unfortunately the scenes that dwelled upon his motivations and feelings were few and far between. I also wondered about the merits of Dillinger as a subject. He seemed devoid of any of the contemplative philosophy or borderline insanity of a Jesse James, the twisted humanity of an RP McMurphy. Put simply, why make a film about a guy who, at least in Mann’s interpretation, wasn’t that interesting? It suffers from the same problem as Bronson i.e an inherently unlikeable man.

The action sequences were fantastic, and Stephen Graham turns in a superb performance as the wonderfully-handled crook Baby Face Nelson. I think I wanted more of a straight, gutsy bloke’s movie – I don’t know, I just didn’t want to see the heartfelt, soft side, the love scenes and handwritten notes. A subtle indication of Dillinger’s depth would have been enough, rather than an overloaded force-feeding, which is what Mann delivers. Heat was a great film, I liked it very much. I struggled to convince myself that it was worthwhile for Mann to repeat himself in this way.

Review - Tracey Emin, Those who suffer Love (White Cube, London)

I'm an Emin fan, there's no point denying it, and I can find it irritating when she gets class-based flak from snobby art-critics (the Artworld is a fundamentally vacuous term which means as little as the halfwits who constitute it). Even when I haven't enjoyed certain pieces of her work, I have retained an admiration for her attempts to bare her life, her warts, her subconscious. That brutal honesty is something I love, and aspire to. And, to me, My Bed is the greatest artwork of the last ten years.

In spite of this, I really struggled with Those who suffer Love, which is essentially a drawings show, part new and part retrospective, including work from as early as 1991. I'm afraid to say I could only bear to stay in the exhibit for about 15 minutes. On the plus side, there were three fantastic neon signs - the third, in luminous, beatific pink spewing out bilious poetry: 'I wanted you to fuck me, and then I became greedy, I wanted you to love me'. I suppose that these simple, terse statements shot through by bright light appealed to me on a direct, visceral level - they seemed to be the only pieces on show that did so, evoking that raw, painful honesty which I admire so deeply about Emin.

And yet, other than a few large woven canvases, the rest was dire. The centrepiece appeared to be a series of drawings depicting a woman masturbating, corresponding to a looped video of this at the exhibit's entrance. I stood there indifferent, as a 25 year-old might when placed in front of hardcore porn against his will (OK, an admittedly very rare occurence), unsure of how to react....bored. I couldn't see the point. It wouldn't surprise me if some reviewers subsequently made pithy jibes about this exhibit being little more than 'wank' - to be fair, I thought pretty much the same thing. Literal and lateral self-indulgence can be good, but there are limits. I think Emin has breached hers with this exhibition.

4/10.

Poem of the day

W.B. Yeats, The Second Coming

Only one of the best ever written:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Film review - Looking For Eric

First off, I know nothing about film. I have friends who can talk and reference film like I can music. Secondly, I'm pretty sure I have never seen a Ken Loach film (a few Mike Leigh ones I can recall seeing, but no Loach). So film review isn't really my thang, more Peter Bradshaw's (allegedly): http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2009/jun/12/film-review-looking-for-eric-cantona-ken-loach

I really enjoyed Looking For Eric. From the little I had gleaned from reading the papers, Loach is known more for his social realism (a la Leigh) than what is on offer here: an intoxicating mixture of farce, twee comedy and extreme drama. It's good fun and doesn't take itself seriously. If you're looking for real-life truism, this is not the film for you - steer the fuck clear. It'll piss you off.

The film follows the (mis)fortunes of Eric Bishop (Steve Evets), a down and out postman and die-hard Man United fan, jaded from two failed marriages, saddled by two step-sons who do Northern shit like steal cement mixers, watch porn, and hide guns for small town crims. Eric is still in love with his first wife Lily (Stephanie Bishop), whom he left some years previously for reasons which are rather unclear at first. He hallucinates images of his hero, Eric 'King' Cantona, under the influence of weed and his fellow posties (one of whom is actually played by John Henshaw, the geezer from the Post Office ads - see readers, Loach does irony). King Eric helps get pathetic Eric back on track, complete with typically ambiguous (roughly translated as 'often complete bollocks') Cantona-isms.

The eventual solutions to Eric's tribulations - both his relationship with Lily and his elder stepson's forays into gun-crime - are, on the surface, plainly ridiculous. Similarly, when Cantona first appears on screen, you cannot help double-taking. Yet ultimately I came to revel in this ridiculousness. It is a tribute to Loach that these bald betrayals of realism do not matter, because the film triumphs as a beautifully written farce. I did not care for one moment that the events unfurling before me had very little ground in reality.

This is not to say that Looking For Eric ignores straight drama entirely. What I love about this film is that it is warm and cuddly, but shot through at key moments by raw, naked terror. There is one particular moment that is ingrained in my mind, armed police gatecrashing a family roast dinner, the sugar-sweet traditions and polite banter dissipated, replaced by incoherence and unravelled emotion.

It is possible to pick holes in the film: certainly the dalliances in crime felt a little cliched. But this would be nitpicking. Like I said earlier, the film is good enough to by-pass the questioning 'what the fuck?' part of the brain.

Steve Evet's performance is an absolute triumph, really capturing the fragility and blind optimism of a man who has lost everything. And, the cherry on the cake, we get Cantona himself. Smoking weed! And glorious archive footage of his greatest moments, the upturned colour resplendent on red, black, white, and yellow-green shirts.

Poem of the day

I love this one, a bit of Plath to chill a warm June afternoon:

Sylvia Plath, Conversation Among The Ruins

http://www.angelfire.com/tn/plath/catr.html