by Emma Butterfield

This is not porn. Cherwell might sign its editor up to an escort agency, but it hasn’t yet sunk to reviewing porn. That said, there are lots of shots of men covered in oil. Admittedly, they’re turn-of-the-century Russians, but if that’s your thing, you’ll probably enjoy the film more than I did. That’s not to say that I didn’t like the film – just that it’s unsettling. A Crude Awakening is a documentary about the oil industry: how it has developed over the last century, and why we’re now on the brink of a serious shortfall in supply. And, yes, it does mention Iraq. The film’s basic premise is hardly revelatory: our economy is at odds with geology. We are often told that we’re addicted to oil: A Crude Awakening illustrates the economics which drive that addiction. A barrel of crude oil contains enough energy to do 25,000 man-hours of work. It makes headlines when the price of oil reaches fifty dollars a barrel, but compared to the equivalent cost of labour, oil is incredibly cheap. It’s this cheap energy which has sustained global industrialisation, and the concurrent improvement in our standard of living. It also sustains us in a more visceral sense: for every calorie consumed in the developed world, 10 calories in fuel energy have been expended in production. This is a fascinating and very well-made documentary; come on, I managed to follow it all. I shall now set about proving its hard-hitting nature by my own, newly-informed synopsis. Standard market economics reassure us that as oil becomes scarcer its price will rise, making alternative fuels more attractive. The investment in alternatives will pay off, as improvements in technology make them more efficient and economies of scale render them affordable. What the market demands, the market will supply: ask and it shall be given unto you. Even this optimistic model allows that there will be a troubled transition period, during which oil is effectively unavailable (either exhausted, or unaffordable), and the alternatives unready to meet the pressing demand for energy. In the film, a panel of talking heads describe how abrupt and uncomfortable this transition will be. For years, oil-producing countries’ production quotas were capped according to their stated reserves of oil, and so they overstated their reserves in order to maximise production. Despite our growing thirst for oil those "stated reserves" remain unchanged: each member claims to be finding new oil as fast as they are extracting it. Since the market price is depressed by these fictional reserves, when the oil does run out, there will be no forewarning when the oil price soars. We’re headed for a crash. Like all documentaries, all this is skewed by the directors’ choice of interviewees, and their editing decisions. What’s interesting is the diversity of pundits represented: geologists, the former head of OPEC, Stanford professors. No dissenting voices are heard, because all of the assembled dignitaries agree on the film’s central argument: oil is finite and production has peaked, but our demand is growing. We are taught that we are able to exercise free will because we live in a liberal democracy. A Crude Awakening shows that our freedom depends on the fact that we are unbound from the land and from manual labour: our freedom depends on oil.

by Hilary Aked

In a film directed by Spike Jonze with a flawless screenplay by Charlie Kaufman, you learn to expect some truly strange and comic moments, but this one takes the biscuit. One scene from Being John Malkovich, which flies gloriously out of leftfield-nowhere, takes place directly after a superficially sentimental moment between pathetic loser Craig (John Cusack) and his wife, Lottie (Cameron Diaz). He realises he has become the husband from hell – "What have I become? My wife’s in a cage with a monkey". Indeed she is, yet she reassures him that he is "not a monster, just a very confused man". Husband and wife say they love each other, and he walks over to the cage.

Rather than releasing her from her imprisonment however, he makes a phone call, forcing Lottie, at gun-point, to talk to his colleague Maxine, with whom they are both infatuated. A meet-up is arranged, incidentally, through a portal leading to John Malkovich’s brain. Weird and wonderful, it’s also flaunting the absurdity of the characters’ behaviour and situation.

Hints have been occasionally dropped that Lottie’s pet chimpanzee, Elijah, suffers from "suppressed childhood trauma" of an unspecified nature. He is seeing a psychotherapist, we gather, but these allusions are too minor to warrant the title ‘subplot’. However, everything we weren’t really wondering is revealed to us when Elijah watches his beloved owner struggling to free herself from the ropes which bind her wrists. Suddenly, the camera begins to zoom in on Elijah. His eyes are narrowed; his moment of glory has arrived. Piano music surges and is then superseded by – what else? – bongo drums. We are in his memory, in a verdant jungle; the picture is blurry and overexposed. Looking at the world from Elijah’s point of view, from high up in a tree, the camera lurches about in a frenzy, witnessing the capture of two other monkeys by poachers: Elijah’s parents. We hear frantic monkey noises, panting, the sound of feet running, and men shouting. Elijah approaches his captive parents, and subtitles translate their fearful, squealed message: "Son, untie your father and me…quickly! Before they return!" We see a small pair of chimp hands enter into the frame and struggle to untie the ropes, but to no avail. Enlightened as to the special resonance of the challenge ahead, we cut back to the apartment where Elijah shakes off the memory and determinedly sets to work on Lottie’s bonds, freeing her to a backdrop of poignant strings.

The flashback itself lasts less than a minute, but it’s a priceless interruption. An abrupt, violent and potentially disturbing scene, hilariously undercut by the subtitles and context. Although totally superfluous to the main plot, it if far from an unnecessary throwaway scene; brilliantly bizarre moments like this make the movie.

by Emma Butterfield

Pete Doherty. The Libertines. Made your mind up already? The album contains no unreleased material, and I imagine the rationale behind releasing it is to subsidise Doherty’s habits, or the other members’ vanity bands. It won’t reach new listeners that somehow missed them the first time around (all of 3 years ago), and their antics have already polarised their potential audience. Aficionados have already sought out every demo and bootleg, and the rest of us have been avidly ignoring them (and will presumably continue to do so).

That said, if they were ever going to release a best of, it would have to be now: they depend on our knowledge of their antics. ‘What Katie Did’ is a tacky Beach Boys pastiche (without the 4-part harmony), whose appeal derives from the fact that we all know who Katie is. This is Doherty’s killer device – the listener feels like they’re in on his secrets. Doherty’s lauded wit is nothing more than a series of inside jokes.

The poppy five-note melodies and four-line choruses have lasting appeal, but the humour will fall flat when the audience isn’t au courant with the self-proclaimed prince of Albion and his ‘bird from South London’. All that will remain are some songs which attempt a punk aesthetic (a conspicuous gurgling scream in ‘Up the Bracket’, and every song less than 4 minutes), but maintain a simple tunefulness. The Libertines are Busted, but with suits and skag. Their sound is at odds with their reputation for outrage – it’s conventional, pretty and melodic: the title track, with its refrain of ‘oh I cherish you my love’ is very sweet (saccharine, in fact, were it not for the occasional references to blood up the walls). ‘Don’t Look Back into the Sun’ recalls a similarly titled Britpop anthem. Unlike Oasis, though, the Libertines’ music won’t outlast their myth.

by Michael Bennett

Clocking in at just 33 minutes, Into the Wild is disappointingly short. It wasn’t just the disappointment of good music coming to a close, it was the way most of the tracks barely had a chance to begin. The only song on the album that feels like a finished piece of work is ‘Hard Sun’, an Indio cover (which nonetheless fits in very well with the original tracks). The second track, ‘No Ceiling’, is a perfect example of this. No sooner has the plucky tune and lyrical message been established than the song ends. Several songs on the album come across like this as half-finished ideas for songs, which is quite frustrating (especially as they sound like very promising ideas).

As a soundtrack, we can’t yet judge how well it fits into the film, but the album succeeds right from the start in painting huge open canvases of empty highways and wilderness. It feels like Vedder has strongly identified with the true story of a bright college kid leaving society for solitude in the Alaskan wilderness. He shows himself able to get right into character in songs like ‘Long Nights’ and ‘Guaranteed’, and relishes the chance to reflect on themes of freedom, society and loneliness.

Still, the song that captures the story best is one not written by Vedder, but by Jerry Hanan; ‘Society’. At first I was put off by clichés in the lyrics, till I realised they were supposed to communicate a mindset, not a political statement. "Society, you’re a crazy breed", sings Vedder, "hope you’re not lonely, without me".Fans of Pearl Jam might be disappointed by Vedder’s restraint and the sparseness of the music. Anyone seriously interested in him as a songwriter, though, will want to hear him given the freedom to create an album almost single-handedly. For the rest of us, the subtle, meditative tones of Vedder’s record might be surprising – and a reason to look again at his band.

by Katherine Eve

There is a very fine line between building up the audience’s appetite and letting their hunger pass unsatisfied, but the full capacity of the Academy is clearly abundant with loyal fans, as the arrival of The Coral 20 minutes late is still met with riotous applause. The aim of the evening is to promote latest album Roots and Echoes. To this end, The Coral refute lukewarm reviews and instead exude quiet self-belief as they launch into the set with four new tracks back-to-back.

The acoustics of the Academy afford clarity for the poetic lyrics, but we still swim in the guitar rhythms that drive the set. A notable complexity has returned with guitarist Ryder-Jones (he left midway through touring of The Invisible Invasion) playing off against Power’s keyboards and alternating solos with frontline guitarist Southall. Surprising strength comes in the live rendition of ‘Who’s Gonna Find Me’: we’re immersed in various layers of hooks and arpeggios and its hypnotic and disorienting vibes surface. ‘Remember Me’ grabs the audience instantly with its tribal drums and an anthemic chorus, though we’re still receptive to the sweetly romantic ballad, ‘Jacqueline’.

They have a plethora of hits to choose from and a quick succession of ‘Pass It On’, ‘Dreaming of You’ and ‘In the Morning’ satisfy the crowd’s longing for an injection of the quirky pop they are famed for. Somehow such songs seem reinvigorated and even stronger these days.

For some tracks anticipation is easily built by tuning up to a recognisable guitar riff, but on the whole, the live performance lacks drama: studio precision is adhered to; tracks are introduced by title; the audience are thanked on completion. This contributes to a somewhat muted atmosphere as the set wears on. For this reason it is wonderful to witness the energy of some free-flowing jamming and spontaneity in the encore. ‘Goodbye’ is the perfect opportunity for a psychedelic frenzy, complete with beating tambourines. We finally see the band enjoying what they do, and the crowd responds in kind.

by Oskar Cox-Jensen

Ben Hudson, of Library fame; singer, guitarist, rapper; possessor of a routine 2:1 from St Anne’s and a small scruffy dog called Dave. We meet up backstage in the venue he persists, like most of us, in calling the Zodiac, he searching for his flat cap, I keen to make the most of a ten minute interview. Neither of us gets what we’re after. Unhappily, the cap is lost. On a brighter note, we walk his dog for a good two hours, taking in the University Parks, his old college, and some glorious unseasonable sunshine.

Ben hasn’t seen Oxford in six years, and tonight will be his ‘first ever gig’ in the city, so he’s understandably keen to reminisce about the old place. He comes across as a typical arty Oxford student. He dabbled in plays, starring in a take on The Merchant of Venice, but when he was asked to direct A Clockwork Orange he backed off – ‘I felt I was in too deep.’ This erstwhile dilettantism still irks him; ‘I feel like I should have got a First or a Third’; and his one significant act at Oxford, he feels, was a JCR motion to buy St Anne’s a decent PA system. He admits that ‘I never really went clubbing; I found those people obnoxious’, nor to gigs; ‘what gigs was I gonna go to? Funk nights at Po-Na-Na’s? Travis?’ Instead, he stayed in, listening to Bowie and Joni Mitchell.

It seems to have paid off. He started playing songs for fun, taking a ‘Gap Year’ dossing in London after graduating, and refreshingly, always saw ‘The Record Deal’ as just something that happened along the way. Now, ‘we’re famous, but only at our own gigs.’ He plays ‘mostly by ear’ and never writes things down – ‘If something’s important enough, you’ll remember it,’ he observes wryly, since I’d forgotten a Dictaphone. But he finds himself supporting Amy Winehouse (‘she’s a good girl’) and, two nights earlier, The Police, at the Millennium Stadium. ‘It was so big and ridiculously important that I just wasn’t nervous at all.’ Their live show that night has all the fervour and joy of an Arcade Fire gig, but far more style. To explain the transformation, he lapses into cliché for once. ‘I realised that I had to wake up every morning like a man possessed, and give it 100%, if I wanted to make it.’Ben always feared being stuck in an office, raging at DeLoitte and the milk round; a fate he seems to have escaped. But for such a focused, contented man, who stresses how important it is to ‘move on from Oxford, and let the new undergraduates have their fun,’ he’s awfully keen on chasing up old porters in the Lodge and staring fondly at his first year room. The guy’s a genius, and fiercely independent. But like so many of us, he’ll never truly escape Oxford.

by Patrick Driver

Only a skilled melophobe, or perhaps more accurately in some cases, ligyrophobe, could walk down Cornmarket Street at the weekend without encountering at least one busker. It is not uncommon to see schoolboys honking on saxophones under the Anglo-Saxon church tower, or the Peruvian equivalent of Hanson outside the phone shop (a six year-old playing the drums is impressive, but I can’t help wondering if the joy on everyone’s faces as they watch is akin to that derived from watching a dancing bear). But there is a wealth of more accomplished musicians of all varieties to be found performing around Oxford every week.

We’ve all seen them, heard them play, even given money to them, but while some are central pillars of life in the centre of town (bagpipes, anybody?), few of us know much about Oxford’s buskers. Ever eager to please, your reporter has done the hard work for you. With its lack of traffic and proliferation of shoppers and assorted other pedestrians, Cornmarket really is the place to be for a busk, and so there I headed on a gloomy Friday afternoon…

That Friday afternoon must have been the first occasion for some considerable time when Cornmarket was entirely devoid of buskers. Fortunately, walking past the Clarendon Centre I heard a smooth ‘cello melody easing itself through the doors and calling me in. There I found Dave Loew surrounded by an exhibition of newspaper articles, CDs and a scrap book. Having introduced myself, the first thing Dave told me was that he is not a busker. This was not my day. What the hell, I thought, I’ll tell you about him anyway. He has a story, you see.

Dave started to learn the ‘cello aged six, before studying at the New South Wales Conservatorium. He became the principle cellist for the Australian Ballet and Opera Orchestra, before returning to London, where he played with the BBC Symphony Orchestra and the Royal Philharmonic, as well as being a regular freelance musician in the London Symphony Orchestra, playing in various West End shows and recording for film soundtracks. Having failed to secure a record deal, three years ago he hired the Royal Albert Hall, acting as promoter, soloist and star. "The record industry is stupid", he told The Telegraph at the time, "They don’t know what they are doing and I want to say, ‘up yours – how wrong you all are and what a wonderful talent I am’." This is redolent of the rantings of so many X-Factor rejects.

But Dave Loew clearly has the skills to pay the bills, and his credentials go considerably beyond those of most X-Factor wannabes and buskers (he is not a busker, remember). He has produced three CDs of his own, and has paid for them to be pressed. Despite lacking the sex appeal of a Vanessa Mae, his sales have reached 160,000 in seven years. Tracks from his albums have been played on Radio 2, Radio 3, Classic FM amongst others. He has clients and fans in countries all round the globe, though curiously the president of his fan club is a rodent named Sophie. It was rather a surprise to find all this out about a man I happened upon in the Clarendon Centre, playing his ‘cello and selling his CDs. As I talked to him a man paid double for one of his albums, despite Dave’s protestations. I was rather pleased by this, for I didn’t have the money, and nor, if I am being entirely honest, were his albums to my particular taste, and he was not only donating 35% of his sales that day to breast cancer research, but also was also most obliging.

Re-emerging onto Cornmarket street, I was delighted to hear the sound of an accordion-like instrument playing merrily away. Further down the street was a smartly dressed, flame-haired, bearded man who was bobbing up and down enthusiastically as he played upbeat morris music. When I finally managed to jump in between extended periods of play, I discovered his name was Jamie Huddlestone, a very friendly character who was pleased to chat away for some time, and that the instrument was a melodeon, or button accordion. He is another street musician with an established musical background. Having learnt the piano and guitar as a kid, he moved on to violin and became a folk fiddler. Missing the ability to play chords, he finally turned to his most recently acquired instrument.

Fiddling in the West Country, he came to Oxford almost on a whim following a split with his violin partner, slept in his car, and soon enough started busking. On his first day he was given tickets to see The Pixies, and by the end of his first week he had three dates fixed – ‘One turned out alright’. He has since been the assistant manager at Jessop’s, but now takes part-time jobs to supplement his busking. On a good day, performing for a two or three hours, he earns about £80. Busking keeps him ‘ticking over in terms of money, but I just love being out playing’.

Jamie turns out to provide quite a window onto the busking scene in Oxford, which is seemingly not without camaraderie (though I’m told the regulars are not happy when groups turn up on Saturdays and play all day). He recommends a French jazz-influenced band called Les Alcolytes, a middle-aged guitarist regular by the name of Max Moonlight, a Paraguayan harpist, and The Huckleberries. Now, having recently come out of the folk closet, I’m glad he mentioned the latter. They can be seen every so often on Cornmarket, drawing large crowds and spreading jollity. The band consists of four blokes with long hair and beards, one bloke with stubble, and a guy who makes up for his relative hairlessness by looking a touch aberrant and having a bowler hat and a green violin. They are perhaps my favourite Oxford buskers, though not as common a feature in the life of an Oxford student as the guy who sits in the doorway of GAP and plays the guitar at night. I asked Jamie about him. His name is Asish (though the spelling is open to debate), and he may live in Witney. Jamie described him as a ‘gypsy-jazz freak’ who sits in Caffè Nero for a couple of hours before playing, caressing the fingerboard of his guitar and practising sotto voce. Despite the fact he doesn’t appear to invite voluntary donations, he does make half a living from his nocturnal strumming.

Whilst we were chatting away the general bustle of the street was pierced by the sound of the pipes, and so I walked on to find their source, Heath. I found him at first a little intimidating, but thankfully Jamie had given me his name and advised dropping some coins. I started by asking about his music, reasonably enough. He plays mostly modern Scottish tunes, which he renders undeniably energetically. He is, though, another musical polymath, accomplished also on folk fiddle and tin whistle amongst much else, and playing in a well-respected Celtic band by the name of Slâinte (I didn’t attempt to spell it until I saw it on Heath’s teeshirt). His mother brought him up listening to folk music in Australia (surprising, given he was wearing shorts on a cold afternoon – though I gather the piping is hot work). And he isn’t bad, either. A man who sat near Heath as he played, and tapped his tobacco tin to the beat, said ‘Kickin’, man – an’ tha’s comin’ from a Scot’.

Predictably, though, there are people who get annoyed by his music. He tells me that a man who lives on the other side of the street to his spot complains to the Council every time he busks there, and when first I asked to question him he was wary, worried that I would be writing from the angle of ‘the people that want to shoot me’. Those that work in the nearby shops know that they can’t complain, he explains, because he stays within the rules. The rules, by the way, are that there are three spots for buskers on Cornmarket, that you may not play more than three one-hour sets in one day, and that you must have given your name to the council and agreed to obey the other rules.I ask him why he busks. ‘Survival – paying bills.’ And does it do him well? ‘There are good days and bad days. Let’s just say that England is a very expensive country to live in. But I get by.’ He tells me that what he would have earned in eight hours in some of the low-paid jobs he’s done he can make in an hour on the street, which I find pleasing, as he must be bringing significantly more pleasure to other people and to himself this way too. ‘Is there anything else you want to say?’, I ask. ‘Be nice to buskers.’

by Becky Derbyshire

Do we not all have one of those friends who just seems to be able to discover bands and singers who no-one else has heard of? Mine introduced me to bluegrass through a band who I most cordially encourage you to seek out, Nickel Creek. Impressive enough on CD, on stage they are open-mouth gawpingly awesome. It is only on stage that you can fully appreciate the skill, talent and downright enthusiasm that bluegrass musicians have for their genre.Bluegrass has only had an impact on mainstream British music fairly recently. Often mistaken for folk music, bluegrass in fact has many influences on it. The genre combines old-time British and Irish inspiration with a great African-American influence (gospel, ragtime, jazz and blues all having their effects), to create a mesh of sometimes toe-tapping and sometimes incredibly soothing music.The father of the genre however was one Billy Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys. The band formed in 1939, but it was only in 1945 when Earl Scruggs, a banjo player, joined the group with his distinctive playing style (a three-fingered roll on the banjo) that this new genre of music actually developed.It only became truly distinctive in the mid-1950s during the emergence of Rock and Roll, and whilst electric guitars began to be strummed by the fingers of many Country players, the Bluegrass players stuck to their acoustic instruments. There has indeed been much debate between those in the know as to what constitutes a bluegrass band, Most accept the benchmark of a fiddle, a five string banjo, a mandolin and an upright bass. Nevertheless, there have been movements in recent years to more progressive bluegrass music with some electric instruments.Like with any style of music boundaries are flexible and the style of bluegrass in often very varied. One of the few guarantees of bluegrass though is that the music is likely to be very technically demanding with fast and complex melodies often being improvised. Indeed the great aptitude of these players is amazing when one considers that often all within the band are not only good singers but virtuoso musicians.With the fusion of different styles that have influenced this genre, there is a little of something for everyone. From the pure and meaty sounds of Flatt and Scruggs, to the silky feather-light voice of Allison Krauss, to the more progressive sounds of ‘newgrass’ with Nickel Creek, Bluegrass is a well worth giving some ear time to.

by Aaron Borbora

Tucked away between the back of the Westgate Centre and County Hall, Liaison is certainly not one of Oxford’s better-known restaurants. And while "location, location, location" may be the mantra of property buffs everywhere, it certainly does not hold true in the case of Liaison, an establishment which in my opinion should be considered one of the finest Chinese restaurants in the city.

The unimpressive location and slightly grubby exterior are more than made up for by the inside of the restaurant. The dining area is small, but mirrors give an illusion of space. Very comfortable chairs mean that one can easily spend an entire evening here without feeling the urge to wiggle around in one’s seat, making conversation that bit easier. The lighting was low but in a way that added to the atmosphere rather than being a nuisance. Heavy and high-quality tableware and glasses added to the experience of solid quality which the furnishings and fittings exuded.

Right from the beginning the staff were excellent. During the booking process they were very helpful and accommodating and on arrival we were seated quickly and efficiently. Throughout our meal, they were friendly and attentive without being invasive or overbearing. There was a good ratio of staff to diners, meaning we were served promptly.

To drink we had a couple of bottles of house white; in contrast to similar offerings at other restaurants, it was eminently drinkable and, in keeping with the excellent service provided by Liaison, it was at a suitably cold temperature.

The menu offered an extensive, almost bewildering, choice of food from all the expected genres: vegetarian, meat, poultry and seafood. We chose a set meal of three courses in order to sample a cross-section of the offerings. The starter was duck pancake, in which the duck was perfectly sweet and crispy. So generous were the portions that we had to ask for extra sauce and pancake in order to finish the provided duck. The rest of the meal was similarly excellent, in particular the lemon chicken and that old favourite: special fried rice.

In conclusion, Liaison provides a truly first-class dining experience. Both the food and the surroundings are high quality and well-trained staff complete the picture. The menu is expensive – our bill came to just under £66 for two, although by drinking less and ordering a main course rather than a banquet it would be possible to eat far more cheaply – but definitely worth it. As well as getting an excellent meal and an impressed date one gets a huge Liaison-style portion of credit card points!

by Fraser Raleigh

What was supposed to be a serious look at the Middle East turned into a farce last week at the Union as the original line-up boycotted the debate following the withdrawal of the invitation of the controversial academic Norman Finklestien. The chamber was left confused as instead of experts, 5 Union debaters and Paul Usiskin, Chair of UK Peace Now walked towards the front benches. After many members had shown their disdain by walking out and the President had struggled to avoid being drawn into a stand up argument with a protester, the debate got under way.

Ben Jasper tried his best to make the case for a proposition that he acknowledged was neither popular nor easy to defend but he was overly complicated despite being well-meaning. Alex Worsnip did a better job in terms of argumentation, structuring his speech well by talking of the dangers of abuses of rights and of civil war and picking holes in the Proposition’s case as did his partner Andrew Goodman who spoke of the absurdity and unlikelihood of any form of coalition under one state. Jamie Furness, last speaker for the proposition, was one of the few good things to come out of the debate as he at mixed charisma and arguments effectively. Peter Usiskin, speaking for the second time, was sufficiently experienced in the question to shed some real light that had been missing from the other speakers.

This in itself highlighted the problem with the debate. The Union debaters did very well technically and substantively, especially given the very little time they were given to replace the original line up, and they should be praised for this. But they were just debaters, given a brief and told to argue it. Unlike outside speakers, they often didn’t really believe what they were arguing and as such the debate was ultimately flat. No punch, no passion and ultimately, no point.