Monday, May 12, 2025
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"Music from another planet": the allure of ‘ugly’ music

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The other day a friend asked me, “Why do you only listen to ugly music?” In his defence, I was listening to one of the more improvisational tracks from Arca’s Blade Runner OST by way of Berghain, Xen. Yet, it still seemed to me an odd question considering some of the most important and influential records of the last couple of years (Kanye’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy and Yeezus; Kendrick’s Good Kid M.A.A.D City and Drake’s Take Care) could hardly be described as ‘easy-listening’, with pop production becoming more and more experimental and challenging, borrowing more and more from ‘underground’ music, and the legacies of each of these albums reaching further and further into both mainstream commercial music and independent releases. 
 
Similarly, I’d be lying if I said that my favourite artists from this period (to add to those I have already mentioned); Death Grips, the reformed Swans, the aforementioned Arca, Evian Christ, Rustie and Hudson Mohawke, were not equally challenging and unconventional in their production. Any one of these artists’ music could arguably be described as ‘ugly’ or as bearing a certain grotesque aesthetic, be that Death Grips’ half-spat tales of decapitated prostitutes and male coat-hanger abortions, Hudson Mohawke’s maximal, obnoxious, border-line offensive production and Kanye West’s original creative decision for the cover of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy to depict himself fucking a gryphon. It is therefore not hard to appreciate why my friend – a House and Minimal Techno obsessive – described the music I like to listen to as ‘ugly’. But despite how you may feel about this ‘ugliness’, it is undeniably alluring, and it definitely sells.
 
2014 has variously been described as “Post-Ringtone”, “The year of the body” and, my personal favourite, “The waking dream between Kanye albums”. Yet if we are to term this new wave of popular music as grotesque or misshapen, I would suggest it would be just as valid to describe this year as ‘The year of ugly’. 
 
The best example of this might be Arca’s Xen, a patchwork of fractured beats, cacophonous piano lines and colossal walls of static noise. With Kanye West’s reputation of having a supernatural ear for musical trends, often dictating how much of the popular music of the preceding few years sounds with each album release, it is hardly surprising that West would enlist this producer du jour as ‘production consultant’ on the Frankenstein’s monster of noise that is Yeezus. The Venezuelan artist’s relationship with the grotesque can be traced back to 2012 and the beginning of much collaboration with housemate and graphic designer-cum-visual artist, Jesse Kanda. The elongated, warped and disfigured limbs depicted in the artwork for Arca’s EP’s Stretch 1 and Stretch 2, as well as the acid-tinged mindfuckery of the accompanying video to Arca’s &&&&& mix, depicting extreme close-ups of disembodied uvulas, strobe lighting and what can only be described as giant, rotting children break-dancing have a symbiotic relationship with the sonic disfigurement that is Arca’s calling card. This has been amplified more recently by the sexless, genderless, voluptuous monstrosity that is the graphic rendering of his alter-ego, ‘Xen’. Kanda is not only able to visually, perfectly capture Arca’s sound; he effectively creates an environment where this ‘ugliness’ is not only alluring but also erotic – less ugly, more fetishistic. 
 
 
A similarly symbiotic visual and sonic aesthetic, as well as a certain element of fetish, can be found in the artists that make up the P.C. Music label, the source of both some of the most exciting and frankly ridiculous music of 2014. This is sex-music for video game characters, a soundtrack for bad ecstasy or bubble-gum-with-razorblades-in pop music – songs that are at once upbeat and catchy yet depict a weird and artificial world inhabited by Web-Cam porn actors and CGI architecture. Take label head A.G. Cook’s Beautiful, a song that begins with a heavenly chorus of chipmunk-voiced angels and the sounds of digital shell-casings hitting virtual concrete, coupled with an image of what looks like a gelatinous mass of melted pink pearls. Similarly, on Keri Baby, resident graphic designer and art-school oddity Hannah Diamond, whose Jeff Koons meets ‘The Sims’-style imagery provides the label with an instantly recognisable aesthetic, happily exclaims in a stuttering auto-tune addled school-girl chant: “Tell me if you want to see me play with my hair on a T.V.” This artificial sexuality is equal parts obnoxious and exciting, and whilst it may be a far cry from Arca and Jesse’s Kanda’s nightmarish vision, it is still as ‘ugly’. 
 
 
 
However, it would be somewhat of a cop-out to claim that this allure of the ‘ugly’ is simply to do with sex; a grotesque appeal to human baseness and perversion. Often the music I have described is extremely beautiful, and conventionally so. In both Arca and P.C. Music, I would argue that there is at least 30 seconds of a song you could play to your mum without fear of embarrassment and/or an assessment of your mental health. I would suggest that the answer lies, as is so often the case, with Aphex Twin. 
 
Richard D. James, A.K.A Blue Calx, Caustic Window, Power-Pill, AFX and Aphex Twin, is arguably the genesis of these acts, as well as the majority of contemporary electronic music listened to today. The distorted soundscapes of Xen would not be possible without the twisted synth manipulation of Come To Daddy and Windowlicker. In the same way, consider the similarities between both Arca and P.C. Music’s relationship with graphic design, and the collaboration between Aphex Twin and Chris Cunningham, the unofficial video artist for British ambient and electronica music. In a recent interview with Pitchfork, James addressed the current state of popular music: “The holy grail for a music fan, I think, is to hear music from another planet, which has not been influenced by us whatsoever or, even better, lots of different planets.” 
 
Here lies the crux of why I think music that could be described as ‘unlistenable’, ‘strange’ or ‘ugly’ proves to be so alluring for me. These are artists that, however successfully, try to make music that sounds inhuman. By ignoring traditional concepts of beauty, by disregarding what sounds ‘good’, they are able to make music that is not only exciting, but also weirdly addictive. Listening to these artists for the first time could indeed be said to be like stumbling upon “the holy grail”, if a distorted one, made from pixels and body fluid, rather than gold.  

Celebrity should be no barrier to leading a college

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Alongside a fresh batch of freshers, joining Oxford next year will be former Guardian editor Alan Rusbridger, as Lady Margaret Hall’s new principal. The announcement of his appointment in mid-December raised a few suspicions, especially as to whether a mere journo is qualified to run an Oxford college.

The core issue is that many people believe that a master or principal of a college should be an academic. Here we enter a hazy realm of ‘academicness’ when deciding the worthiness of a candidate – does Rusbridger qualify as ‘academic’ enough? The fact that he held the position of editor for a major newspaper surely shows that he has the appropriate degree of intellectual rigour required for the position.

The notion that such positions must be held by straight-laced academics is not reflective of reality when we remember that our Chancellor, Lord Patten, was a career politician before joining the university.

The second concern that some people have is that Lady Margaret Hall is appointing Rusbridger for some degree of celebrity prestige. His appointment from some angles might look slightly populist, but surely most major positions at any university must consider the image that a candidate will bring.

Anyway, celebrity status isn’t necessarily negative. The ebullient mega-pop-physician Brian Cox, combining his televisual stardom with his stint this year as a professor of Physics at the University of Manchester, has been credited with a massive uptake in physics at advanced and degree levels.

Being a well-respected public figure and role model are surely qualities one would seek when appointing a master or principal of a college. It has been done time and time again at Oxford with prestigious scientists and politicians assuming the helm. Maybe I would have something to say to the contrary if James Corden, Keith Lemon or Ginger Spice were in the running, but celebrity on its own is no reason to discredit an individual when its effect can be beneficial and inspirational.

What’s more, this decision is not even a ground-breaking one: Will Hutton, principal of Hertford College, was the editor of The Observer. These newspapers, even when held up to the golden standards of this cherished publication, are no rags. Those that deride The Guardian should remember that it won the Pulitzer Prize last year for its part in revealing the governmental imposition on privacy, with which Rusbridger had personal involvement. He has even been played by Doctor Who star Peter Capaldi in the 2013 film The Fifth Estate about WikiLeaks. The values that he and his former cause represent are laudable, and his presence will surely be inspirational.

Similarly, St Anne’s principal is a former editor of the BBC’s Newsnight programme, as well as being a former Director of Programmes for Channel 4. Lord Patten too, until recently, served as Chairman of the BBC Trust. Appointing media types to these senior positions is a welcome variation from the more ‘academic’ scientists and historians that often occupy these roles.

When the question of why someone should be appointed principal is raised, it’s better to ask instead why they shouldn’t, which is often a lot more difficult to answer. I see no reason why Rusbridger shouldn’t be principal of Lady Margaret Hall, but many reasons why he should.

Reconciling the Christmas Story with the real Jerusalem

(This article was amended on 19/04/20 per the author’s request)

A couple of days ago I went to my old school’s Christmas carol service. As usual the service included all the key readings from the Christmas story. They were the same as ever, but my relationship to them had changed. I don’t remember the first time I heard the Christmas story but I must have been very young. I must have been very young when I first heard of Jerusalem and Bethlehem, but at that time they were places that only existed for me within the Christmas story. They were quasi-fictional cities where it was perpetually Christmas and angels bobbed about in the sky.

This October I visited those cities. Sitting in a carol service singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem”, it was difficult trying to reconcile the Christmassy Jerusalem and Bethlehem of my imagination with the reality. There are no angels bobbing around. Far from God seeming particularly close in these Biblical lands, it feels more like God has turned his back on them.

So when school-children all over the UK are, like I did, learning about the magical ancient Middle East with angels and wise men and miracles, I want to take this opportunity to tell three stories that took place in and around the real Jerusalem this October, two of which I witnessed for myself and one of which was related to me by a man I met in the Old City.

The Soldiers and the Women at Lion’s Gate:

For the week I was in Jerusalem I slept on a roof top in the Old City not far from the Dome of the Rock. On my second morning I woke up to hear a popping sound accompanied by angry voices chanting ‘Allahu akhbar’. It later transpired that the popping was a mix of gunfire from Israeli soldiers (shot into the air as warnings, not at the protesters) and fireworks thrown by the protestors at the soldiers. For the rest of the week the entrance to the Temple Mount was closed. Tensions were rising.

I decided to go to the Mount of the Olives since I could not get into the Temple Mount and so tried to leave the Old City via Lion’s Gate but found my way blocked by a small temporary barrier guarded by three Israeli soldiers. There were four women standing at the barrier. Three were middle aged and wearing Islamic dress. One was younger and wearing typically Western clothes.

The younger woman was saying to one of the soldiers “I need to get through.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer. She looked at him for a moment then tried to get through. The soldiers moved in closer. She couldn’t pass them.

“I need to get through.”
“Where are you from?” The soldier asked her.
“Here.”
“You can’t go through.”

Just then the soldier noticed my friend and me. We’re both white.

“Tourists?” He asked.
We nodded.
“Where are you from?”
“Britain.”
“You can go through,” he said, without hesitation.

My jaw dropped.

The young Palestinian woman looked at me. I looked back. I don’t know what she was thinking.

“If they can’t go through,” I said to the soldier, “then we can’t go through.”

The Man at the Checkpoint:

This story was related to me by a man I met at my hostel. He agreed for me to tell his story but asked that I do not give his name.

This man is Czech. His last name is Arab but he speaks only Czech and some English. He was staying in Jerusalem but had gone to Ramallah in the West Bank for the day. On the bus on the way back to Jerusalem he had come to a checkpoint and Israeli soldiers had boarded the bus asking to see passports.

When the soldiers came to him they thought he was Arab and spoke to him in Arabic. When he did not understand them they grew suspicious and asked him, in English, to get off the bus to be checked more thoroughly.

The soldiers told him to go to an office and he set off in the direction he believed that office to be. After he had walked a few paces he heard angry shouting behind him.

He stopped immediately and turned round.

There was an Israeli soldier behind him. The soldier’s gun was pointing at his head.

“I’ve never been so scared in my whole life,” he told me.

It turned out he’d walked in the wrong direction.

When ,finally, he was given the all clear and was allowed to go through the checkpoint he asked where the bus was.

“It’s already left,” they told him. All of his stuff was still on the bus.

The Woman on the Mount of the Olives:

I wanted to go to the Mount of the Olives in Jerusalem to watch the sunset. My friend and I reached the top of the hill just as it was getting dark. We saw a woman at the top who looked to be having some sort of breakdown. She was sobbing, wailing, clutching on to a railing with both hands, walking but almost collapsing as she did so.

We decided to go and see if we could help. Before we reached her, though, a car pulled up alongside her. Three men jumped out and began pulling her and forcing her towards the car. She cried out and fought against them but before long they overpowered her. They bundled her inside and drove off at high speed.

My friend and I memorised the car’s number plate and I called the police. The woman who was abducted was Muslim and the neighbourhood was majority Palestinian but we had to call the Israeli police as there are no Palestinian emergency services in Jerusalem.

The woman who responded to my emergency call spoke limited English. We weren’t getting anywhere so I said “I speak Arabic”, thinking that we might go faster this way.

“No. No Arabic.” She sounded almost offended that I’d suggested it.

I was stunned – perhaps naively. How can you have an emergency response team that speaks no Arabic in a city where roughly one third of the residents are Arabic speakers, the majority of whom do not speak Hebrew?

I didn’t believe this phonecall had helped anything so I spoke to some policemen on the street. At first they were keen to listen and to help. Their interest, however, died when they realised the woman was Palestinian and not a tourist as they had first thought.

By this point I had very little hope. If something awful was going to happen to that woman, it would probably have happened by now. Still, I wanted someone to listen to what we had seen and to take it seriously. I wanted someone to care about that woman.

As a last effort we went to the police station just outside of the Old City. To get into the police station you need to first explain why you are there to a security guard outside. The security guard, however, speaks no Arabic. Unless you are a Hebrew speaker, it is very difficult to report a crime.

We waited half an hour before they found an Arabic speaker to translate into Hebrew for us. Eventually we were let into the police station. One policeman listened to us and took us seriously. The rest were unconcerned. Nothing was done. The security guard was laughing at us.

When I got back to my hostel in the Old City I told the man at the reception, a Palestinian, what had happened. I asked if there was anything else I could try, someone else who could help.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “The police are the police. It was a Palestinian area; they aren’t going to do anything.”

I left Jerusalem the next day.

Who says who’s free?

I arrived in Jordan with the firm belief that life would be less free here than it was back in the UK. This belief was, in fact, so ingrained within me that I didn’t even realise I possessed it, let alone think to question it.

Indeed at first I saw nothing to prompt me to question it. Even before I moved to Jordan I began to feel incredibly claustrophobic. I’d been reading the guidebooks: don’t show skin, don’t wear your hair down, don’t smile at men, they told me. I went shopping for appropriate clothes and a year’s supply of hair ties: it didn’t feel like me and I felt restricted in a way I’d never really felt restricted before.

Once I had arrived, I felt trapped by the street harassment which prevented me, at first, from venturing out alone after dark; I felt trapped in the heat by the need to keep covered; I felt trapped by the lack of any real public transport which left me searching for taxis to get around; I felt trapped by the inappropriate questions aimed at me once I’d found a taxi (about whether I drink, have sex, have a boyfriend, want a husband and so forth). On the 15th September 2014, I wrote in my diary, “I want to write that I’m feeling exhilarated and full of the spirit of adventure, but actually I’m feeling very fragile, a bit on edge… It’s hard because I can’t do what I normally do when I feel like this: I can’t go for a run, or go for a walk by myself without hassle, or take a long, hot bath.” (Water is very limited in Jordan.)

As I settled into life here, however, my perspective began to change, or at least become more complex. Is life less free in Jordan than in the UK? Or does my own life here only feel less free because of the specific freedoms that I have been conditioned to value most highly?

It was a conversation I had with a nineteen year old Jordanian girl that really prompted these thoughts.

“I’m hoping to go and study in Germany,” she told me, “But I’m worried it’ll be really strict there.” 

“Oh no, it’s definitely much less strict than life here,” I reassured her, “It’s more like the UK.” 

“But what about time?” she asked me. 

“What about it?” I was confused.

 “It matters so much in Europe. Every minute.”

She was thinking about freedom so differently from me. Time in Jordan matters, obviously, but she’s right that there isn’t the same obsession with it as in the UK, and she’s also right that an obsessive need to keep to time could well be considered a restriction of freedom.

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“You can wear what you want in Germany and people are less strict about alcohol and clubs and all that kind of thing,” I said.

“Yes but there are so many rules,” she responded,  “like about where you can or cannot go, how fast you can drive, wearing a seat belt, health and safety…”

Again, she was right, and if she values freedom of movement and freedom from bureaucracy more highly than freedom of dress (which she’s perfectly within her rights to do), then I do not doubt that she would find life in the UK far less free than her life in Jordan. Moreover, I’m sure that she would not be the only Jordanian to think this way and my smug assumption that my own country had freedom mostly sussed began to fray at the edges.

On top of this, I became increasingly aware that some of the greatest restrictions on my own freedom in Amman are not evidence of a general lack of freedom among Jordanians or Jordanian women; they are specific restrictions faced by Western women, or women who look “typically” Western. Walking down the streets, minding my own business, I have been followed, touched, spat on, kissed and proposed to. In taxis, I have been treated as nothing more than a sex object. This is not freedom. At first I believed this is the experience of most women in Amman, but eventually I realised that this is (in general) the experience of women who don’t look typically Arab.

Who’s to blame for this restriction on my freedom? Obviously, each offending man must bear some responsibility, but in general they are acting in accordance with a stereotype of Western women promulgated by my own Western culture — by the music videos, the magazines and the porn films produced by the culture I was born into. When I’m sitting in the back of a taxi and the driver seems surprised that I’m not willing to have sex after chatting for five minutes, or when I’m walking home and a middle-aged man pulls over in his car and seems offended when I refuse to climb inside, I wonder why the hell they ever thought, indeed expected, that I would be so willing. Is it because my own culture never gave them any indication that I would or even could say no? So yes, I may feel significantly less free in Jordan, but how far is my own culture to blame?

This post is obviously not intended to offer any conclusive opinion about whether life in the UK or in Jordan is the most free. It’s just an illustration of how my views and values are being challenged and questioned. I arrived in Jordan with a sense that I was free in the UK and would not be free in Jordan and that that was an uncomplicated issue. Now I wonder why it is that I feel more free in the UK than in Jordan and whether the same culture that I consider to be free is really the driving force behind the harassment obstructing my freedom in daily life in Amman.

7 resolutions for the everyday Oxonian

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No one actually does New Year’s Resolutions anymore, mainly because all the ones people are coming up with are extremely boring. Whilst learning a language, eating healthily, going to the gym more often, and stopping smoking/ binge drinking/ bringing flamethrowers to bops are all laudable goals, we all know they’re NOT going to happen.

Here’s an alternative list of better resolutions for 2015.

1. Take more selfies (but get a selfie stick).

Yes, I am from the Philippines, selfie capital of the world. Yes, I know I look like a tourist and I am okay with that. No, I do not have a selfie stick because I have short arms.

2014 was dubbed “the year of the selfie”, but I assure you, 2015 will be the year of the selfie stick. I’m sure even the least self-confident person secretly likes to take selfies. At some point, you have to learn to love yourself, and what better way than first learning to love the thing you see in the mirror every day? Fun fact: your selfies might look odd to you because you always see your face mirrored (left-right reversed) when you look in a mirror, so for the selfie-unconfident, just take selfies on Snapchat, so it’s mirrored and looking the way you always see you.

People think the selfie is just for self-obsessed good-looking people, but I beg to disagree. One does not use the selfie to flaunt one’s good looks; one uses the selfie to record an event, good times with friends, and great new places one finds in Oxford (see next resolution). But take heed, please don’t take a selfie of you putting on an ugly face (known as an ‘uglie’) – that was SO 2014. And please, if your arms aren’t long enough to get all your friends AND the view behind you… get a selfie stick! You don’t want to be that guy that cuts out your least important friends in photos. I promise it’s not narcissi-stick.

Disclaimer: This article was not sponsored by any companies selling selfie sticks. 

2. Actually go and visit places in Oxford.

Where are you going to take selfies if not around one of the best tourist destinations in the UK? Oxford is actually home to so many wonders, and it shocks me how many people (freshers, I’m looking at you!) haven’t visited them.

Got a bike? Cycle to Port Meadow, Blenheim Palace, and Brookes.  If you have a friend at St. Hugh’s (lol, what?), visit them and see all 10.5 acres of garden. It’s bigger than Trinity’s lawns and you can actually walk on the grass.

Food lover? Have breakfast at Tick Tock Café (the walls are covered in funky clocks), lunch at Turl Street Kitchen (great for social justice), and dinner at Gee’s (super expensive but also super classy). All over Oxford there are hidden gems of places we just walk by all the time: Zappi’s Bike Café (want to have coffee while surrounded by the smell of rubber tyres?), Vaults & Garden (lunch by the Rad Cam is incredible), and Edamame (very intimate – do not take anyone whose personal bubble you are not willing to enter).

Nutella lover? Go to the Pizza Artisan van outside Christ Church and buy a £6 pizza called ‘Fifty Shades of Nutella,’ which is a pizza base with nothing but Nutella on top, with mascarpone cheese optional. Then take a selfie of it and tweet it with #50shadesofnutella. I promise you a satisfied tummy and diabetes within two years.

3. Post things on OAOU.

The number of posts on the infamous ‘Overheard at Oxford Uni’ seems to be declining, despite this activity being one’s one-way ticket to BNOC-hood. Do continue to post things on there, but please make sure they are actually relevant/ funny/ interesting. First one to post a selfie on OAOU wins at life (okay, I’ll stop with the selfie talk now). 

4. Talk about mental health and disabilities.

TW: Discussion of Mental Health and Suicide

We worry a lot about our physical health. Many New Year’s Resolutions include not smoking, exercising more, and eating healthily. Of course, those are important things; we want to invest in a healthier old age free from strokes and heart attacks. But what about now? The biggest killer of men and women in the UK in the 20 to 34-year olds is actually suicide, according to the Office for National Statistics. As around 90% of people who die by suicide have mental health problems, we really should be tackling this major health problem.

We talk a lot about a five a day of fruit and vegetables for our physical health, while we don’t have a similar five a day for our mental health. For the record, some people have come up with a five a day for mental health: connect with others around you, be active, take notice of yourself, the world around you and the positives in your life, keep learning and give time to yourself and to others, one random act of kindness at a time. Have a friend who is struggling? Speak to them about it. Ask someone how they are and never invalidate their feelings. If things seem particularly bad, take any warning signs seriously. Remember, this could save someone’s life.

 5. Be a social justice advocate, and not just a keyboard warrior.

Sometimes, with the short terms that we have, soul-crushing deadlines, and far too many an essay crisis, it is tempting to care about no one but yourself. But the world has so many issues out there that even the most privileged, wealthy, cisgender, heterosexual, white, public school-educated and able-bodied male should be able to find a problem that they will find difficult to ignore.

But to those who are already on Tumblr and are already advocates for social issues (especially for issues to do with gender and sexual identity), can we please stop with the infighting? To people in the cis-gay male community, a friendly reminder that transphobia and cultural appropriation of Women of Colour is not okay. To the wider LGBTQ community, not everyone is sexual, and asexuality does exist. To monosexuals, biphobia is wrong. To everyone else, intersectionality (e.g. being both black and lesbian, Asian and hard of hearing, trans* and Muslim, etc.) does exist, and it does make life hard for people who live at such intersections.

Also, just because most people in Oxford are not dying from starvation, malnutrition, and malaria does not mean that issues such as homelessness, being more environmentally sustainable, and the Living Wage campaign are not important. In 2015, resolve to be more actively involved and more educated on all issues, not just those which affect you personally. 

6. Have More College Rivalry (But Stop with the Brookes Bashing)

Yes, it is perfectly okay to mock Pembroke for being the stupidest college and to hate on (read: become extremely jealous of) Merton for getting to the top of Norrington. (Like anyone reads that anymore? Oh wait.)

People have become too tame nowadays. Gone now are the days of Lincolnites leaving Brasenostrils to die by the hands of the townies. No longer do Pembrokians paint Christ Church cows pink, forcing Christ Church to retaliate by throwing Pembroke cats off Tom Tower.

To the Christ Church medic that stole a Lincoln plate, good on you. To the LMH medic that urinated into the pond in Tom Quad at Christ Church, shame on you. You know who you are.

 

7. Write for (Good) Student Publications

Join OSPL (not to be confused with OSFL) and any of its wonderful publications: Cherwell, Bang!, Industry and The Isis (not to be confused with that other ISIS).

Oxford Student Publications Limited is independent from the university, unlike certain publications (you know which one I’m talking about). OSPL is the powerhouse of Oxford’s only independent student newspaper, the oldest independent student magazine in the United Kingdom (the unfortunately-named ISIS), the only student magazine dedicated to science, the most popular fashion magazine (Industry), and even the best freshers’ guides that Oxford has ever seen – Keep off the Grass.

If Sylvia Plath, Nigella Lawson, George Osborne, Rupert Murdoch, W.H. Auden, and Evelyn Waugh have all contributed to OSPL, then obviously, so should you. Make it a New Year’s Resolution to write for good publications. 

Happy New Year!

The Ten Best Oxford Shows of 2014

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2015 looks set to be another exciting year for Oxford drama, but before we got too preoccupied with ringing in the new, we decided to pause and reflect on some of the greatest theatrical achievements of the past year. The fruit of said reflections was this – the definitive [citation needed] guide to the ten best shows of 2014. Did you miss out on the absolutely unmissable? Did you catch ‘em all? Read on to find out.

10. Henry V

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This production fully exploited Oxford’s potential for fantastic outdoor performances, taking its audiences to a variety of locations around Worcester College and gardens for a production of a Shakespearean classic. This Henry V was endearingly humorous, but combined charm with a commitment not to diminish its portrayal of the human cost of conflict, whether medieval or modern.

9. Blue Stockings

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In a year when several of our colleges are celebrating the fortieth anniversary of the admission of women, this reminder of the bravery of the initial female students in English universities was a timely one. In following the students of Girton College, Cambridge as they fight to be the first women to be allowed to graduate, we were reminded not just of how far we have come, but also of the courage and dedication of early female academics and students.

8. Frankenstein

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Taking on the task of adapting a classic novel is a daunting one, even more so with the added challenge of modernisation, but this devised piece, directed by Harley Viveash, made it look almost effortless. The stories of both creator and creature were elegantly updated with central performances from Howard Coase and Nick Finerty, who engaged the audience’s attentions and gained their sympathies. The setting may have been modernised, but the themes and emotions were one hundred per cent Shelley.

7. Assassins

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Sondheim seems to have had a bit of a moment among Oxford dramatists this year, with at least three of his musicals performed in 2014 and West Side Story still to come at the Playhouse this Hilary! Assassins was the pick of the bunch, bringing the stories of the men and women who have attempted to assassinate American presidents to the stage of the Keble O’Reilly. The cast combined formidable talent in singing and acting to make this into a fascinating and thought-provoking analysis of the failings of the American Dream.

6. Orlando

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Virginia Woolf’s novel Orlando features a main character whose gender mysteriously shifts from male to female, and who enjoys a lifetime spanning centuries of important historical occurrences. In addition to choosing to perform an adaptation of a well-established literary text, this production, directed by Niall Docherty and Livi Dunlop, took the additional risk of casting two actors in the title role, one male, one female, who played the part on alternate performances. This innovative decision paid off, with both Grainne O’Mahony and Dominic Applewhite receiving rave reviews for their performances, and the show seems to have pleased Woolf newcomers and super-fans alike.

5. The Pillowman

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As the nights grew darker last Michaelmas, so did the theatrical content on offer, with Martin McDonagh’s play about twisted stories and twisted storytellers being performed by Rough-Hewn Theatre at the Oxford Playhouse. The subject matter was grim but compelling, with a delicate balance of the humorous and the hard-hitting, and featured arguably the most strikingly beautiful and ingenious set to grace the Playhouse stage this year.

4. Jerusalem

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In fourth week of last term, the Keble O’Reilly was transformed into the rural lair of Rooster Byron, the dishevelled hero of Jez Butterworth’s play, documenting the day of the Flintlock Fair, where Byron clashes with old enemies, and tells tall stories with old friends. Byron’s bucolic hedonism, with all its seedy splendour and splendid seediness was realised wonderfully by the production as a whole, by also individually by Barney Fishwick who more than rose to the challenge of taking on the main part.

3. The Furies

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There’s very few productions in the world this innovative and impressive, and far less that are performed in Ancient Greek. The Furies filled this theatrical niche with set and performance taking inspiration from sources as diverse as the paintings of Francis Bacon and the movements of animals in nature documentaries. What really marked this piece out from the rest, however, was the bold use of sound, which was evident both in its fantastic semi-improvised score, and the way Arabella Currie’s direction turned the language barrier into one of the play’s greatest assets rather than one of its greatest obstacles, by having the Furies themselves speak over each other, or in varying volumes and tones, to create a visceral and immersive soundscape.

2. The History Boys

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A play about sixth form boys training for entry to Oxbridge might seem an obvious fit for Oxford dramatists, maybe even a bit too obvious, but this talented cast, helped by excellent direction and design, more than made it work. Alan Bennett’s hilarious and moving masterpiece really came alive in this production, which sparkled with wit and intelligence.

1. As You Like It

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Beating the boys to the top spot were the wonderful women of this all-female Buskins production. Taking place in the appropriately pastoral landscape of Worcester College gardens, this As You Like It captured the humour and the romance of Shakespeare’s comedy, with Clemi Collett giving a fantastic performance as a wickedly witty Rosalind, ably supported by Claire Bowman as co-exile and cousin Celia, and Aoife Cantrill as an adorably smitten Orlando. With a beautiful setting, and spectacular performances all round, this was a true gem of a production.

The power of the book

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Public objection to Chris Grayling’s proposed ban on sending books to prisoners, now declared unlawful by the high court, culminated in a high-profile protest outside Pentonville Prison in London earlier this year. In the intervening months, disputes between members of political and literary institutions were of a telling nature. There was much idealised rhetoric about an access to books symbolising the “values which distinguish our country”, designed to counter the snide elitism of a certain minister claiming that prisoners are “not waiting for their next Jane Austen”. Perhaps it is appropriate that an altercation over books was turned into a narrative of good against evil. Stories provide us with heroes and villains, but literature looks beyond that, and banning books for those who society has cast as the bad guys deprives them of access to such a perspective.

Studies from 2014 have shown that 48% of the prison population cannot read, write or count to the standard expected of an 11-year-old.  Wider problems in the education system have cut off many from even being eligible to receive the benefits that reading can bring, suggesting that the furore surrounding the proposed ban signifies our unwillingness to come to terms with our own failings as a nation. The redemptive power of books – as if independent from pre-existing education and firm foundations of literacy – is a dream that we all want to believe in. Accepting that a poor start in life can have inescapable consequences, that redemption is unlikely when so much is stacked against you, would mean facing up to widespread social problems many would rather shy away from.

Reality stands out clearly among the narratives. Avi Steinberg, a former Boston prison librarian, did not shy away from unpalatable truths in a previous interview. Despite once having been mugged in a park by an ex-con who boasted that he’d still got two overdue titles, his experiences gave him insight into this matter that seems to elude the well- meaning literary establishment: “Prisoners weren’t there to transform themselves, or be transformed – but they would still come to the library.”

The television series The Wire is famously reliant on the experiences of its cast and crew which make it a reflection of prison reality – former policemen, Baltimore journalists, drug dealers – and for incarcerated D’Angelo Barksdale in the second season, the prison book club is highly symbolic of both his attempt to reform and the futility of it. D’Angelo, when discussing The Great Gatsby, picks up on Gatsby’s library of unread books as falsely symbolic of his education and his unfounded reputation as an ‘Oxford man’. He both relates to and scorns Gatsby’s attempt to re-invent himself as a way of coming to terms with his own past: “It doesn’t matter that some fool say you different, ‘cause the only thing that make you different is what you really do, or what you really go through.” The potential for redemption that we want to see in books is set against a much harsher reality when D’Angelo is killed for co-operating with the police.

However, the galvanising of support in protest against the proposed law achieved its clearly worthy aim, and perhaps it is the symbolism of that which counts. A book ban would suggest that inmates have been given up on, that they are now part of a system with no contact with the outside world, subject to its unstimulating atmosphere and to the limited content of its libraries – and that chances to reform and rehabilitate are being chipped away at bit by bit. It means that we have to fight these smaller battles to prevent a future where there is no more fight to be had.

At the Pentonville protest Carol Ann Duffy read her poem Prayer through a megaphone; a poem in which prayers are answered and deep consolation is found in seemingly small and unexpected ways – as in books for example. It was subtly appropriate to the issue at hand, bringing some meaning and nuance into a protest that is, after all, a spectacle – a visual vehicle for conveying black-and-white messages, seldom doing matters of complexity justice – as literature ought to do. 

Hilary Term at the New and Playhouse Theatres

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The Woman in Black Oxford Playhouse

26-31 Jan

Based on Susan Hill’s novel and recently inexplicably spawned into a movie franchise, The Woman in Black is currently touring theatres around the country. It follows an elderly Arthur Kipps narrating Hill’s classic story of Eel Marsh House to a young actor. What makes the play so scary is its ability to make the whole theatre its set; no audience member feels quite comfortable. The old creaky Fortune Theatre, its home since 1989, is perfect for this so it will be interesting to see how it transfers to the relatively modern surrounds of the Playhouse. Regardless, there is a reason this play is, and has been, so popular and so the opportunity to see it in Oxford is exciting.

Spamalot New Theatre

9-14 Feb

West-End favourite Spamalot embarks on a national tour beginning in January following its great success in the West End and the incredibly successful Monty Python reunion this Summer. Given that it parodies the legend of King Arthur and his Roundtable, English students and a few History students could argue it as revision…well, maybe not. But Eric Idle says this fan-favourite will be “more like a Python show” and with its new director Christopher Luscombe it has a “whole different spirit”. Sounds good to us.

Macbeth Oxford Playhouse

24-28 Feb

With the original idea of a Macbeth adaptation, the Fliter Theatre Company will be bringing their show to the playhouse in February. Whilst this will probably the tenth adaptation of Macbeth you’ve seen since coming to Oxford, they are offering something new with their focus on sound and music at the heart of the play and their use of a minimal set with few actors. This is an experimental and innovative piece and it will be intriguing to see how the risk pays off. Although I’m not sure it can beat the adaptation of Macbeth set after a night in Park End at Cuppers this year…

One Man, Two Guvnors New Theatre

24-28 Feb

Based on the Commedia Dell’Arte piece A Servant to Two Masters, the hugely successful One Man, Two Guvnors continues its national tour at the New Theatre. The hilarious production reinvents itself with a new cast including Barry from Eastenders (Shaun Williamson) and Alicia Davies. A great chance to see a good dose of cross-dressing and star-crossed lovers outside of Shakespeare, this slapstick comedy is perfect for escapism.

The Man Who Would Be King BT Studio

17 March

Falling just short of term time is this adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s novella that was a firm favourite at the Fringe this year. It follows Peachy Carnehan and Daniel Dravot as soldiers who come up with a plan to become Kings in Northern Afghanistan. The play has just two actors with the invisible Colonel supposedly seated in the audience. The intensity and audience involvement of this will be exciting to see in the intimate setting of the BT Studio.

Review: Sam Smith – Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

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★★★★★

Christmas may have become a thing of the past, but the music leftovers linger on well into the January sales. It’s true, the Capitalist tycoons are eager to get their mitts on our well earned Christmas pennies from Granny in their stores . However, musically they churn out the same playlist year in year out. Everyone likes a new song as much as they like the latest model Smartphone, don’t they?

But there’s something different about Sam Smith’s cover of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’. ‘It’s just a rehashing of an old Judy Garland number from 1944’, I hear you music aficionados indignantly cry. Yes, it is a cover, but Smith makes it his own. Stumbling on the song, I was pressed against a touching and soul rendition of the classic. Garland’s version is a sublime warble. But Smith’s is a sombre and heart breaking coo. The musical tour de force of 2014 has showed no sign of stopping with this, his Christmas present to his listeners.

Sam’s angelic rendition of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ is sparse. But this isn’t the musicians being lazy and hoping to be home as soon as possible for chestnuts by the fire. The simple arrangement allows his angelic tones to shine out against the tinkling of a piano. His version is a nostalgic , melancholy concoction. It leaves the reader feeling warm for Christmas’s and mulled wines past. But you also can’t welling up as Smith winds his beautiful tones around the classic lyrics. He gently reminds us that it is indeed the season to abandon our worries, be grateful for what we have in life and cherish our time with our loved ones. Sam’s hauntingly beautiful number has indisputably touched this reviewers heartstrings. I just hope his velvety voice will enthral you as much as it has me, and make those post-Christmas hangovers slightly more bearable.