Sigur Ros’s () – First Impressions

First impressions of the new Sigur Ros: it feels sparser to me than Agaetis Byrjun. More pared down, less of a feeling of majesty. It doesn’t transport me the way that album did. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for the restraint – the more I listen to Agaetis Byrjun the more the vocals seem over-emoted, and what I used to think was wonderful flow sometimes feels a bit samey these days (though to be fair, intensive listening probably contributed to that too). This one’s got guitars and buildups the first didn’t have, and somewhere in track 8 I was reminded of Mogwai at its best, which is always a good thing for music to remind me of.

I don’t give a toss about the whole Hopelandic thing (the Cocteau Twins have been there done that), and find their doing a John Cage with this CD booklet a bit pretentious, but at the end of the day they still make extraordinarily evocative music, and I can’t wait to see them in February.

[For reviews I agree with see Pitchfork and Almost Cool. The first four paragraphs of the neumu review, on the other hand, are a veritable showcase of Sigur Ros review cliches.]

Fo’ Shizzle

The Pornolizer will always have a special place in my heart for that day of dissertation gloom when Jeremy Bentham pornolized to Jeremy “Big Cock” Bentham, but Tha Shizzolator (word to Russ for the link), while less sophisticated in its conversions, was still well worth the visit.

Now I’se be gettin’ back to tha hustle of Info’mation Technology Law. Peace out.

Voyage (Tom Stoppard)

I was thinking a bit more about Voyage, which was pretty damn stunning both in terms of the ambition of the script, and scale of the production, even if I must admit that some of its countless historical and philosophical allusions were probably lost on me at eleven in the morning. At the end of the play we felt satisfied enough that we’d understood its highfalutin’ philosophical themes, but still had to devote some time to clarifying who got off with who, and why. Guess there’s some way Stoppard has to go before he’s good enough to join the team at East Enders.

Something else I noticed – another example of what seems to be a frequently-used theatrical device of quick, easy, evocation of a character in terms of their accent. In Lord Of The Rings, one of the dim hobbits just happened to sound Irish. Here, Belinsky’s lack of formal education somehow seems to be suggested more by his distinctly unposh (English) accent than by the oft-repeated fact that he can’t read French. And of course everyone in the play’s actually Russian, so where does that leave us in the Michellian School of Theatre Commentary? I don’t actually know. This is why I took the safe option of a legal degree.

Desperately Seeking Savings

This week will be different. This week I will radiate such an aura of thrift and asceticism that next to me the Dalai Lama will look like Puff Daddy. But I think the first step towards this ascent is to document last week’s decline.

Wednesday was relatively refined, in that solid work got done and indulgence only began with dinner with Russ at a wonderful Thai place on Red Lion Street (I forget the name), where I gorged myself on its exquisite chillied fish only a week after gorging myself on its equally satisfying papaya salad and grilled chicken.

Thursday began the downward spiral into extreme consumerism, and some blame has to be squarely placed on Benny, who endured our semi-marathonic Berwick Street trawl with grace, good humour and good recommendations, thus encouraging me to emerge somewhat shocked at the end of it all clutching 6 CDs (see Appendix 1). In my defence I can only say that this was partially financed by the 9 I sold (see Appendix 2). Borders yielded coffee, conversation, and finally, finally, finally, a copy of The Wire with the free double CD, which my local newsagents sold out of within days of its release. Two coffees and an added Alec later, we moseyed down to Malaysia Kopitiam (Wardour Street) for dinner. Benny’s already done a spot-on review of the place (post for 23/11), to which I need only add that my Hainanese chicken rice was perhaps a little bloodier than I like it, but the chilli was authentic, and as anyone who knows will know, it’s almost all in the chilli. My dessert of tau huay (beancurd) was as smooth and silky as the place near Jago Close at home in Singapore makes it, and all in all, I’m definitely going back.

Culinary G-spot titilation continued on Friday with Nick at South in Shoreditch, where I had bunny with prunes in red wine, washed down with, er, more red wine. On the way back to Nick’s place we unfortunately had to walk past The Spread Eagle which brought back traumatic memories, but apart from that moment of stress for me it was a good night out with a dear friend I don’t get to see often, and that made for warm fuzzy feelings.

On Saturday morning I trimmed my goatee and popped down to the National Theatre with Nav to watch Voyage, the first play in Tom Stoppard’s The Coast Of Utopia trilogy. Saturday night brought oodles of red wine celebrating Chris’s birthday, and Sunday a dim sum lunch with Laura and Katy.

I sense the spectre of poverty around the corner. It smells of reduced Safeway’s chicken and old cabbage, and its teeth are glittering CD shards. I think it’s coming for me.

—

Appendix 1: Bought

  • Low: Trust
  • Boards of Canada: Geogaddi
  • Coldcut: Journeys By DJ
  • Amon Tobin: Out From Out Where
  • Prefuse 73: Vocal Studies And Uprock Narratives
  • Ninja Tune (compilation): Cold Krush Cuts

Appendix 2: Sold

  • April March: Chrominance Decoder (boredom chronicled here)
  • Starlight Mints: The Dream That Stuff Was Made Of
  • Money Mark: Push The Button
  • Sebadoh: The Sebadoh
  • Wagon Christ: Tally Ho!
  • Kid Loco: A Grand Love Story
  • Blonde Redhead: In An Expression Of The Inexpressible
  • Esthero: Breath From Another
  • Galaxie 500: The Portable Galaxie 500

It should probably also be mentioned:

  • That on Sunday I also ordered the new Missy Elliot and Sigur Ros from CD-Wow
  • And am planning to get the new Massive Attack from there as well
  • And am also tempted by the new Tori Amos. Must resist. Must resist.

Tugging On Socks As We Speak

I know I’ve not really been in attendance on this blog lately. In the East 17 of weblogs I have been one of those two guys whose sole jobs in the band seemed to be to always make sure their heads were shaven, and then stand around making hand gestures while the other two were singing.

The Masters course seems to actually expect me to put in some work. The vagaries of household living mean that when I intend to be making a blog entry, I somehow find myself thrusting a brush up and down a toilet instead. After making attempts to maintain some sort of social life, I find I have no time left to write about said attempts. My attempts to maintain a fulfilling private life are probably my most successful, but those are sappy and don’t make for good blog material.

This doesn’t mean I’m going to stop writing here at all – it’s just an admission of a couple of weeks of crapness, and a statement of intention to pull my proverbial socks (still featuring toes) up. A critical mass of little things are begging to be thought about, and read about, and listened to, and written about, and at some point soon I’ll manage to give them an outlet.

Waiting For Vanya

(On Thursday)

The good news is that I finally got to watch Uncle Vanya, the bad news is that I had to spend two and a half hours shivering on the pavement outside the Donmar Warehouse on an exceptionally cold morning for the privilege. It didn’t really help that I’d rushed out of the house and forgotten my tissues, and my nose chose today to make the transition proper from its Suez-Canal-in-the-1950s impression to Ben Johnson in 1988.

I’d brought Life: A User’s Manual with me to read in the queue, hoping that such enforced commitment would help me make significant headway instead of the plodding progress I’ve been making lately. This succeeded to an extent – out of sheer necessity to concentrate on something other than the cold and my nose, I managed another 100 pages and am now almost halfway through its 500 or so. It’s still slow going because of the nature of the book – you’d have to read it to really understand, but basically it’s about a Paris apartment block and its inhabitants, and everything gets described in exhaustive, sometimes almost ridiculous, detail. There isn’t any sort of continuous narrative; we move from apartment to apartment, through entrance halls, up staircases, and every thing and person we encounter has a history. It’s definitely getting better now, and I’ll stick it out till the end, but I still wouldn’t call it absorbing reading, and sneaked a number of envious glances at the Economist in the hands of the friendly man behind me. (Hello, friendly man! You were friendly, unlike snooty man in front of me. I didn’t like snooty man at all.)

So anyway, I was queuing. It was either coincidence or sadism that as I shuffled past the doorstep of the Paul Frank store the music blaring inside it just happened to be the RHCP song with the lyrics Standing in line to see the show tonight. By the time I managed to get a ticket, my toes seemed to have ceased to exist, but the healing powers of eggnog latte (how very bourgeois) eventually nursed them back to health.

Epitome

I knock on Tamara’s door. I’m wearing extremely baggy grey Gap-copying-Maharishi trousers (my mum calls them my Ali Baba trousers), and a Beck T-shirt under a scrubbly (I have no idea whether that’s even a word, but it just seems like the most descriptive word to use here nonetheless) navy blue Benetton jumper my sister wore when she studied in London 15 years ago. The T-shirt is substantially longer than the jumper and flares out from the elasticized waist of the jumper like a strange skirt. On my feet are black toe socks and Japanese slippers.

I ask, “Hey, where’ve you put the latest issue of Glamour?”

Dang Moment

I don’t often stop and say to myself, “Dang, this is good music writing”, but dang.

Just For Today

Perhaps it’s just that it’s been a sunny morning, or that yesterday was both a site and relationship anniversary, but it’s noon and instead of having just woken up with a mouthful of sleep and obscenities as is standard operating procedure on other days, I’ve been up for hours, and feel great.

St Pancras station and the sun were loving each other this morning. Walking home from King’s Cross, I got the powerful sensation I experience from time to time, that London was reminding me it can still take my breath away, that being grim and jaded does not necessarily come with this territory no matter what some people seem to think, that I have been immeasurably lucky to have spent this time of my life here, for so many more reasons than just beautiful buildings.

I sometimes feel guilty about the fact that in over three years here, I have never once felt even the slightest twinge of homesickness, or that I wasn’t as much a part of this city as the blond lager lout staggering down Tottenham Court Road in his Saturday night fcuk T-shirt. So many friends of mine have missed family and friends at home dreadfully, have sat in a crowded pub silently staring at the yawning cultural chasm that invisibly separates them from everyone else. I used to somehow feel that I was just living the blissful life on borrowed time, and sooner or later I’d succumb to that same creeping feeling of not belonging, ultimately. Just for today, I reject that guilt. Just for today, I’m going to revel in London loving me back.