Music
As Jack Nicolson once said, "There's nothing quite like gratitously destroying your public image." You spend years aiming to achieve the dizzy heights of pop stardom, releasing a French sub-pop album that makes even banjo playing cool. You usher in a new era in rock music with legends like Radiohead meekly trailing in your wake, and your quintessential guitar strummings become common fodder to an adoring public. And then you go and ruin it all by releasing one of the most pretentious albums of the early twenty-first century. Such has been the ongoing saga with Air.
With the release of Air's first album in 1998, the hauntingly beautiful Moon Safari, the band's Nicolas Godin and Jean-Benoit 'JB' Dunckel carved out a decidedly different niche from their predecessors. Mixing classical French pop with 70s electronics, Air soon spearheaded the late 90s French electronic invasion.
And they have been marred by the weight of expectation on them ever since. After the initial success of Moon Safari, 2001's 10,000Hz Legend did for Air what Kid A did for Radiohead, dividing fans and critics alike. Was it a work of flawed genius? Or merely an overblown ego-trip?
If 10,000Hz Legend went dark and uncomfortable on us, then the new album Talkie Walkie represents a very welcome return to the dreamy, lounge pop of Moon Safari. Air's gift for floating evocative music still remains unparalleled, and is here shown to full effect through whispered three-part harmonies and harp samples that echo from the record. Opening track 'Venus' sets the pace with its bright, yet strangely hypnotic promises to an unnamed lover to 'Care for each other' and be 'Lovers forever', while track 'Mike Mills' introduces plucking guitar and stringent piano to mesmerising effect. But the highlight of the album is undeniably 'Cherry Blossom', which remains the closest to an Air signature tune that we have on this album: moving vocals and dreamy guitar coupled with the wizzing synth effects and video-game noises shown to particular effect on track 'Biological.'
The album remains more lyrically aware than the previous two; the fractured English that once left audience's bewildered had been replaced instead by evocative memories, protestations and memories of the band, which, while at first not immediately transparent, at least doesn't have you frantically searching for the nearest album cover. The absence of guest singers is perhaps the most notable deviation from previous form, which often gave Air the edge over hopeful imitators, but as Air have finally regained their form, who am I to complain?
Just when we thought we'd drowned in a sea of teen pop stars from Pop Idol style programmes, 16 year-old soul-sensation Joss Stone creates that much needed wave in the ocean and comes to our rescue. About as far from the Mariah Carey or Christina Aguilera warbling variety as you can get, this young lady certainly knows how to sing.
Neatly avoiding soul's most iconic (and overplayed?) songs, this debut is a selection of classic soul gems, some lesser known tunes and some long forgotten jems, ranging from Aretha Franklin's 'All The King's Horses' to 'The Isley's For The Love of You.' Having hooked up with award-winning producer Betty Knight, Stone applies her powerful voice to the smouldering R'n'B tunes of the 60s, with an interesting cover ofWhite Stripes' hit 'Fell in Love With a Boy', set to catapult her onto the platform of soul great. The album is not as unified as one would wish; the heedless 'Some Kind of Wonderful' and awkward lyrics in the drawn out 'For the Love of You' ("a D'Angelo song, so soft"), does not show her voice off to its full effect. She could have been daunted by performing the auras of the greats, but in true diva style she makes each song uniquely her own
Believe the hype. 'The Soul Sessions' may not be the record of the year but it it is a gem.
Go on. Say it. John 'Johnny Rotten' Lydon going on the TV show I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here is the last death rattle of punk. There, there. Doesn't that make you feel better?
The Sex Pistols were nothing more than a manufactured band in the first place. Malcolm McClaren moulded them into his image, something designed to aid sales for his 'Sex' shop. After Nancy Spungen's death, he planned to sell T-shirts with the slogan 'She's dead. I'm available'. All in the best possible taste, of course. The Sex Pistols sold out when they played every marketing angle for all it was worth. Swear on telly? Get your record sales increased 200 per cent. Release an anti-monarchist rant on eve of the Queen's Jubilee? Sure, that should sell a few copies. Johnny Rotten was nothing more than a hunchbacked caricature, killed off mercifully to allow the musically superior Public Image Limited to form. John Lydon has always been the archetypal self-publicist.
Punk existed to annoy the old guard, the established order. And what is he doing now? Getting a reaction from the ageing punks and people that just don't get it. 'Punk' died when the third wave of punk bands combined not being able to play their instuments with a lack of tunes and a small dose of casual racism. People threatening to never listen to 'Never Mind The Bollocks' ever again miss the point; he's not 'selling out'. Instead, he is satirising the very people who criticise him from their aloof counter-culture vantage points by doing something that they would never dream of doing. By pissing them off so mightily, he is out-punking them into oblivion.
Of all the contestants, he doesn't need the publicity and he doesn't need the money. He's only there to piss people off.
Over the past two months Alexandra Palace has been transformed into an amphitheatre for the custodians of the spirit and soul of the nu rock revolution to slug it out for ultimate supremacy and acclaim. The Strokes jetted into London in December to hammer home the message that they are simply unsurpassable as a live entity: tighter than Kylie's arse, poppier than a field in Old Amsterdam yet with a guttersnipe edge of true rock'n'roll grit to please even the most cynical doubter. But whilst The Strokes may have landed some thundering, heavy blows in the early rounds at the Palace, they seem irrelevant, aloof, even charmless when compared to the live experience that is Jack and Meg White, aka The White Stripes.
This evening Jack will stare ruefully, gleefully into Meg's eyes and holler his crackling, vituperative vocals into her seraphimic face. She doesn't flinch. He will refer to her persistently as 'my sister' (ho and moreover hum), yet Meg still won't break her impenetrable, lunar front of cool. But this is not to say that the woman with the WMD drum kit and back-to-basics percussive style remains a dull and lifeless bystander to her hyperactive band mate. Meg transforms herself from thudding rock-chick to louche seductress without a second thought, easing her way through 'In The Cold, Cold Night'. Despite her endearingly wavering vocal, it is the sight of Meg giving every last drop of her energy to this piece, urged on by a crowd clearly in love with her chanteuse party piece persona, whilst Jack creeps up behind her, creaking icy octaves from his guitar accompaniment.
But sparse is one word that is the antithesis of tonight's show. The White Stripes are far more adept than their New York contemporaries at constructing an artful, spontaneous and elegantly segued set. Admittedly having two extra albums to pillage and a magnificent ear for a cover version helps (step forward crowd favourite 'Jolene'), yet it is the relentless scattergun rush of feedback, godless howling, nursery rhyme playfulness and guitar virtuosity that make this the live event of 2004.
Such is the awesome level at which the Stripes maintain their art, that '7 Nation Army' is almost forgotten when it arrives. The more countrified element of their back catalogue is blown aside by the set opener, a volatile 'Black Math', which produces a visible shockwave across the first 20 rows of the audience. Within five minutes we are in the palm of Jack's hand, aching with every screech and growl of his tortured guitar, best exemplified by the minimalist Zeppelin riffery of 'Ball and Biscuit', which dwarfs the already impressive album version by Jack's persistent inventiveness and refusal to use the same lick twice.
The White Stripes' canon may consist almost solely of songs based upon good old G, C and D, but the rest of the chords in music may as well look forward to an early retirement. Jack has no need for such indulgent accouterment when he can reinvigorate Dusty Springfield's 'I Just Don't Know What Do To With Myself' with such shimmering brilliance, imbibe 'I Think I Smell A Rat' with such spite, bile and melodrama, only to reconcile matters moments later with a churchmouse-quiet rendition of 'We Are Going To Be Friends'. Hell, the Stripes are so transcendentally brilliant tonight they can even leave out 'Fell In Love With A Girl' without anyone noticing or caring.
In 2004, at Alexandra Palace, The White Stripes laid claim to the position of best band in the world; not via peacock posturing or laid-back posterboy chic, but through a versatile set which took the audience into the claustrophobic, horny, yet still welcoming arms of Jack and his 'sister' Meg. I tell you now; we are going to be friends.
To be honest, I'm treading on thin ice here, since I've only heard a little of OUO's preparation for this concert. I have also had little idea about how past concerts have sounded: I've always been performing at OUO gigs, not watching them. Still, having retired from orchestral playing and now concentrating on countertenoring, I would be most happy to spend a Friday evening listening to such a wonderful programme as this.
I suspect that few of us will be particularly familiar with The Chairman Dances, but, trust me, this is a wicked piece, and very, very different to the Britten and Sibelius. You'll know why when you get there. The Sibelius has some great all-time melodies, and judging from what I've heard of the notorious OUO brass section, I'm sure they'll have a fab time singing one of the composer's most well-known of tunes in that tasty last movement. And of course, the Britten will be as much of an education as it is entertainment, what with each instrument having its little say in things...
However, despite the concert's excellent repertoire and very able young conductor, Jason Lai (BBC Young Conductor of the Year who, considering they're arguably the worse orchestra in the UK, has made some great sounds with the BBC Phil) there is another, just as important reason, for going to this gig: although it's not going to be the LSO, it will still be a night to support our many friends and peers who have given up so much time and effort to perform for us. OUO are often considered the university's premiere music ensemble, and the opportunity to see so many talented people in one place is rare.
It's fairly cheap to attend and definitely worth splashing out a fiver for. So, give it a try. Forget all that The O xStu has said in the past about OUO... We've changed our minds and now have a positive attitude about student recitals! This will be a performance of an extremely satisfactory standard, played with youthful fervour, and full of excitement. See you there!
29th Jan 2004