In a parallel universe, the sun is shining on Oxford, and the
clever students are donning hats for a number of reasons. Not
only do hats stop those harmful rays burning your skin and act as
the ever-present disguise of the bad hair day, but they also make
you stand out in the crowd. However, to make sure the occupants
of rainy, dreary Oxford do not commit any fashion faux pas, there
are a few rules to observe. Obviously beanies and woolly hats are
out, unless you are planning an ode to Shrek the sheep, or are
looking for a greasy skater-boy style (in which case, this column
cannot help you). But, apart from that, let your hair go (under
that hat) and feel the wintry breeze. Boys: Caps are good, especially if your hair
is all tousled and mid length-ish. Caps are basically foolproof
(again exceptions to prove the rules), however, visors are not on
the agenda and never should be, whatever anyone else says. Flat
caps are also not for now. Yes they keep the sun off your face,
let the odd bits of tousled hair appear underneath, but no; they
are for winter, and last winter at that. Straw hats are
definitely appearing around Oxford, and as it is Oxfordia, these
shall be forgiven, but don’t return home (unless you live
here, in Cambridge, or Henley) with them still attached. Girls: Any hat will do but remember the
colours. No blacks, unless you are a Goth (in which case go for
it). No whites – they are impractical and reflect the light
into other peoples’ eyes, and can only make you look pasty
(unless you are tanned, in which case just be a little wary).
Make those hats work for their money; more is definitely more. Go
for colourful hats, floral hats, retro hats, but don’t make
them small. Caps look good on some girls, I am assured, but I
have not seen any yet. There are only two more important things to bear in mind about
hats this summer. Firstly, in the coming months, hats are not
simply accessories. Don’t use them just to decorate your
outfit. Use them to hide your hair by all means, but remember,
like the garden, hair is an important part of the house/temple
that is your body. Respect it, glam it up, take care of it, and
it will nurture you back. Secondly, be original. Don’t see someone with a hat and
decide you want the same. Don’t go into a shop and pick up
the obvious style that you know suits you. Be different, try a
new style, experiment. The summer is the most forgiving of
months, (look at all the tourists) so use that to your advantage.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

It is so refreshing to find a restaurant in Oxford that is truly authentic; you won’t find the modern British twist on the spring roll or the ‘chinese’ pie and chips here. When you walk into Liaison, untouched by the hoards of Saturday shoppers, you see Chinese people of all generations. They may be talking loudly, eating with their mouths open and waving their chopsticks wildly, but this is a good sign. My companion and I have turned up for dim sum, the brunchtime/lunchtime Chinese
equivalent of tapas. Ignoring the English menu, I somehow get away with impressing my companion, a quadrilingual blonde Dane who also reads Latin and Greek, with my (faltering) order in Chinese. A delightful start. My childhood favourite, char siu bau, are white fluffy buns filled with pork and sweet char siu sauce. This dish is a brilliant way to break someone new into dim sum; so inoffensive yet so moreish. The prawn dumplings wrapped in rice flour paper, and the pork dumplings too, vanish as soon as they arrive. The next bamboo container houses lotus leaves that parcel glutinous rice with long slices of chicken bursting with steam and flavour. Try the Vietnamese spring roll if you fancy a change from the traditional. Crispier, with different skin, it is rather interesting. I don’t let my companion leave without trying the customary chickens’ feet in black bean sauce. She displays her adventurous spirit by knocking back not just one but two feet. We end with Chinese egg custard tart, not too sweet, and very, very light. Socially, this is top draw; food for sharing with lots of mess and fun. This charming venue is packed with friendly staff who bustle about refilling the teapot whenever the lid is half open. The dim sum is simply superb. And there is always the doggy bag when one realises just what it is that one has ordered.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

A new book out this week: Fifty Facts That Should Change the
World by Jessica Williams, charts a series of horrifying
statistics that gives one a rather depressing insight into the
global psyche. It reveals people en masse to be ignorant and
superficial and the world in which we live to have its priorities
desperately out of whack. A selection of these facts is a
sobering read indeed. Brazil has more Avon ladies than members of its armed
services. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this one. On
the one hand the superficiality this attests to is significantly
disgusting, especially given the level of poverty in Brazil. It
is after all one of the nations with the biggest discrepancies
between rich and poor in the world. On the other hand a nation
less obsessed with military prowess than Bush can’t be a bad
thing. I’d be highly surprised if America’s defense
budget wasn’t significantly higher than the money it invests
in health and education. There are 67,000 people employed in the lobbying industry in
Washington DC – 125 for each elected member of Congress. This
further attests to the level of corruption in American politics,
where lobbying plays a stronger role in the US than in any other
‘free’ country in the world. With lobbyists influencing
the stances taken by politicians it is hardly surprising that
America’s priorities are so twisted. As Michael Moore (
Dude, Where’s My Country) will tell you, Bush knew of the
threats posed to the US by terrorist sections in Saudi Arabia, he
just never delved into it too deeply because of the importance of
oil to the American market. Even the Clinton presidency had
strong ties with the Bin Laden family. In American politics money
certainly comes before ethics. Hardly surprising in a place where
Bush became president through the faults of a fouled-up electoral
system and a corrupted means of resolution. Every cow in the EU is subsidised by $2.50 a day: a higher
income than that of 75% of Africans. Shocking as this statistic
is, it isn’t the most extreme example of cows (or rather
farmers) being put before people. According to the World Bank,
Japanese cows receive a whopping $7.50 every day. The Catholic
aid agency Cafod calculates that for the money the EU spends
protecting its farmers, each of the EU’s 21 million cows
could go on a round-the-world trip once a year. I think the
majority of starving Africans would settle for clean water and a
sturdy meal. More people can identify the golden arches of McDonald’s
than the Christian cross. This shocker was garnered from a survey
of 7,000 people in six different countries. 88% recognised the
arches while only 54% correctly identified the cross. I’m
not so bothered about what this says about levels of religiosity:
for one thing there are more Hindus and Muslims in the world than
Christians. For another, people strangely seem to find it rather difficult
to reconcile the teachings of love and acceptance with their
desire to kill others who don’t share their religious views. However it further testifies to the astonishing level of
ignorance among the masses. And, more terrifyingly, their
susceptibility to advertising. If Ronald McDonald came on TV and
suggested that vegetarians were evil and flouting the sacred
Maccy D’s laws that demand maximum consumption of dubious
meat burgers then no doubt a mass genocide of the veggie-eaters
would swiftly follow. After twenty minutes soaked in these depressing numbers I was
readily prepared for the most shocking of all: more people voted
in the Pop Idol contest between Gareth Gates and Will Young than
voted in the last general election. To be precise: fewer than 26
million attempted to effect the future of their country, while
over 32 million attempted to effect the future of Top of the
Pops. The very lamentable fact of the nation’s interest in two
talentless youngsters strangely makes their politcal apathy less
lamentable. This may be a slightly controversial point to make,
since it is essentially un-democratic, but I for one am glad that
voting isn’t somehow enforced. Politicians (those few of an idealistic bent) complain that
people are too apathetic. They mourn that a quick shower of rain
stops people coming to the polls. But such commentators
don’t stop to think that perhaps needing to put a little
effort into the voting process is something of a good thing.
Imagine if we could vote online, or through our digital-cable
boxes, or in a telephone poll. I can see it now: a Saturday night on ITV, Ant and Dec
presenting, Blair and the Tory opponent of the week sitting
across from each other in hot seats, Celine Dion belting out of
few numbers to keep us amused: place your votes please! It’d
be a bloody nightmare. If most of the nation bothered to vote,
Will Young would currently be residing at No 10. Perhaps
that’s a little harsh; surely people wouldn’t apply the
same criteria to a pop contest that they would to a political
one? Maybe not. But what criteria would they apply? Given the level
of knowledge of the vast majority of the population possess, it
is as likely that they’d be voting on the colour of Tony
Blair’s tie as much as his stance on Europe. Anyone trivial enough to vote in a pop contest should have
their name taken off the electoral roll. If this book shows us
anything it’s that most people do not have enough knowledge
or interest in their country – let alone the wider world
– to qualify for a say in how it should be run. What Britain needs is a good, old-fashioned dictatorship.
Someone get Ronald McDonald on the phone. No wait, we don’t
need him. Let’s not forget our problems closer to home when
we point out everybody else’s: we already have Mr Blair.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

The prestigious halo of academia which surrounds Oxford means
that it is not often described as the central hub of student
style and innovation. On 14 May, however, a group of the
forward-thinking members of this university will be presenting a
fashion show of student-designed clothing and lingerie at the
Oxford Union, and encouraging the fashion world to rethink this
hackneyed attitude. Everyone enjoys the annual University fashion show, and this
year will certainly be no exception, but at this inaugural event
the emphasis will be on something new, something fresh; something
a little bit daring. The show is being organised by a company called UFO, or
‘Unique Fashionable Objects’ – a name which
certainly conjures up some lively, zany images. And so it should,
because the company is a product of the most ambitious of Oxford
societies: the Oxford Entrepreneurs. So what exactly can the audience expect on the night of 14
May? There will be three main ingredients: firstly, the artists.
The designers are an international group of students making their
debut at this show. Their aim is to create beautiful and exotic
clothes, fusing old and new ideas, delicate and abrasive
materials, gentle and harsh silhouettes; mixing together a
kaleidoscope of colours. Secondly, there are the muses, a
selection of Oxford’s most beautiful student models. Beware,
however, of seeing them merely as clothes-horses. These models
have been chosen to reflect and enhance the tone of each
individual collection. Finally, the marquee after-party will
provide an opportunity to bring a touch of personal glamour to
the evening, while enjoying complimentary Cobra beer and General
Bilimori wines to summer sounds mixed by guest DJs. It is a much repeated adage that beauty and brains create the
most exquisite cocktail imaginable in man: why not come and enjoy
this heady sensation for yourself? For more information go to
www.ufo-oxford.co.uk.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

The ranger sat back in his chair, his hands clasped
comfortably behind his head. He gazed around at the collection of
English gap-year students that surrounded him, hanging on his
every word. A bonfire blazed merrily away in the middle of the
circle of people, sending a plume of sparks and smoke up into the
African night sky. Most of the people in the group were hanging
on his every word, waiting for him to tell yet another anecdote
about being charged by an angry elephant or attacked by a hippo
or bitten by a snake. He cleared his throat and his audience
leaned forwards, eager to catch what he had to say:“And you
know what the best thing about working here is?” He let the question hang in the air for a few seconds to allow
the suspense to build up slightly, before going on:
“It’s the most romantic place in the world. Seriously,
there’s nothing like the sound of hippos shagging in the
background for getting women into bed. Trust me on this
one.” He looked around him with a smug, arrogant smirk stamped alll
over his fat, ugly face, and I suddenly had an inexplicable urge
to stamp on it a bit more. But I didn’t. It would have made
things awkward. We were in the Ruaha National Park in central Tanzania. This
is not a particularly famous place, mainly because getting there
involves eight hours spent in an African bus and another two
hours in a Land Rover. It is worth making the effort though,
mainly because the difficulties of getting there mean that it
tends to be almost empty. It is also ridiculously large –
roughly the size of Wales, in fact, and while we were there the
total guest count was 21. Try to imagine an area the size of
Wales, completely devoid of anything remotely civilised. Anyway,
it is one big open space, full of pretty much any sort of
wildlife you care to mention. The wildlife tend to be unconcerned about the presence of
humans. On arriving at our lodge, we all got out of the Land
Rovers to stretch our legs, and were greeted by the sight of a
full size African elephant strolling across the car park, about
20 feet away from us. I don’t know if you have seen an
elephant that close before – it certainly doesn’t
happen much in Basingstoke – but it does make you pay
attention. The pachyderm in question paused for a second, looked
in our direction, snorted contemptuously, took a monumentally
large crap, and walked off into the bush. As statements go, it
was a good one. All the Western self-importance and confidence
that you bring to the place takes one look at the array of teeth,
claws and sodding large animals that surround you and exits stage
left. You suddenly feel very, very small indeed. On a game drive the next day we had ample opportunity to
increase our feeling of total inadequacy. After parking next to
what I thought was a tree, we gazed around as our guide pointed
out a herd of elephants in the distance, a few vultures hovering
over a carcass a few miles away and what we were actually next to
– a giraffe. As if on cue, the “tree” moved
slightly. The giraffe gazed downwards at us with a stupidly
benign expression on its face and slowly stalked away, balanced
on its implausibly spindly legs. The guide looked at us with our
jaws hanging down and giggled to himself. A bit later we stopped by the side of a river for a drinks
break. We sat in the Land Rover drinking warm beer from the
bottle and basking in the glorious sunshine when a herd of water
buffalo stepped out of the bush one by one – this took a
while – to drink at the river. The head bull of the herd, an
immense beast seemingly carved from black granite, strutted a few
paces towards us, sniffed a couple of times, and proceeded to let
fly a stream of urine from what I had previously assumed was one
of its legs. Talk about making a bloke feel inadequate. When we returned to the lodge for the evening we were met by a
burly South African who proceeded to blather on about all the
amazing things he had seen and done during his time working in
the park. As I sat by the fire with the others, thinking about
how nice it would be to knock him out and feed him to a passing
lion, I began to feel a little bit jealous. The Ruaha National
Park is the most jaw-droppingly beautiful place I have ever been
to, and this guy got paid to be there. He may have been arrogant
and self-obsessed, but you had to hand it to him: he did have the
best job in the world. The bastard.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Tony Rogers is cheerful – and well he might be. The
Charlatans are about to release their eighth album, Up at the
Lake, which marks fifteen years of Brit-rock ascendancy. The
band’s longevity is phenomenal, given the fickle nature of
the music industry and of the listening public, but their new
album proves that they find no difficulty in creating music that
sounds fresh and original, even after fifteen years. “We don’t do history”, remarks Rogers, and you
can see what he means. Each Charlatans album retains its own
identity, thanks to the fact that the music they write reflects
exactly their circumstances at the time of production. For
example, “There are a couple of sad songs on this album,
which I wrote because I had just lost someone close to me. In
general, though, I think that the album sounds very English,
because it was recorded here and that’s influenced it.”
So what exactly makes the album sound ‘English’? Rogers
thinks that it’s the mellow truthfulness of the words, the
way that it talks about love and loss and life without flinching.
“It’s pretty realistic about things like that,” he
says. “Basically, the album does exactly what is says on the
tin.” Their previous album, Live it Like You Love it, bears little
relation to the relaxed and melodic stylings of Up at the Lake.
Rogers points out that “it’s got a sunny, upbeat kind
of sound, which is probably because we recorded it in California.
It definitely sounds Californian, and I think that tradition
influenced us – you know, The Beach Boys and that kind of
thing.” Fair enough then – it’s clear that The
Charlatans’ sound is defined by what they experience. But who, exactly, are The Charlatans? Rogers describes the
band as “just four other blokes who are on exactly the same
wave-length as me.” And what wave-length might that be?
“We don’t want to change the world. We just want to
make better records,” he enthuses. “We just want to
rock and roll, and anyone who wants to join us – well,
please do!” He needn’t ask; it seems that plenty of
people have already joined in the fun. Interestingly, a large proportion of the band’s fanbase
seems to be fairly young – that is to say, it consists of
people who were tripping up in the primary school playground when
the band were just starting to make it big. “The people who
started out with us in ‘89 have gone off to get married and
have kids. They’re still with us, but they don’t really
come to gigs anymore, so it’s nice to have a younger
generation of fans as well.” It’s not hard to see why – for a band that’s
been around so long that, in musical years, they should be
resting on Fender zimmerframes when performing live gigs, the
ability to produce a record as contemporary as Up at the Lake is
no mean feat, and one that’s calculated to raise the
interest of even the most jaded teen suffering from Pop Idol
ennui. Some might say, about bloody time too – Up at the Lake
comes nearly two years after their previous release. In the music
industry, such a break would have shot a lesser band into the
apocalyptic oblivion of daytime TV interviews and the bargain
shelf in HMV. But not so The Charlatans. “We just had to
recharge our batteries, to find a new direction,” Rogers
explains, “but it was worth it – I love the new album,
I actually think that it’s the best one we’ve ever
done.” During the hiatus, the band embarked on various solo
production projects, but mostly they just rested from the
gruelling schedule of gigging and recording that had been their
lot for the last decade. The Charlatans are lucky, in comparison
to most bands, in that they have the luxury of taking a break
when they like – having assumed control of much of their own
recording and production, the whims of ‘evil corporate
giant’ record companies don’t play much part in the
band’s life. “Get a day job!” is the advice that Rogers would
give to anyone thinking of following in the band’s
footsteps. “Record companies aren’t interested in you
or in your music, they’re only interested in the money it
makes them. They’re all looking for the new Bright Young
Things. It sounds clichéd, but you have to do what you want, not
what they want.” Perhaps that’s all to easy for a member of one of
Britain’s top indie bands to say, but Tony Rogers says it
like he means it. His devotion to creating quality music is
obvious, and is representative of the rest of the band. “We
don’t have a message to get across; we’re not
political. To be honest, all we want to do is have fun and to
make lots and lots of great music – that’s what The
Charlatans are about.” He gives the impression that The Charlatans exist as a musical
entity, rather than a collection of individual musicians.
“It’s more important to carry on the name of the band
– the name itself implies that. In fact, there are only two
founding members from ’89 still in the band – I
didn’t join until 1997. What we’d all love is for The
Charlatans to be playing in 50 or 100 years time, without us of
course, but still a group of musicians keeping the flag flying,
so to speak.” So what is the best thing about being a member of this open
musical collective, as it seems to be? “Waking up in the
morning and knowing that I can do whatever the hell I want,”
he chuckles. And the worst? He pauses – there can’t be
much wrong with being a member of The Charlatans. Finally,
“Probably the fact that I’m still single!” he
says, bursting into laughter so infectious I can’t help but
join in. A charlatan by name, maybe, but a gentleman by nature.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004

It was Oscar Wilde who remarked that imitation is the
sincerest form of flattery and this maxim couldn’t be truer
than when discussing the plagiarising, bedhopping world of rock
music. One band’s innovation is another’s inspiration,
and so pop has been eating itself for the last 60 years. To take
the most obvious example of modern times, Nirvana’s day in
the sun could have ended with Kurt Cobain’s suicide but
instead they were unwittingly responsible for creating an entire
generation of imitators; some excellent, some execrable (anyone
remember Puddle of Mudd?). On the cusp of summer 2004, it is not
Nirvana that today’s rock heroes have been listening to, but
a band so uniquely British they share a name with over half a
million of the country. The influence of this band can be heard on two of this
year’s most impressive debut albums, Franz Ferdinand’s
eponymous LP and Canadian rockers The Stills’ Logic Will
Break Your Heart: big riffs and bigger choruses aplenty and, more
curiously, genuinely literate lyrics. Take Franz Ferdinand’s
latest single, ‘Matinee’: “so I’m on BBC 2
now/telling Terry Wogan how I made it/how I made it is unclear
but his deference is and his laughter is.” When was the last
time that the word ‘deference’ troubled the Top Ten?
All of which leaves the rather unshakeable feeling that these
bands and others, including The Delays, have been listening to
the kings of the educated, self-aware lyric, The Smiths. For the uninitiated, The Smiths were a Manchester band that
made a number of classic albums during the 1980s and early
‘90s. They were personified by their iconic frontman Steven
Morrissey whose vague sexuality, soaring voice and overt politics
courted continual press attention. That and his sporting of the
largest quiff seen in rock since Elvis left the building. They
are primarily remembered for being a bunch of miserable bastards,
who just happened to write some of the finest love songs ever
recorded. Their 1986 opus The Queen is Deadis regarded, by
critics at least, as one of the best albums ever. The air of
intrigue surrounding the band’s demise adds to their
enduring appeal, as does the tantalising proposition of a
reunion. The ‘90s however, were a wasteland for the band. Despite
hints of their lyrical witticisms in the work of Pulp and Belle
& Sebastian, there has always remained a feeling that The
Smiths belong in the Dark Ages of the Eighties, with Thatcher,
poll tax, miners’s strikes and Duran Duran. The swaggering,
boisterous Britpop era, the emergence of the Loaded lad and
Blair’s Cool Britannia made the British dandy the most
unfashionable of images. Amid the beer bellies and Patsy Kensit,
there was no place for the rake-thin, fey white-boy singing songs
of love lost and love never attained. The pendulum however, has swung, and a love affair with The
Smiths is being rekindled. As Mark Simpson writes in The
Guardian, “For much of the last decade we’ve been in
denial, pretending we were over them, but it looks as if
we’re beginning to face facts.” Quite simply, geek chic
is back with a vengeance. The hottest property on TV, as this
critic is reliably informed, is the bespectacled loser Seth from
The OC, this season’s essential haircut is the mullet and
the only way to get around is on a Lambretta scooter.
Furthermore, Morrissey’s first studio album in seven years
is out later this month and he is curator of this year’s
prestigious Meltdown festival in London’s South Bank. Both Franz Ferdinand and The Stills have waxed lyrically on
the influence of The Smiths on their own music and the evidence
is clear for all to hear. Alex Kapranos, the blonde, foppish lead
singer of the Glaswegian rockers confessed that he simply wanted
to make music “for girls to dance to” and it is damned
near impossible not to dance like an idiot to Morrissey crooning
over ‘Hand in Glove’. Listen to ‘There’s a
Light That Never Goes Out’ and ‘Take Me Out’ and
be struck by the same resigned sentiments on what happens when
you don’t get the girl. The Smiths. Heaven knows; they’re influential now.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

The recent tenth anniversary of the death of Kurt Cobain may
well have prompted an outpouring of grief from Seattle to London
but such scenes have been reflected again and again throughout
the twentieth century. Much has been made of the myth of
celebrity death and, in particular, of the now notorious deadly
age of 27. Kurt, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison all died at the
age of 27 and have all been immortalised by successive
generations of young people desperate for idols and the much
sought break from the establishment. This fascination that has become such a typical aspect of the
teenage psyche has been described by some as a latent cult of
death and, as ever, a threat to the moral fabric of society. The
hypocrisy of such statements is apparent for all. The individuals
who trudge annually past Graceland’s white picket fence in
tears at the premature loss of their King will in the same breath
proclaim the decency of their worship while dismissing Nirvana
fans as young and foolish. Graceland now boasts the Heartbreak
Hotel – “a fashionable boutique hotel that takes its
cues from the legendary hospitality and personal style” of
Elvis – while Elvis.com proudly includes the GracelandCamT
where you can keep an eye on all those eager pilgrims. Over-commercialised as all of this clearly seems there is
little difference, in terms of emotions, between the mourners at
either end of the generation gap. Those that daily monitor
GracelandCamT and those that scrawled their names and thoughts
across the London shrine to Kurt share a common desire and even a
common heritage. The flowers and tokens of love that elegantly clutter Jim
Morrison’s headstone in the Parisian Pere-Lachaise cemetery
mirror the striking grave of Oscar Wilde a short walk away now
covered in kisses and flowers. Even the Victorian monument to
Percy Bysshe Shelley at Univ holds the same attraction as the
simple plaque to a certain James Marshall Hendrix in the quiet
Greenwood Memorial Park, Renton. In reality this obsession with early death is an intrinsic
aspect of youth culture that is timeless. The great choice that
Achilles is forced to make, between a long yet quiet life or the
short and glorious life of a hero, lies at the heart of a
fascination still as relevant millennia later. Far fetched as it
seems to compare Kurt Cobain with Achilles, a common idealisation
of youth and fame are present in both, a craving to avoid the
coming of age and the pain of normality. It is this passion for
eternal youth that makes celebrity death such a fundamental
aspect of popular culture: from Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and
Elvis, to Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Ernesto Guevara, to Kurt
Cobain and Jeff Buckley. Less the manner of death than the age is
what impacts their admirers, the desperation that accompanies the
feeling of waste and tragedy at such promise being prematurely
snatched away. Youth death will always be a fasttrack to immortality and
indeed has always been a fundamental fascination of society
throughout history. Those that mourned Kurt Cobain were
celebrating his music and his influence but at the same time were
honouring one of their own generation with whom they alone
empathised and in doing so were in essence celebrating the youth
that so many popular idols will never loose. I love pop music, and sometimes I try to discuss it with
people. Nine times out of ten this is a big mistake, because
I’m not allowed to say anything somebody else likes is crap.
Unless it’s Westlife. This seems to me rather unfair. Do we
think there’s no such thing as bad art: poorly written
novels, cliched and unoriginal paintings, unconvincingly acted
films? Let’s leave aside those of us who believe that the
judgment of art is irremediably subjective. At least they’re
consistent. The people I’m addressing are those who want to
retain a uniquely sacred position for pop music; who, when faced
with the possibility that their favourite band are rubbish, will
first attempt a musical justification but then, realizing that
they know nothing whatsoever about music, retreat into
“Well, that’s just your opinion” wishy-washiness. Strangely enough, these are often the same people who berate
the “mindless marketing victims” who keep Westlife in
the Top Ten. Check out “The Vibe” comments page on
Ceefax sometime. Hilarious. “Why don’t you listen to
some real music, like Blink 182?” they rage, scowling at the
imagined infidels from beneath their hoods. The same attitude is demonstrated by those who complain about
the degradation of the charts when a novelty record like Bob the
Builder or Mr Blobby gets to number one. These records, I am
told, are not very good at all. Hey, but that was what I said
about The White Stripes! Don’t you remember? I said that
bashing away at the first four chords that come into your head
and nodding when people say that you’re reinventing the
blues for a new generation does not a great band make. You
can’t have it both ways. Either it’s all subjective, or
it’s possible to say that some pop music is good and The
Vines are crap. The “it’s all subjective” line is implicit in
pop music culture. Writers for the NME rarely have any musical
knowledge, and even more rarely write about music, as opposed to
image and fashion. Imagine a reviewer of the Berlin Philharmonic
writing only about Simon Rattle’s unruly hair. Classical
music is viewed as art, while pop music as just entertainment.
There are some artists we’re allowed to criticise: boy bands
are evil and should be outlawed. In everything else, tolerance of
others’ tastes seems to be synonymous with accepting
everything as being of equal value, which means, of course, that
the whole concept of value is bankrupt. Too many people operate by the skewed logic by which some kind
of fascist policing of taste can be inferred from an aesthetic
judgment: I think The Hives are a bunch of musically illiterate
chancers; therefore I think that everyone should be banned from
listening to The Hives. This is just nonsense. Maybe some of us want to listen to music that we ourselves
think is bad. Am I the only person who wants to be able to say,
“Yes, it’s a dreadful song, but I quite like it
actually”?ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

Blind Flight is the true story of two hostages, Brian
Keenan and John McCarthy. What drew you to make a film of their
experiences? I met Brian just six months after he came
out of captivity, and I was struck by how unsettled he seemed. I
was interested in what had happened to him and John, and I wanted
to tell their story. How did the production of the film go? We
shot on location in Beirut, on a very tight budget and schedule
– it helped that I have experience in documentarymaking. We
didn’t rehearse or anything. How did your documentary
background help you? It gave me the ability to respond to the
unexpected, plus an appreciation of attention to detail and of
emotional authenticity. Was there pressure from Keenan and McCarthy to produce
a specific kind of film? No, because all that needed to
be in the script was already in there. We agreed that neither of
them would be present during filming, so as not to put pressure
on the actors (Linus Roache and Ian Hart). Do you think the actors have handled the story well?
To be honest, I initially thought that Linus would be too old for
the part of McCarthy. But in the end, I think that he and Ian
gave really authentic performances. What have your influences been? The work of
Ingmar Bergman in particular. Are you trying to get any kind of message across with
this film? Definitely not – I deliberately ignored
the political context in order to focus on the way in which
captivity stripped Keenan and McCarthy of their masculinity. I
think that we all use masks as a defence mechanism, particularly
political ones, and I wanted to explore that. How would you describe your directing style? I
don’t believe in trying to extract a specific performance
from an actor – I see the role of director as a guiding one,
rather than a dictating one. And are you pleased with the end result, or would you
change anything? If we had had a bigger budget, I might
have emphasised some of the fantasy and dream sequences, and
extended the kidnap scene. It’s a good film, bur Brian and I
agree that it could have been better. Has this film influenced your upcoming projects?
Actually, I have no idea what my next project will be! Maybe
something made in America.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004 

To be Antigone is to be doomed, laments the Chorus of her
play. While certainly not doomed as a piece of theatre, there are
some flaws in this modern French adaptation of the ancient Greek
play, which leave one unsure as to its true merit as a tragic
piece. The staging and setting is cleverly done – deliberate
positioning of the actors in the audience’s space makes for
an atmospheric and energetic work, placing the emotions explored
in the play in direct and unapologetic confrontation with the
expectations of those watching it. The actors enter and exit
through an archway at the rear of the stage, reminding the
audience of the deliberately contrived nature of the play. This
sits well with the emphasis on tragedy rather than on melodrama
– according to the Chorus, tragedy is what it is because
everything in it is inevitable, and can never be ‘real’
because the outcome is always known beforehand. So far, so good, and everything in the time-tested and
renowned style of classical Greek theatre. But a difficulty
arises when one considers the adaptation of the play.
Anouillh’s version fails because it tries to be everything
at once, and ends up being nothing. Neither a straightforward
modernisation of the original, with updated plot and setting, nor
a strictly “Greek” play, this script combines the
battles and gods of the classical world with the coffee and
cigarettes of the modern one and it just doesn’t work. Fortunately, the director (Alex Pappas) has managed to convey
much of the original feeling of the play, with a pared-down style
of directing that works well in the context of this style of
theatre. The acting, too, is well-suited to the demands of Greek
theatre – particularly Matt Shapiro’s portrayal of King
Creon who is forced by the laws of Thebes to put Antigone to
death for violating a religious decree. Shapiro manages to combine a subtle portrayal of sorrow, anger
and powerlessness with the straightforward and unpretentious
style of acting necessary to the script. He and Antigone (Helen
Prichard) have a good chemistry onstage and both are at their
best in the scenes in which they appear alongside one another. As
Antigone, Prichard excellently captures the frustration inherent
in the play – although at some points her portrayal becomes
a little too childlike to be truly tragic. Overall the acting is
good, with the dolefully melodic voice of Triona Giblin (the
Chorus) providing an atmospheric background to the whole. Despite
its flaws Antigone is worth seeing for the palpable energy
pulsing through the performance, and the satisfaction of seeing
something that is truly original.ARCHIVE: 1st week TT 2004