Less Than Jake must be dead old by now, but they remain capable of making solid ska-rock. ‘She’s Gonna Break Soon’ is a strong hook-filled shouty anthem. Unfortunately it attempts sensitivity. “It’s the boys in bars on Friday night that replace the emptiness inside.” Go tell it on the mountain… ‘Get Busy’ by Sean Paul is nothing special. “Let’s get it on, til the early morn, it’s all good, just turn me on” is as interesting as it gets. Shaggy probably sounded this forgettable during his lost years. Alexis Strumon the other hand sounds like a dull Kylie. ‘Addicted’ is insipid electro-pop about being a junkie. Please! Strum is a new non-talent that some stupid record label is wasting their money on. And she used to write music reviews in a student paper. Mega sad. All singles out Monday.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Ever since Marilyn Manson donned Aladdin Sane-style hair and make-up for the cover of Mechanical Animals, the world has suspected that wanted to be David Bowie. The Golden Age of Grotesque shows America’s most reviled fetishistic faux-goth adopting Bowie’s most impressive characteristic, the ability reinvent his persona for every album. Manson has cast off the cartoon horror of his debut, the grubby black metal chic of Antichrist Superstar and the religious parody of Holy Wood. This time, the man, the band, the legend, emerges as bizarre amalgamation of tarty burlesque hedonist and sleazy industrial rock star. Taking more than just leaf out of Nine Inch Nails’ book in terms of sharp beats and angsty lyrics, Manson has produced fusion of pervy grindcore and melodramatic groaning, ‘The Bright Young Things’ being a prime example, adding a dash of explosive rock ‘This Is The New Shit’. Oddly, Manson’s friendship with Eminem seems to have rubbed off on his music; the lyrics often turn towards hip hop posturing, with mentions of big cars, bitches and casual sex. And this isn’t the only ludicrous thing about the lyrics. We’ve always known Manson was no poet, but Grotesque has some really awful lines: “I memorise the words to the porno movies, this is a new religion to me” and “I won’t pull out, I just came”. Manson’s deadpan seriousness in wailing these corkers out, banshee style, detracts from the album’s good points, namely its well-mixed beats and darkly atmospheric sounds. Stranger still, there is a curious singalong feel to a couple of tracks, notably ‘Slutgarden’ and ‘mOBSCENE’, the latter being a shameless rip-off of Faith No More’s ‘Be Aggressive’, which Manson is clearly hoping his Kindergoth fans are too young to remember. But Manson isn’t just for the kids in Slipknot hoodies; if you can get past the pseudo-artistic pretentiousness of the frontman whose egocentricity is embarrassingly evident from the album’s artwork, you will be rewarded with some guaranteed rock nite favourites and some quality music-to-shag-to for goths.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Openers Six Ray Sun had to contend with a handful of people wishing they were in the real sun, yet hammered out their usual mix of electro punk rock unabashed. Sorry boys, I’d go back to Japan, because frankly you’re not remarkable here anymore. Newcomers The Delays took to the stage with a startling confidence. It was probably due to their ‘Rough Trade’ upbringing, and the melodic rock was undoubtedly harmless, but their alarming tendency to sound like Del Amitri may well prove to be their downfall. The Zodiac were dubbing Clearlake as “Brighton’s Eccentrics” yet the curse of failing sound system struck again, and the set began slowly. But struggling through screeching was moody, sexy rock, which deserved to be heard clearly. They were at their best at heaviest, and most seedy singer Jason cooed how he wanted to hurt and harm, and somehow made this strangely appealing. The highlight was most recent single ‘Almost the Same’, ironically sounding very similar every other song played. “I vow at this moment that will never be any good”, was announcement of the which got the biggest cheer well at least they are not making false promises.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

CLUBBING COLD AND FUNKY PRESENTS House-core electro beat breaks and hip-hop groove mash off with Karl Murphy and Keith Anderson. GIGGING THERAPY? The ultimate in angsty metal-core, grinding grunge-death and gothmosh . Go along and mourn having missed Mogwai.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Experience has led me to take a reserved approach to remix albums. The established formula tends to consist of adding faster beats, protracted vocal samples and headacheinducing baselines. Remixology is no different. The same pumping bass lines, the same vocal samples and the same techno beats passed off as ‘remixes’ massacre track after track. Not even Fatboy Slim seems arsed on his ‘Old Skool’ take of ‘Renegade Master’. It’s bad enough the people behind this compilation let the record slip past quality control; it’s even worse that more of the same is to follow later with a series of remix albums.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Reading the lyrics to Alkaline trio’s latest album Good Mourning, not dissimilar to trawling through the cringe-worthy efforts of some fifeteen year-old trying to put blood’ ‘death’ ‘stab’ and ‘tears’ into all possible combinations. It’s stage we all go through, but a trait of modern punk bands is that long after these teen angst sensibilities have been relevant to their own lives, they find themselves pushing thirty and coming up with lyrics like I’ve got a needle scratching me, injects the poison of alcohol I.V.”. Either the band are functionally illiterate or any image that could evoke a feeling of goth-like inarticulacy is worth a shot. Pop-punk is tired. It needs more than unimaginative pseudo-poetry.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Another good reason, joyous rampant bisexuality aside, to be a Wadhamite. This Saturday, do anything you can from begging, bribery and sucking Wadhamite cock to gain entry to the definitive student band event, Wadstock (free for college members, £5 for their guests). Featuring everything from disturbation and guaranteed sadistfaction from At Risk to scratch-licious DJ sets later in the evening, this promises to be a great opportunity to get that faux-festival feeling. And to get really really pissed. More drunken dallyings are guaranteed on Monday 19 May at Po Na Nas. It’s another school disco-themed party, organised by members of the law school. We at Cherwell Arts are disappointed by the usually half-arsed attempts at what should be great excuse to dress up in fetish gear, and we demand that people go the whole hog with leather and authentic schoolgirl knee-high socks. Either way, it’s for charidee. Less exhausting is Egmo’s film night on Wednesday 21 May at Magdalen Auditorium at 7.30. Don’t be put off by the fact that these will be authentic Awwwxfud-made films, promises cinematic bliss. At nominal fee of £2 entry, it’s better than scoring those dodgy Es for the same price, right? Look out for St Peter’s Arts festival: if big brother extravaganza and poetry slam mean anything to you. It’s diverse and experimental, they say. Kinky, then. Is it time to finely hone those pulling skills? Maybe you just want to look like a twat in front of your friends? If you haven’t done this adequately after Friday night, then you’re a loser. And you’re not too hungover to wake up for the 11am beginners Salsa class in the Mure room, Merton College, Saturday 16 May, then you’ve missed the point of being a student entirely. More Latino antics than you can shake a J-lo-esque arse at: get piss-fucked on booze in swanky settings at the University Salsa society-organised ball at the Randolph on Saturday 24 May.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Not a term goes by without one of Shakespeare’s plays being staged outdoors with varying degrees of excess. Director Liv Robinson made a wise choice in selecting Shakespeare’s final play to be staged al fresco since The Tempest so heavily relies on what Robinson calls “exposure to nature and to the elements”. Much has been made of the socio-historical and political context of this play, but Robinson deliberately chooses to put greatest emphasis on the psychological shifts undergone by the protagonists. This also explains the occasionally bizarre costumes, designed to reflect each character’s personality rather than traditional Elizabethan dress. This emphasis on character means that the play’s success or failure depends solely on the strength of the actors, and since Prospero is the central figure the burden is largely on his shoulders. It’s an unenviable task, and whilst Basher Savage tackles the part with admirable effort, he falls just short of stirring the audience. Stalking around the stage as if he’s participating in a master class instead of fully immersing himself in the complex psyche of one of Shakespeare’s most enigmatic protagonists, Savage doesn’t quite capture the power of Prospero. However, Ben Var der Velde is successful in his enraged yet sensitive portrayal of the monstrous Caliban, whilst Fiona Pearce delivers a refreshing performance of Ariel, miraculously breathing mischief into whichever scene she floats.Yet it is the farcical drunkards, Stephano and Trinculo (spiritedly played by Kieran Pugh and Iain Drennan) who steal the show and move the audience to laughter, alleviating the slightly monotonous mood of Prospero’s scenes. This is a charming production of one of Shakespeare’s more challenging plays, but it ultimately lacks the spark to make it truly magical.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

Pre-Paradise Sorry Now is quite unlike any performance I’ve ever seen before; the best description I can offer is an amalgamation of Beckett, Donnie Darko and The Silence of the Lamb cast on the absurdist stage. Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s highly controversial piece invites its audience to view the world through the eyes of Ian Brady: one half of the infamous Moors Murderers who molested and murdered an estimated six children, burying their bodies in the desolate Yorkshire Moors. Locating the action in the dark recesses of Ian’s mind, his depraved fantasy-land becomes the symbolical epicentre of mankind’s propensity toward evil. Considering its taboo subject, it is easy to understand why the play has been banned until recent years. In a bold innovation Fassbinder decentralises Myra and Ian who sit at opposite ends of the stage, silent for much of the action as three grotesque figures act out contre scenes: images of vice and squalor which represent the wasteland of Ian’s psyche: they all demonstrate what Fassbinder deemed the “factoid underpinnings of everyday life”. These fictions of Brady’s malevolent imagination all depict some form of violent intimidation, powerfully evoking the terror and helplessness of Brady’s child victims. As harrowing as these scenes may be, they fail to excite the same level of discomfort as the taciturn Brady who glares blankly into the audience. The penetrating gaze of Rizwan Ahmed, who plays Ian, was enough to convince me that I was in the presence of pure evil, as I mentally scanned the room for the nearest exits just in case I happened to be next on his hit list. Ahmed’s brilliantly understated performance makes Hannibal Lecter look like the kind of guy you would be proud to take home to mother. It goes without saying that play with a subject matter as distressing as this is will contain unsettling scenes, and yet one of the most disconcerting touches is, strangely enough, provided by costume rather than content. As they sit amidst the grotesque violence, Brady and Hindley appear pristine, in a state of hyper-naturalism, their presence contrasts dramatically with the monochromatic contre scenes. We are forced to confront the Hindleys not simply as an evil abstraction, but as real people, wearing the mask of normality with a disquieting nonchalance. So what’s the final verdict on Pre-Paradise Sorry Now? Entering the consciousness of one of the country’s most notorious and feared serial killers is not a comfortable experience and yet makes unforgettable viewing. would advise anybody with fascination for nihilism and the darker side to see this play. One word of advice: whatever you do, try not to catch Ahmed’s disquieting gaze.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003

It’s a funny thing, hysteria. It can mean a terrible, debilitating disease caused by a functional disturbance of the nervous system or that you have found something extremely comical. This double-meaning suggests an essential aspect of the comic art: hysteria results from one’s thoughts functioning at the boundary of reason, and comedy is the art of testing boundaries. Indeed the happy union of medical dysfunction and comical function are exploited to their full in Le Malade Imaginaire. Molière was able to get full ironic mileage out of a man so acutely aware of his medical condition that he created his own diseases, only to be blind to the betrayal of his wife. The playwright happily wraps these up with a wry mockery of the seventeenth century medical profession and a dash of good old-fashioned farce. The performers have to work very hard with such a text to garner a good response from the audience and I am not entirely sure they manage it. But all the cast, without fail, have confidence and assurance both in stance and delivery of their lines. There is a wonderful rhythm about the exchanges particularly between Argan (Deval Desai) the hypochondriac and the feisty maid Toinette (Julia Morgan). Angélique (Ewa Szypula) not only looks perfect for the part but conveys genuine emotion. When Jeremy Gould enters as the doctor Monsieur Purgon the stage flickers with a dramatic spark that should be sustained throughout the entire play. Yet these positive aspects do not allow the cast to overcome the underlying problem that complexity of character is not immediately apparent in the words themselves; the onus lies on the actors to “think” it into their performance. The cast as a whole need to examine their lines and make them bigger, more apparent, more detailed. Instead there is broad brushstroke effect throughout the entire play, which unfortunately verges on the monotonous. Nonetheless definitely one for the francophiles.
ARCHIVE: 3rd Week TT 2003