There’s nothing I like more than reading a book which doesn’t feature on my prescribed reading list. And after weeks of furious cramming I’ve had enough of Beowulf, Shakespeare, and I hate to say it, even George (Eliot and Orwell). This summer, I thought, was the time to see what the nation is reading and to dabble in some popular literature.

Naturally, the best place to start would be with the book impressively dubbed fastest selling paperback of all time: E.L James’ Fifty Shades of Grey (if you haven’t already heard of it, you’re taking the Oxford bubble too seriously). It’s the baby of the digital download revolution, the raunchy result of a public too modest to show off their erotic library on the tube. Because let’s face it, revealing you know the correct knot required to tie someone up could be seen as socially daunting. But even then, if you happen to own a tangible copy, the cover art is deliciously elusive. Taking a glance at the cover, you’d have no idea that the silver-patterned tie illustrates a volume containing the phrase: “Come, I want to show you my playroom.”  Walking into Waterstones, I carelessly picked up the bestseller prepared for its erotic content. What I wasn’t prepared for was my subsequent lack of faith in Britain’s literate population.

Ok, so that last comment probably sounds a bit harsh. But I did encounter Fifty Shades with an open mind, I really did. I just find it incredible that a book which is written with mediocre skill (at best), has trumped any and every Orange prize winner with its ‘oh my’s and casual references to riding crops. Reading Fifty Shades it’s easy to see its origins as a Twilight Fanfiction as James makes the parallels between characters easy to identify. Readers have their beloved Bella in the guise of technologically challenged Anastasia Steele (at 22 she has yet to discover email), and the vampire in the guise of vampish but still very much alive, Christian Grey. However, my disappointment with this piece of literature (the term is used loosely), is not in its blatant parallels to Twilight, but more so in the fact that nothing really happens. At all. Ever. Christian Grey, “dominant” and perhaps the biggest control freak in fiction, desires Anastasia Steele to be “submissive”. She complies then decides that, actually no, she’d rather not. Spoiler alert – oh wait – that was the whole plot.

So, why is the world reading this book? Possibly not for its comedic value, which admittedly was my incentive following the phrase: “He’s my very own Christian Grey flavour Popsicle”. What some readers may class as erotic, I found to be delightfully humorous.  But perhaps this is due to my robotic English student analysis, which picked up an array of amusing literary features. For example, we have the motif of the “foil packet” which makes a continued appearance, Grey apparently possessing at least twelve condoms on his person at any given time, just in case. We have repetition of the phrase “my inner goddess” every other line, and a great deal of “lip biting” which appears in juxtaposition to Grey’s growing erection. James also includes many an intersexual, sorry, intertextual reference to Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Anastasia likening both herself and her relationship to Hardy’s classic. But perhaps most worryingly of all is the voice of our heroine. I could almost overlook the fact she orgasms multiple times (on demand) if it wasn’t for the regrettable truth that she sounds like a juvenile. Ana constantly refers to “down there” and is prone to the occasional outburst of “holy hell!” or “holy Moses” when something particularly shocking occurs. Usually when Grey gets naked.

Fifty Shades of Grey is as far as I could get from Beowulf without resorting to actual porn, and in that sense it certainly achieved its purpose. And I must confess, I did actually enjoy the book, and read aloud it made for glorious entertainment at a £4.09 steal. It may not be great literature, or deserving a 17 week reign in the charts, but it’s worth knowing what all the fuss is about. Even if you’re not completely whipped. 

2 STARS

Could your band be the next Coldplay? Reckon you could put the Ox in Fleet Foxes? The Rad (-Cam) in Radiohead? If so, boutique Herefordshire festival Nozstock is launching a competition, PlayNoz, which will be music to your band’s collective ears.

The Nozstock team is offering a student band or artist the chance to play a slot at the festival which sees The Futureheads and The Proclaimers headline from 27th-29th July. It may not quite be Glasto, but based around a ramshackle Tudor farmhouse and converted cowsheds in the Herefordshire Hidden Valley, Nozstock is at the forefront of the kooky, home-spun tribe of festivals proudly scorning any corporate ethos and aiming to stay rooted to its ad hoc origins as a family and friends based affair. Now in its 14th year, it has previously seen acts as diverse as the Buzzcocks, the Joy Formidable, Sub Focus and Pulled Apart by Horses.

To be with a chance of winning, entrants must submit their best track (covers are not allowed) via the Nozstock SoundCloud DropBox by midnight 1st July 2012. Voting will be open midday Friday 6th July until midnight Sunday 15th July by way of Soundcloud ‘favourites’ and ‘likes’ (so basically beg, bribe or otherwise coerce your friends into voting). The Nozstock team will pick one of the most liked tracks from among the Soundcloud submissions to perform at the festival.

On a wider level, in a polarised music industry which has seen cuts in subsidies to independent music labels occur alongside the omnipresent spectacle of the X Factor, it seems low-level festival participation schemes such as this present a useful opportunity for struggling and unsigned bands to break through into the festival circuit. So if you fancy joining the scores of bands who hit the big time after forming in their university days (R.E.M, Coldplay, MGMT amongst other musical heavyweights) PlayNoz could well signify your lucky break. And if all else, it would probably beat the average lacklustre college JCR open-mic night…

More details on how to enter can be found on the competition entry page here http://bit.ly/McqjZ5.

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You can’t help but feel nostalgic while watching Close the Coalhouse Door. And it’s a nostalgia, I must admit, that I didn’t anticipate I’d feel when taking my seat in the Playhouse. It stems from the contrast between the then and now, and in particular, between the thriving mining community of back then and its disintegration into the nothingness of today.

The contrast between different strands of time is effectively realised in the very first scene, a scene which features an abandoned terrace and a glamorized billboard. It’s hard to ignore the penetrating gaze of Meryl Streep in her guise as the Iron Lady; the advertisement juts out incongrous to the dark, smoky red-brick terrace lying behind it. But this cardboard cut-out is the only reference we are offered as to Thatcher’s collision with the pitmen, which is a shame.

Streeps’s advertisement is just one of Lee Hall’s revisions, made in attempt to bring Plater’s 1968 show ‘up to date for its modern audience’. And although Hall includes many contemporary gags and witticisms, we are left with an overall feeling of incompleteness. The problem with this play isn’t in the acting, or in West’s directing, but lies in the vast historical gulf between the play’s publication and the events of today. No amount of impressive multi-roling or catchy folk anthems can detract from the absence of Thatcher. It’s an absence deafening in a play concerned with the history of mining, and is an absence which acutely dates the piece, despite Hall’s best efforts.

Nevertheless, there is something in the accelerated ride through mining history, set amongst a family gathering, which makes for satisfying, thought-provoking viewing. We are hurtled through time in a montage featuring the ghosts of mining past: from 1834 and the forced labour of six year olds, to the growing discontent of the mining union, to the between wars chaos- all pinned into place by the then ‘present day’ of 1968.

The Brechtian vein allows for a history lesson, satire, drama and musical to be fused together and cumulates into a piece of consistently entertaining theatre. Designer Soutra Gilmour’s revolving set cleverly allows for the duality of strained domestic drama and industrial stories to occur simultaneously, the strong cast in their element as they dynamically leap from one scene to the next. Jane Holman, the matriarch of the household, especially stands out by her comic timing and pompous performance as Lord Londonderry. The cast expertly weaves Alex Glasgow’s haunting folk songs into the drama, underscoring the loss of both the mining industry, and its corresponding community, a community of parlour music, tradition and strength.

After eighteen years since its first major revival, Lee’s punchy new material came at a good time, but I would have liked more of it. Bringing Close the Coalhouse Door up to date for a 21st century audience is a laborious task for any well-intentioned revivalist, especially since the mining industry wasn’t deemed as dying in the 60s so much as losing popularity. Despite the incongruity, generated from overlooked events, this production is a quality piece of theatre which celebrates the mining legacy. 

FOUR STARS

In an age where there are about as many internet DJs as there are remixes of Avicii’s ‘Levels’, it is always refreshing to witness a breakthrough DJ who seems to have found an original voice. Up and coming Austrian producer Tobias Rieser, producing under the name Klangkarussell, has generated a wave of popularity after his song ‘Sonnentanz’ went viral, being dubbed by many as the song of the summer.

The career of Rieser, who has been producing music since the age of 15, is in such an early stage that there is not yet a full EP released – only a couple of mixes on his Soundcloud page, one of which includes ‘Sonnentanz’ (‘Sun Dance’). Despite the reaction to the song being so widespread, with well over one and a half million views across different websites, Rieser told Cherwell that he ‘did not expect any reactions to the song at all.’

Having grown up in Salzburg, the home of Mozart, classical music has given a “wonderful influence” on the music of Rieser, who was born into a musical family, playing the trombone from an early age and learning from his father, a music teacher.

Klangkarussell’s music has been described by some as ‘deep house’, and by himself as ‘jazz house’ – but he says that “over the last few years it has become really difficult to talk about electronic music in terms of genres.

“There are some tracks you can easily connect to a genre, but I am proud of the fact that I would not try to assign my tracks to a special genre”. Although stating that his influences range from producers such as Marek Hemmann and Oliver Koletzki, to soul legends such as Otis Redding and James Brown, Rieser has stressed the need to have a diverse range of influences.

“You have to walk through the world with open eyes and ears and soak up everything and process it afterwards. There are beautiful tunes in every genre, you just need to listen carefully and sometimes hear music in the right context.”

How would Rieser recommend young DJs to manage to find an original, unique voice? “Just do what you want to do” he replies; “don’t think you need to follow any trends. Try to be an individual, and listen to your inner voice”.

Rieser was best friends in school with fellow Austrian producer Herald and I and who now, eight years on, is producing with Rieser under the name Helden:klang. “We are planning to release our first EP with ‘Sonnentanz’ and ‘Netzwerk’ [one of many popular Helden:klang collaborations] but we are not there yet”.

Dubbed as the next Paul Kalkbrenner, big things are expected of the man behind Klangkarussell.

The Enemy have, with Streets in the Sky, delivered the best album of the recession so far. Although it’s hardly a surprise that The Enemy have continued to explore their favourite themes of urban depression and the difficulties of modern living, what is surprising is that they seem to be doing it almost on their own. Streets in the Sky is, therefore, a precious thing.

To compare Tom Clarke to Bruce Springsteen might at first seem a little odd, but there’s a real comparison to be made. Both write about struggling young men and women with startling emotional involvement, and with a deeply hopeful and romantic sensibility. The Enemy’s unashamedly British sound falsifies any further comparison, but Clarke’s faculty for empathy is unusual, and is worth taking entirely seriously.

It’s become unfashionable to write songs about reality, but The Enemy do it self-consciously, and they do it well. ‘2 Kids’ documents a depressingly common realisation that big dreams might have disappeared. ‘This Is Real’’s protagonist is poor, lonely, and struggling. But in both cases, there’s some hope. Tom Clarke’s characters haven’t quite given up yet, and they’re implored not to. ‘Love we don’t have much/But what we have’s enough/Just hold your head up/And we’ll be ok’. ‘Modern Life is Rubbish’, in some ways, but, as another football-terrace chorus notes, ‘Saturday will make it all ok’. Clarke’s characters always have something, and often someone, dragging them through. Streets in the Sky is an album, in many ways, about love.

Although, for those in The Enemy’s songs, and for those they’re written for, the build up of pressures entailed by urban life is near unbearable, there’s always hope to be found in human relationships: things are never as bad as they might be, and at the weekend they’re a hell of a lot better.