Review: Daft Punk go back to the future…

17 Friday May 2013

Posted by in Albums, Harry Harland, Music, Reviews, The Arts

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Daft Punk – Random Access Memories

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I don’t think there has been an album that has brought forward such levels of anticipation as this for an awfully long time. I mean sure they did the Tron soundtrack and the distinctly mediocre Human After All, but in reality this is the gallic duo’s first proper album since 2001. For those of you who are a little numerically challenged, that’s a dozen years ago. I myself was sitting my GCSEs.

Anyhow, they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and that certainly appears to be the case with Daft Punk. Discovery was a very good album, but it was hardly groundbreaking. It was also only their second release and it didn’t even go to the top of the charts on these shores. But 12 years down the line and there appears a sort of rabid clamour for the long-awaited Random Access Memories. The world wants this album, nay the world needs this album.

Lead single, the Pharrell Williams-fronted Get Lucky, was gobbled up by a hungry public, hooked on its infectious bassline and funky guitar. It’s still number 1 in the charts at time of writing, a position it has occupied for three weeks, which means it’s hotter than Nigel Farage. RAM is out on Monday and one suspects that, were it a book about wizards or a tech product, nutjobs would be queuing round the block to buy it on Sunday night.

From the start of the album, it is obvious that Get Lucky was no curveball in terms of the band’s new direction. For the most-part you could be forgiven for thinking you were listening to Chic or Sister Sledge, which I guess is no surprise given the presence of 70’s disco king Nile Rodgers on about half the tracks. Lengthy third track Giorgio by Moroder is quite an odd song to say the least, named after and featuring spoken vocals by legendary Italian producer Giorgio Moroder, the song finally kicks in after two minutes sounding like a tribute to fellow French synth pioneer Jean-Michelle Jarre before going into a bit of jazz and so on…

Instant Crush, sung by a heavily autotuned Julian Casablancas (of the Strokes), is a personal highlight, while Lose Yourself To Dance (feat Pharrell Williams again) is so similar to Get Lucky that it might as well be the B-side to the single. Touch is decent, even if Paul Williams’ vocals sound a bit like they have been lifted from Les Miserables (and I can’t work out if that’s a good or bad thing).

There follows a continuation of the theme in a very much “we’re Daft Punk and we piss these tunes out for fun” sort of way. Until the end of the album, where there is an absolutely superb song called Contact, which actually breaks away from the whole 70’s throwback mould with one of the most awesome crescendos in the history of dance music and culminating in a wall of feedback. It’s a proper dance track, the sort that Vitalic or many of the more traditional French DJs might create, and after the trip to funkytown it is almost welcome.

I realize at this stage that I am sounding a bit scornful of the rest of the album, and it’s not really my intention. It is a very good release and is going to be bigger than Jesus, but for me it’s tapping a genre that can fall quickly into mediocrity. There’s no doubt that when it’s good, some of the songs here are among the best you’ll hear this year, but on the flipside there are a few that verge on the drawer marked “elevator music”.

This is a love letter to the 70’s and the birth of disco by two of the finest musicians around at the moment. It’s very, very good, but in my opinion contains one or two tracks that will hold it back from greatness. Justifying its own hype would have been an impossible task, but Random Access Memories has a fair crack at it.

By Harry Harland

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‘War’ Diaries #10: What to do with 24 hours off in central Europe

15 Wednesday May 2013

Posted by in Out and about, Rich Glover, War Diaries

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Rich is recently back from serving in Afghanistan, now posted to that romantic holiday destination… Bavaria. What great adventures will he get up to this time?

I am happy to report that things have improved somewhat since the previous chapter, most likely due to the fact that the camp guards were getting bored of constantly rounding up attempted escapees and were keen to get back to their usual jobs. Malnutrition levels are on the decline as the standard of food has rocketed from the depths of what a hungry Labrador might consider significantly sub-standard to, in most cases anyway, real food fit for human consumption. We have also been granted some time off which came as a bit of a surprise as the concept of working for 5 days and having 2 days off, thus allowing for a ‘weekend’, seemed completely alien to those in charge out here. However, the painfully obvious presence of a complete morale vacuum tends to pose a risk to soldiers sanity, which, when there are 200 of them, is a precarious situation to be in- it was time to get out.

prams in prague

Trams- Prague’s biggest killer

Our first break for freedom came in the form of a generous 24 hours off, midday Saturday to midday Sunday, during which 11 of us decided, after some deliberation, that in order to make the most of our short-lived freedom, a 3 hour drive to Prague was easily the best option. We hired a mini bus and a bizarrely small car and set off for the “cultural” capital of Europe with the same excited feeling you get aged 7 on the school bus when going on a trip to the zoo. We arrived at our hostel in one piece, despite the trams’ best efforts to wipe us all out (note for visitors- trams in Prague don’t stop for cars, or mini buses for that matter, so try not to turn in front of them through oncoming traffic, it can only end in a narrow escape from certain death or certain death). Our hostel, complete with crisp white bed linen and comfy mattresses, was a far cry from camp Aachen and thankfully further still from the standard, gap year backpackers complete with bed bugs, peeling wallpaper and some dreadlocked chap in the corner doing heroine. Things were off to a good start so we huddled around a tourist map of the city, resulting in the obvious disagreement that comes with 11 Officers thinking they know best, and set out into central Prague, no better off than we were before, in search of a long, boozy lunch.

Now, I can’t be sure, but I imagine that the sight of 11 preppy looking Brits, all in our matching uniform of jeans, some form of blue shirt and brown loafers, doing our best Reservoir Dogs impression through the streets of Prague, impressed the locals no end. So much so in fact, that we managed to get our own mezzanine level in what must be Prague’s finest restaurant, on the 7th floor of an amazing riverside building, overlooking the entire city and with a menu to make even Heston Blumenthal salivate. It was perfect. The tone for the afternoon was set on arrival when 11 espresso martinis were ordered and the waitress looked on in amazement as the ‘Chinless Wonder Convention 2013’ kicked off in full force. We spent the full afternoon eating like Kings and drinking like Queens (espresso martinis are just divine darling), ridding ourselves of the barbaric conditions we had left only a few hours earlier. It’s incredible how imposing a large group of blokes can become after an indiscreet amount of wine and port with some girlie cocktails thrown in for good measure, but suffice to say that it wasn’t long before the restaurant was filled with the overtly boisterous sound of relentless guffawing, assertive table thumping, heart-felt harrumphing and cries of “Good form!” and “A wager! A wager!” Yes indeed, the Officers mess had arrived and we were, rather brashly, making ourselves known.

We left the restaurant in high spirits to say the least, ready to take on whatever Prague had in store for us. Sadly however, as it was now only about 6pm, Prague wasn’t quite ready for 11 inebriated, obnoxious Brits trying to impress themselves on the local hotspots. As a result we proceeded to get thrown out of every single bar, pub and restaurant we could find in central Prague, which is no mean feat I can assure you. One bar took particular exception to our behavior when we started tucking in to the, seemingly free, giant pretzels they had on each table, helping ourselves from different tables as we weaved our way through the bar to find a table of our own. When the somewhat irate barman tracked us down to throw us out for “stealing” said pretzels, which we apparently should have paid for, we decided the best course of action was to deny all knowledge of the offending snacks in order to buy enough time to finish our beers before inevitably being thrown out.

“Lishen mate, we haven’t touched any pretschuls. I don’t even like pretschuls”, said Luke in full drunken confidence in our argument, while gently brushing pretzel crumbs off his chin.

“You no touch Pretzels?! You no touch PRETZELS?! Then what the hell are these?!” As he said this the barman, with visible steam coming out of his ears at this point, reached forward with both hands, either side of Lukes head and removed two giant ‘Pretschuls’ that had been hanging from his ears. Perhaps he wasn’t the best spokesman for our case.

“Oh” said Luke with a knowing wry grin, “Well, those are Pretschuls, how much do we owe you?”

By that point he didn’t want our money and we were assertively asked to leave, without our half full beers, which required a slightly more foolproof plan in order to be finished.  Another highlight was following a moment or two behind a couple of group members into a restaurant, in search of somewhere to serve us a drink, only to be met by them, before I had even reached the entrance to the restaurant, being physically removed by the waiting staff, one with a bloody nose, grinning and saying “Nope, I’m not sure they like us in there either”. Apparently in a moment of extreme thirst he had helped himself to a glass of wine belonging to one of the diners enjoying a previously quiet meal, before the waiter, without hesitation or warning, waded in and punched him clean in the nose. Good Czech diplomacy at its most effective.

By some miracle the night continued in a similar, yet increasingly drunken, vein without any arrests or further injury to anyone in the group and we somehow all made it back to our crisp white sheets for a few hours rest.

The following day we crawled back to camp in time for our midday curfew, looking and feeling like shadows of our former selves and feeling fully conversant in the cultural delicacies of the Czech capital. All in all it was a fantastic and very welcome 24 hour break and I would thoroughly recommend Prague to anyone- just remember a few key survival tips: watch out for trams, don’t annoy the waiters and even if they look it, the pretzels are not free.

By Rich Glover

Beats of the week: Vampire Weekend – Modern Vampires of the City

13 Monday May 2013

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Vampire Weekend – Modern Vampires of the City

Vampire Weekend have been loitering around the outskirts of the mainstream ever since they smashed onto the scene with their Oxford Comma-driven self-titled debut album in early 2008. The world seemed to fall for their unique blend of preppy indie and Graceland-era Paul Simon as an antidote to what had become a rather bland music scene around that time. Follow-up album, Contra, confirmed their growing popularity, going to number 1 in their native land while breaking into the top 3 this side of the pond.

Tomorrow sees the release of their latest LP, Modern Vampires of the City, and it’s a pretty impressive collection of songs. The band sought to move on from the sound of their first two efforts but fear not, the change is very much evolution rather than revolution. What is more, this might actually be their best album yet.

Equally able to create wonderful, haunting melodies or make you move your feet (regardless of whether or not you have diamonds on the soles of your shoes), they are one of the most talented bands around and a formidable live act. They seem to create the perfect melodies for a hot summer’s day, but intertwine them with that rarest of beasts in modern music: intelligent lyrics.

There is no doubt that with infectious songs such as Worship You, Diane Young and Unbelievers, this album is going to be one that soundtracks a thousand barbeques this year, but hidden in it’s depths are arguably finer moments of tender beauty.

The justifiable excitement in the music world about the imminent release of the new Daft Punk album is understandable. However lost amid the hype of that event, the erudite New York four-piece known as Vampire Weekend might just have written the album of the year.

by Harry Harland

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Driving Me Mad

07 Tuesday May 2013

Posted by in Beenie Langley

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I don’t often surprise people.

This is because I’m either so boringly predictable, nothing I do is remotely unusual, or else, I’m so ridiculously peculiar that everything I do is surprising, ergo nothing is.

Whichever way round, as I said, I don’t often surprise people.

Until I say this: ‘I can’t drive.’

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Such a small sentence; such big reactions.

'NO! I won't believe it. I CAN'T believe it...'

‘NOOO! I WON’T believe it. I CAN’T believe it..’

Let it be known that this admission has (and continues to) caused me more grief than really any other admission I have made in my life. And it’s ridiculous. Not that I can’t drive but that so many people care that I can’t drive. I simply don’t understand and in all honesty, I find it seriously baffling.

It doesn’t bother me that I’m without a licence, and when I’m halving petrol with someone kindly driving me somewhere they were heading to anyway, I can’t imagine why it would bother them. But somehow it does. And to be honest, it’s bloody irritating.

‘What?’ they splutter in my face, ‘YOU can’t drive?!’

I stare at them vacantly, then churlishly say: ‘Sorry, was I talking in Mandarin again? I said ‘I CAN’T DRIVE.’ Is that any clearer?’

It’s the ‘YOU’ bit that really annoys me. ‘YOU can’t drive.’ So accusatory. For what are they really saying? That I look like a trucker whose job it is to steer vehicles? That I’m a stupid idiot for not forking out £400 in lessons and tests when I was 17, for a bit of paper that in over ten years the not having of which, has had precisely zero impact on my life – except it hasn’t ruined it. Imagine never being the ‘designated driver’. Imagine…

These fully-licenced car bores then really test my patience further, going on and on and on about it ­- berating me for my laziness, my incompetence, my wanton ignorance. ‘How do I get around?’ they ask, mystified, momentarily forgetting all other forms of transport I could take for which I am not personally required to pilot – trains, planes, buses.

‘So what?’ I say, defensively. ‘It’s not as if I’ve announced I work in magazines but have yet to master the skills of reading and writing. Or that, in over 25 years of life, I am still unable to turn on the toaster.’

Not wanting to boast but there are plenty of other skills I have which many, otherwise intelligent people, lack. Like map reading. Surprising for a girl, I know, but I have an excellent sense of direction and am highly skilled at reading maps. Do I scold others for not meeting my high levels of Ordnance Survey know-how? No! Well… that is, until I’m in a car with one of them, wasting time as a result of their dithering. And then I snatch the map. And then I take over, laughing in their face as I point out the A-Z was upside down and, in fact, we’re in France so their silly map is redundant anyway.

‘When are you going to learn?’ people ask worryingly, as if I’ve just announced I’m about to perform heart surgery based on the knowledge I acquired from a recent episode of Casualty.

‘When I feel like it.’

This isn’t good enough. So I am then forced to launch into the uber dull, well-rehearsed anti-licence line of defence.

If you’ve not been subjected to it, it includes:

1.) The very obvious fact that learning, driving and owning a car is expensive.
2.) How, although I’ve not taken formal lessons, I can actually operate an automobile and drive one competently in the case of an emergency.
3.) How, even if I did learn tomorrow, it would be a waste of time. I’ll not own a car for years and when I do, I’ll clearly be too nervous to drive it and would want to take the test again anyway. Driving is about confidence, hence why most girls are crap at it (such cans of worms I open…)

Does this fill you with confidence?

Does this fill you with faith?

I’ve said all these things time and time again and I’m sick of repeating myself. It shouldn’t matter to anyone but me whether I can drive or not, and until someone decides to buy me lessons, a car and a life’s worth of petrol, I am simply not going to bother.

Ha.

‘What? YOU can’t drive?!’

‘No, dear friend, I cannot. But you see, some people – like you – were born to drive…

….whereas others, were born to be driven.’  *fiddles with smartphone (legal), swigs from bottle of wine (legal), and passes out in the passenger’s seat (luxuriously legal)*

Withnail

Would you rather be Withnail or Marwood?

By Beenie Langley

War Diaries #9: Join the Army, see the world, just try to avoid Bavaria

03 Friday May 2013

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Rich is recently back from serving in Afghanistan, now posted to that romantic holiday destination… Bavaria. What great adventures will he get up to this time?

The wonderful thing about being in the Army is the extensive travel opportunities it offers. No sooner had I returned from the popular suntrap that is Afghanistan last summer than I found myself in the Adjutant’s office being told to cancel whatever plans I may have had for this summer as I was off to Bavaria and Canada for another 7 months. Fortunately, for the more feint hearted, this summer holiday should prove marginally less dangerous than last years jolly due to the current absence of a war zone in either country. That said however, as I find myself nearing the end of my first week in Bavaria, it is apparent that we still face our fair share of dangers here too, namely malnutrition or food poisoning (whichever gets you first), sleep deprivation and the serious potential for rising suicide levels.

Things got off to bad start when we arrived at the severely neglected Camp Aachen, our new home for the next 2 months, in the cold and driving rain, after a relaxing 40 hour journey from an uncharacteristically sunny Norfolk. Sadly though, the weather was soon to be the least of our worries as we were shown to the Officers “accommodation”. It’s difficult to describe it to anyone who has never been to a third world country so bear with me. Our accommodation block consists of a single story building about 100ft in length and 20ft wide divided into three sections by partition walls across half the width of the room- so effectively it’s one large room masquerading as three “cosy” rooms. The floor is made of a lovely grey stone, which really compliments the fluorescent strip lighting that offers free retina burning if you look directly at it for long enough. The real pièce de résistance however is the luxurious 1950’s metal bunk beds, designed for 7 year olds, that seem to fill any free space throughout the entire room in order that we can all fit in- there are a total of 24 bunks allowing 40 of us, with 7 months worth of kit, to get to know each other really rather intimately. Other highlights include no wardrobes or shelves at all, three plug sockets and six windows, all on one side of the building and all blacked out to give the fully authentic ‘air raid shelter’ feeling. Those interested in the remaining 8 bed spaces please apply early to avoid disappointment (floor space not guaranteed).

“Not to worry” we optimistically thought, “the one thing the Army is always good at is feeding us…” As it turns out, there really is always one exception to the rule and as luck would have it, this is it. Our first meal was supper on the day of arrival, following an uncompromisingly long journey and the severe shock to 40 Officers on the discovery that the “Officers Mess” was lacking the odd oil painting, amongst one or two other things, so there was a lot riding on this. The “dining facility”, consisting of much the same as the “accommodation” blocks, just with tiles on the walls and tables instead of bunk beds, set the tone. We queued up and one by one were handed our cardboard plate half filled with a disk of “meat” surrounded by a soggy mess of what used to be some form of vegetable from the grunting Czech “chef” who seemed to be as disgusted to be serving this gruel as we were to be receiving it. Still at least they provided tepid water to wash it all down with. Needless to say, things were not looking up so when “chef” managed to magically reproduce the exact same menu for breakfast the following morning I was not entirely surprised to see one of the soldiers sitting at a table with his head in his hands staring solemnly into his cardboard plate of gruel mumbling to himself “This is fookin’ shite. I were treated better when I were in clink.” I want to say that it really isn’t that bad but given our geographical location, the aged look of the buildings and the nervous pause people give before entering the suspiciously isolated shower block it does not take much imagination to think what this camp may have been potentially used for in, say, the early 1940’s…

Something had to be done to get “outside the wire” so at the first opportunity to escape into the nearest town four of us made a dash for it. We made our way into the very German looking local town of Grafenwöhr, about 5 miles away, and headed straight for what appeared to be the only bar in town, intent on drowning our sorrows in copious amounts of good German beer. I approached the bar and asked for 4 beers in my most fluent German only to be laughed at by the larger than life landlord and told “ Haha! My English is vay better zan your German! You vont ze beers? I get you ze beers!” He had a good point although his pronunciation wasn’t exactly perfect. The evening was then whiled away over a number of pints of delectable German beer, chatting amongst ourselves and even managing to meet a real local. Well, I say meet, truth be told we were rather rudely interrupted by the drunk German version of the Cookie Monster (in that her incredibly frizzy hair was blonde, she had a thick German accent and could barely walk) as she piled over and shouted (which they all seem to do) “You like Grafenwöhr?!” Before we even had a chance to answer she was gracious enough to shout her own opinion on the matter back at us “It’s SHIT! It’s SHIT! I hate it! Don’t ever live here!” And with that she turned to her long-suffering, understandably gaunt looking husband and launched into some delightful tirade in impressively fluent German leaving us wondering what had just happened and if it were perhaps time to head back to our own luxurious surroundings. If she wasn’t so terrifying I may have suggested that she visit Camp Aachen before she judged her quaint German town so harshly.

So this is us for the next 8 weeks, I am sure things will lighten up and I will be reporting far merrier tales not long from now, the up side is that I have bought a pocket German phrasebook filled with useful phrases such as “Hello young lady, my name is Richard, can you direct me to the nearest library, I need to use the fax machine.” I’ll let you know how I get on.

By Rich Glover

Beats of the week: Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Mosquito

29 Monday Apr 2013

Posted by in Albums, Harry Harland, Music, Reviews

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Yeah Yeah Yeahs – Mosquito

To say that this has been a long time coming is somewhat of an understatement. It has been over four years since the release of their last notable release, the superb It’s Blitz, and one could have been forgiven for completely forgetting about the New York trio in the meantime. But back they are, with new album Mosquito.

The band’s worrying transition from angular rock band to a sort of disco pop act has thusfar been slightly tempered by the fact that they had continued to create stunningly good albums. Ordinarily it would be easy to moan about the band losing their edge or even (god forbid) “selling out”, as latter tracks such as Heads Will Roll were considerably more commercial than their early material. However, singer Karen O’s charisma and the band’s natural gift for rhythm was always evident, even back in the grubby shouty rock of Date With The Night and Rich. The stylistic change was significant, but they made it seem like natural progression.

Sadly, for me, Mosquito seems like it might be a step too far.

It’s probably worth noting that it’s not a bad album, far from it. Tracks such as Subway and the title track (in spite of it’s slightly brainless lyrics) are very accomplished songs, while Buried Alive, featuring the brilliant (and equally long-term absentee) rapper Dr Octagon is a standout moment.

My trouble is, that this isn’t the band that I fell in love with. I remember (Wanky music kudos alert!) going to see them in a sweaty little venue in 2003 and leaving, covered in beer, with a sense that I had witnessed a very special moment. I loved their debut album Fever To Tell so much that it was always going to be difficult for the band to follow.

They changed their tack, getting poppier and more keyboard-driven, with excellent results. I accepted this much in the way that most Radiohead fans have enjoyed Kid A and In Rainbows… They were great releases. But, much like many a Radiohead fan wishes they’d stop farting around and make another Bends or OK Computer, I wished that they’d dump the keyboards and let Nick Zinner start thrashing his guitar again. Sadly, in both the case of YYY’s and Radiohead, it appears that the band have moved on permanently.

So, where does this leave the album? Well as I said, Mosquito is a decent release with a spattering of good songs. If you fell in love with the band around the time of It’s Blitz, then this comes strongly recommended. You may well love it. If you are, like me, still harping back to a bygone era, then you may be disappointed. I want the stomping, loudness of MY Yeah Yeah Yeahs back, but it appears that ship has sailed. It’s time to accept their new direction or move on. Only time will tell which path is the right one.

By Harry Harland

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Introducing… Triples Tennis!

26 Friday Apr 2013

Posted by in Sport, Tennis

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One of the first articles that we ran on Trivial Pursuits was this one about boys’ innate need to make up new sports. Indeed this is how all sports originally started. One man who has taken this to the next level though is Archie Woodhead, who has set up a league for a sport of his design. It is called “Triples Tennis” and here is the man himself to explain a little more about it:

TT

Tennis fans and administrators across the country are rushing to enjoy the glory of our new hero, Open champion and gold medal winner. He may not have claimed sports personality of the year but Andy Murray’s successful 2012 will be a boost for a sport that is looking to increase participation rates.

This summer a new format of tennis is being introduced looking to achieve just that. Not singles, not doubles but “Triples Tennis” comes to London for the first time.

Triples Tennis is a team based format for tennis, it involves 3 players who play their games on rotation to make up 1 set of singles tennis. Only one player on the court from each team at any one time but they can only play a limited number of games. The team need to tactically use each player’s strengths and weaknesses throughout the set to get the best team performance. There is not point using all your best server’s games up if they can’t then serve out the set.

Sounds complicated? Watch this video to see how it all works:

Like a lot of sports, tennis sees a drop in participation at the age of 21/22. Triples Tennis has teams made up of a broad range of standards and is aimed at people that don’t play tennis regularly and will enjoy playing in a social environment where the court bookings and other logistics are arranged for them.

So, time to relive the glory days of organised sport at school or university, dig out your racquet and persuade a couple of friends to do the same. The league takes place in Holland Park and starts in June this year. Registrations are now open.

Each team plays seven matches over four evenings in the league. Matches are scheduled to start at 7pm on Tuesdays or Thursdays to fit in with your working day.

To register a team go to www.triplestennis.com

Simple Pleasures

24 Wednesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Art, Edward Lines, Reviews, The Arts

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Whaam! 1963 by Roy Lichtenstein 1923-1997Perhaps not since the Warhol retrospective has the shop at Tate Modern done such a roaring trade. Pop Art is as its name suggestions – popular art. Thick, black outlines, primary colours, two-dimensional icons, themes of modern life and generic emotion – all easily transferable and relevant to this generation as they were to their first audiences in the Sixties. And crucially, all of the above coupled with the mass print production technique of Benday dots to imply tone and economise on paint makes the images highly reproducible. Available for purchase in the shop is everything from framed prints and posters through to t-shirts, handbags, cushion covers and cuff links. Personally, I bought a mug so I could enjoy a little bit of irony that I am one for buying it.

But that’s not fair; I get plenty of enjoyment from Roy Lichtenstein’s work, and the same can be said of this exhibition. He was fully aware of the lowbrow perception and commercial nature of his work and you have to appreciate the way he embraced it. “I’m interested in what would normally be considered the worst aspects of commercial art.” He once said. “I think it’s the tension between what seems to be so rigid and clichéd and the fact that art really can’t be this way.”

And, whatever your opinion of his sources, you have to admire him too for his distinctive style; you don’t have to be Brian Sewell to recognise a Lichtenstein. I remember as an 11-year-old having an art project where we had to paint something in his style. I was dead proud of the Kickers shoes so one of those became my model. Plenty of primary colours, dark lines and Benday dots later, I was a Lichtenstein expert.

Though his work looks lowbrow on the surface, there is more to it as this retrospective rightly points out.
His style was born out of a rejection of the fashion at the time for the Jackson Pollock fronted Abstract Expressionism and a fascination with printed mass media, particularly the ability to create so much meaning and depth with such a limited use of colour. One of the first works in the show tackles this directly.

lichtenstein little-big-painting-1965Little Big Painting 1965, depicts brushstrokes – the archetypal product of a painter. For the Abstract Expressionists a brushstroke was a personal statement, something nonreplicable and unique to its creator but here Lichtenstein has turned it into a something standardised, mechanical and above all, reproducible.

The real Power Play room of the exhibition is undoubtedly Room 4: War and Romance – the subject matter that launched him. In here are the Lichtenstein big guns, the appropriately titled Whaam!, which you can see at the top of this blog, Drowning Girl, Hopeless and a personal favourite Masterpiece. A blonde girl tells a dark haired, chiselled artist, “Why Brad darling, this painting is a masterpiece! My, soon you’ll have all of New York clamoring for your work”. Aside from the obvious wordplay about the painting that we’re looking at, Masterpiece is joke about himself, as he became increasingly successful, playing on the narcissistic tendencies of the New York art scene.

Roy-Lichtenstein-Masterpiece--1962-133900The subject matter of the War and Romance room is well thought out because those themes should really cause an emotional reaction from the viewer. But both Lichtenstein’s humour in the cliché and the comic book style make it hard to become too sentimental about the melodramatic, drowning girl or the unfortunate pilot being shot out of the sky. “I was interested in using highly charged material [in] a very removed, technical, almost engineering drawing style”, he said.

He often stated that he was quite detached from his subject matter; that it wasn’t about himself but I think that’s not entirely true. In paintings throughout his career he frequently depicted idealised female figures. Dorothy Herzka, his wife from 1968 until his death in 1997, spoke about how he certainly adored the female form and late in his career we see him take on one of the most ancient art genres – the nude. Girls frolic with beach balls and lie provocatively on beds but rather than using live models, these girls were created as a result of his imagination. He referred back to his comic and newspaper clippings of fashion models and then using his powers as an artist, undressed them on canvas.

Lichtenstein nudes and galatea

It’s in the same room as the nudes that his sculpture, Galatea 1990, stands. This is the Greek myth where the sculptor, Pygmalion, falls in love with his own work, Galatea, a perfectly formed, ivory female figure. In answer to his prayers and much to Pygmalion’s delight, Aphrodite brings Galatea to life and unites the two in marriage. And so in this room of Lichtenstein-imagined nudes, like with Masterpiece, we see another joke at his own expense.

Lichtenstein: A Retrospective is at Tate Modern until 27th May.

By Edward Lines

Spotlight: Nick Bethell

18 Thursday Apr 2013

Posted by in Art, Edward Lines, Spotlight, The Arts

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Nick Bethell

In the first Spotlight interview of the year, Ed interviews the academically rebellious painter, sculptor, etcher, clothing designer and friend, Nick Bethell

Ed Lines: How would you describe your style?

Nick Bethell: I think that to have one style is limiting for many artists; to explore routes with only one vision just isn’t enough for me. I’ve experimented with many styles, from photorealism to abstract expressionism and almost everything in between, and after so much exploration I struggle to stick to one way of working. Each piece takes form in its own way. Perhaps eclectic is the best summary. At this moment in time though I’d say it’s figurative expressionism, flirting with abstraction.

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I work mainly in oils on canvas, but I like to draw into paintings with charcoal as I’d say I’m more of a draughtsman with a paintbrush than a painter, I find that charcoal adds a unique texture and bold structure to images. I’ve also recently started working in different media; etching, which is a fascinating medium, and clay as I’ve always wanted to have my sculpture work cast in bronze.

My main subject matter is the female figure, it’s just something that’s fascinated me since life drawing lessons at the age of fifteen! Although over the last few weeks I’ve been trying out landscape and seascape painting inspired by my figurative work. In merging these subjects together I have found a fresh direction to pursue. I now want to encourage viewers to look at my work, to use their imagination, to see things from a unique and more personal perspective.

EL: How would you explain your academic history?

NB: Well I’d say that doing history of art at school played the largest part in developing my understanding of art, with Margaret Craig, the teacher that you also had the pleasure of studying under.

I however went down the practical route due to a lack of patience with essay writing, so I went up to Edinburgh to do an art foundation course at Leith School of Art. I had several disagreements with the head of the school:

He said Manet was an Impressionist during the first lecture, which I quickly pulled him up on… He instantly took a disliking to me.

I was only the second person to have failed the course in its 22 year history. Not a proud moment to be honest.
After that I managed to get a place at Leeds College of Art where there was an abundance of idiocy from the tutors, having little knowledge of art history and no enthusiasm for my work. I studied art and design with a view of doing a mix of both those subjects, giving me the freedom of playing with graphic design, architecture, and fine art. However they never seemed to like any of the work that I produced.

I felt frustrated that we had to ‘tick the boxes’ to please the tutors and get a good grade, so thought maybe education just wasn’t for me and dropped out after half a year. I never had a tutor that I respected artistically or one that inspired me.

Since then I have been re-teaching myself how to draw and paint, but from memory. Although I create from my head, observation is still the key. I think that by not having a subject to look at, the canvas itself becomes the subject and therefore I am 100% focussed on the canvas rather than mainly on a subject. This gives me a chance to make mistakes, and it’s within this process that I learn new things. Many of my favourite paintings and drawings have been the result of several mistakes that just work.

I didn’t paint a thing for about two years so I could concentrate on drawing (this is how the Old Masters such as Titian were trained, the only differences being that they painted from life and probably had a slightly more structured approach!). I then progressed onto painting in monochrome to really get an understanding of form in two dimensions. Recently I have just started to use colour again which is refreshing. I’m always learning new things.

Nick Bethell artist

EL: If you could meet any artist, dead or alive who would it be?

NB: Can I meet a few more? I’ve got a list of nine here:
1. The cave painters in Spain around 40,000 years ago, so I could understand their mark making and to see the pioneers of art itself. I’d also like to ask them why they produced art. The language barrier could be an issue.
2. Brunelleschi, so I could ask him about the dome on Florence Cathedral (Duomo) which he crowned two centuries after the rest of it had been completed. I’d also like him to design me a gallery/studio with a similar dome.

3. Gauguin, to see his palette and to compare his experience in Tahiti to mine in St Kitts.
4. Picasso, at my age (22), pre-cubism, to ask him where he could see himself going in life.
5. Modigliani, so I could watch his figures as they’re harmoniously translated onto canvas.
6. Giacometti, to analyse him sculpt his intricate structures.
7. Miroslav Tichy, who in my eyes was the greatest photographer. I’d like him to make me a camera.
8. Hockney, to pick his incredibly knowledgeable brain on art history.
9. Hirst, to tell him to be truer to art. To try to be an artist rather than an architect before it’s too late as he has some great ideas but lacks the skill of the craftsman.

I could go on all night here.

EL: Aside from your artwork you also run a clothing brand. How did that come about?

NB: I went on an extended holiday to St Kitts a few years ago where I found some real characters in the relatively remote village of St Pauls. It took a bit of time for them to warm to a white tourist but eventually I made a few friends out there. I drew and painted them regularly and thought they’d look great on t-shirts and sweatshirts. As people usually wear clothes with famous people on them I thought it would be amusing to create iconic images of these unknown individuals. It makes me chuckle when people try to guess who they are. My website/online shop is almost ready to go.

Nick Bethell Clothing Green Sweater

Nick Bethell Clothing White TEL: What can we expect from Nick Bethell in the next year?

NB: Well I’m going to progress with my new techniques and continue developing my understanding of the female form, the main focus of my work for the last two years, so if anyone would like to try something new and sit for me, no matter what size or shape, I’m always looking for new models.

EL: Did you just say that?

NB: Worth a shout.

EL: Fair enough. How can we see your work?

NB: I’m entering paintings into competitions and galleries such as the RA summer exhibition, the BP portrait award and many others. I’m also in the early stages of planning my first solo exhibition so watch this space if you need to fill a new flat/house with contemporary paintings. To see my work feel free to go to http://www.facebook.com/nickbethellartanddesign. All work is for sale, ranging from £50 to £1,500. Clothing from £12. Prices and sizes available on request.

Email: nick.bethell@hotmail.co.uk

Public displays of grief are #mawkish

16 Tuesday Apr 2013

Posted by in Harry Harland, Opinion, Regular Columnists

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Boston-Bomb

At 15:27 on Monday 15th April, horrific scenes unfurled at the Boston Marathon. Runners were struggling up the final straight after a grueling five hours, when two bombs went off on Boylston Street, just short of the finish line. Those injured and even killed in the blast were innocent civilians, many of whom were running the race in aid of charity. It was a story that was not only a human disaster, but also one that tugged at the heartstrings on a personal level. We all know people who have run marathons, the victims were no different to them. It was a relatable catastrophe.

In the aftermath of the disaster, for whom there is no direct suspect at time of writing, the world of Twitter and the press in general went into overdrive. Conspiracy theories started 15 minutes after the first blast went off, with everyone somehow using the disaster to affirm their beliefs that a certain terror cell was going to eventually target the US again. This, in itself led one person to comment that “Twitter does its best work in the first five minutes after a disaster, and its worst in the twelve hours after that”, a statement that it is difficult to argue with.

But then came the grief. And the pseudo grief. And the pious sympathy. The hashtag #prayforBoston became unavoidable. And that is what really got me annoyed. Why on earth does everyone feel the need to jump on the bandwagon of every sadness, no matter how personal it is?

The tragedy that befell Boston on Monday afternoon was undeniable. I myself saw the news and felt sorry for the victims and their families. It must be indescribably awful for you, a friend or a family member to be caught up in something like that and my thoughts were with them. However thoughts were all that I was providing.

Unlike the rest of the world, apparently, I wasn’t inclined to take to social networking and lay down a mawkish statement of exactly how sorry I was for them, or indeed telling my friends that they should “pray for Boston”.

While I’m sure these messages are often done with the best of intentions, I’m afraid that there is a massive undertone of ‘person trying to feel a bit better about themselves by making others think they are the caring type’.

Grief should be a personal thing. It is an emotion for fuck’s sake. It is entirely subjective. This is the way it has been since the fall of the Roman Empire, where rich families would hire grievers to attend their relative’s funerals as a status symbol. This is how the British “stiff upper lip” came about, we were unflappable and unemotional in the face of adversity. It was widely perceived to be a strong character trait.

However, ever since the death of Diana we seem to have become obsessed with the notion that we should all be wailing and gnashing our teeth from the rooftops at the slightest hint of tragedy.

At Diana’s death, the Queen was essentially bullied into a PDA (Public Display of Agony) by the frankly extraordinary level of public grieving. While Diana had, let’s face it, not exactly towed the party line as far as the Royal Family went, it is absurd to think that the Queen wasn’t saddened by her one-time daughter-in-law’s tragic passing. She probably shed a tear in private when she heard the news. But this wasn’t enough for the public. No, the notion of grief had changed. We wouldn’t be happy until she was throwing used tissues down from the balcony of Buckingham Palace like some sort of regally-induced snowstorm.

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Fast forward a few years and the whole national identity has changed. We have become a nation of ghoulish despondency-mongers. The very public demise of Jade Goody through cancer (again, a scenario that sadly all-too-many of us can relate to on a personal level), brought unprecedented levels of public grieving. Here was a woman who, just five years previously, had been originally a public joke (owing to her stupidity) and then a national pariah after her quite vicious (and supposedly racially-motivated) attack on Bollywood star Shilpa Shetty in the Big Brother house. But she was famous, and hence she was public property. So when she died at the tragically young age of 27 in 2009, the public went into full-on lockdown grief mode, with thousands of people making a pilgrimage to Essex to lay flowers at her gates.

These days it is not enough to just feel sorry for someone. You have to make a grand production of it. It’s a pretty sick concept, not dissimilar to making a charitable donation and then bragging about how much you’ve given. If you’re not seen to be actively mourning for absolutely anything, then you are a heartless bastard who obviously couldn’t give two shits about them in the first place. In fact you couldn’t give two shits about anyone other than yourself. In fact you’re probably the sort of person who is responsible for these tragedies in the first place. You bastard.

The trouble with this way of thinking is that we have no way of reacting when something genuinely personal happens to us. We’ve jumped on so many bandwagons that when we ARE the bandwagon, we don’t know what to do. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if personal sentiments like #prayforgrandad were popping up left, right and centre all over Twitter. Which is totally, totally retarded.

In the last ten years I have seen people who I knew and loved pass away. Whether elderly relations or friends I have felt enormous sadness in passing, but that has been my PERSONAL grief. It has come from the heart and been passed on in person, whether through tears or prayers. I have not felt the need to wallpaper the internet with my sadness.

Public displays of grief are horrible, snowballing events that lack anything beyond skin-deep sincerity and are more about being perceived to be doing the right thing. You end up with absurd situations like this in Liverpool (I defy you to deny that Boris Johnson was right when he described them as “wallowing in mawkish self-pity”…), where a shrine was erected around the site where a human foetus was found in the street. After several cards and bunches of flowers were left at the site, it transpired that the “foetus” was in fact a chicken carcass.

This actually happened

This actually happened

What happened in Boston on Monday was terrible, however slapping #prayforBoston at the end of a tweet, while stating how sorry you are, is not going to help anyone. It is entirely normal to feel sorry for people in these situations. But keep it to yourself. If you feel the need to do more, why not make a donation to the Boston ambulance service? However don’t then tell everyone how big it was. Especially not on Twitter.

By Harry Harland

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