Sinbad and the Muscateers.
Ever read Treasure Island?
If you like a good yarr-n, this is the buccaneer of them – Bobby Louis Stevenson's efficient masterpiece of pirate duplicity and buried dubloons. It's fab.
Of course, the date palms I must confess to have been lazing under while reading it are half a world away from young Jim Hawkins' Carrabean adventure. More than half, if you're counting cultures and centuries. But it's still a ripping good tale for a holiday read, I must say.
Not that we've been on holiday, you understand. We've been fortifying friends in foreign climes with the hearty encouragement of contact with home. A kind of solemn missionary trip if you will. Until this evening after dinner anyway, when we fly back to the UK and I have to give up the mango guzzling and daytime snoozing and casual afternoon G&Ts.
>takes a clinkly sip<
---
Now, if you like lands of adventure and swashbuckling tales of history, let's face it – you really ought to be at least intrigued by the Middle East. It is, in a way, one enormous, exotic yarn – repleat with fables and heros and ancient peoples and lost treasures and the kinds of utterly serious human struggles we might only be able to comprehend in colourful, posterised, simplified storytelling.
From the Atlantic coast to the silk routes into China, all the great civilisations of formative history played out their evolving naratives somewhere here. And their various intertwining plots spider across the world political map today.
The little island of Bahrain is certainly a real crossroads of many routes and a crucible of many stories. People find themselves here for all manner of reasons, like so many islands. But it can feel a little unreal, like an airport lounge.
The mix of ex-patriate business life – with the comings and goings of G&T-clinking westerners posted to the regional arms of big financial businesses – and local Islamic life – where Bahrainis and Saudis retain an apparently unchanging and graphically different social outlook – is the macro juxtaposition here and it makes for a lot of fuzzy logic. Things work, even though they sound like they shouldn't, and even though they may not work with planned efficiency.
But both of these worlds can independently seem suspended somehow, accademic, against the realities of heat and work and place.
A mosque tract can read as smartly optimistic and ordered, as neat and tidy, as a business brochure. Both paint a positive picture of humans in a can-do world, placed into their rightful setting where everything makes sense and we all operate in predictably purposeful ways.
And in the Gulf in particular – where international business is really seated for the Arab world – the glossy stock imagery that these two outlooks market with seem to come very smoothly together.
---
It does work. The human level wins out and makes things work; Saudis stream over the Causeway to watch movies in the cinemas and to go to bars, and westerners learn a bit of respect and perhaps glimpse another way of life beyond the office. And everyone gets to trade.
It's all largely thanks to the largely friendly, easy-going approach of the Bahrainis – the sons and daughters of traders and pearl divers.
Yet, the country that's struck me as the most realistically positive on this trip to the GCC is one that sounds the most evocative – the land of Sinbad himself, Oman.
---
I won't give the details of the Chedi Hotel in Muscat. Suffice to say, it is the most decadent stay I've ever found myself having and the most creative deal I think Julian could posibly have blagged for us to get away with enjoying. I was sure they began to suspect we shouldn't have been there by day three.
It's a luxury oasis that is as unrealistic a cocoon from ordinary life as you could wish for on a break. And, like all international resorts, almost totally unreflective of it's geographical location. Could have been anywhere.
But it wasn't anywhere. It was in Muscat. And the glimpse we got of the city, walking through the spicy, aromatic heat of the forty-two-degree evening waterfront or cruising along the sweeping efficiency of its mountain roads out of town, we found ourselves talking to elegant, friendly people who seemed charged with identity and purpose, even in the humid blast of southern Arabia.
It's largely thanks to Sultan Qaboos ibn Sa'id, a dashing figure in his youth who took over the country the year I was born and immediately rebranded Oman to a more open and perhaps poetic sense of identity; building roads, instigating greater trade and tourism, inculcating real pride in his people. He reigns still. And Omanis seem to act like real sons of Sinbad – dashing, in their crisp, tailored, white thobes and neat, patterned, circular kuma hats. Muslims, but with a sense of some extra adventure about them.
We joked about the possible collective noun for people living in Muscat; sea port stretching along the coast against the mountains, overlooking the vital straights into the rest of the Gulf. And they really are known as Muscateers.
I can only say this as I finish my lazy gin and tonic and prepare to leave: if Oman isn't currently on your map, mark it on there now. From my flying visit I feel sure it is a land of many buried treasures.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Archepedalo.
Archepedalo.
If there's one thing we can attest to, it's that Bahrain is not for the pedestrian.
This isn't news. Most emerging cities in the Middle East are built on a very twentieth century principle, and for a blindingly obvious and unassailable reason – the car and oil. Duh.
To underscore it, I'll say simply that when I filled up our modestly-powered runabout just before we left our windy-wet shores, it cost me fifty quid. Julian mentioned casually as we were cruising through the shifting shining panorama of Manama yesterday that he'd just filled his umpteen-litre gas guzzler for less than a tenner.
So pavements lead nowhere, buses are a kind of parked billboard system and people in coffee shops in the more exclusive island developments have no concept of where to find a number for a taxi here.
---
We do this everywhere we go. We wander instinctively and end up always at some point in some nameless back road with locals leaning in doorways casually eyeing the purposeful and conspicuously English-looking couple striding confidently towards the iron smelting plant/canal/industrial car park. But we feel we've seen the real wherever as a result. The unromantic, boring, foot-wearing, passing-pity-inducing real wherever.
But, there's nothing like treading out the real footprint of a place. Which I do largely mean. Now that I've made it back and had a shower.
Given that our trip out here is more of a visit to chums than a dreamy holiday, we're pretty happy to wander between places with no real itinerary. Although it's a bitter irony to Jules that he's landed a lot of all-hours appointments with work the very moment his chums arrive to see him, having had rather more space to be sociable up until now.
Still, work is work and Bahrain is intriguing, whoever we're with.
Plus his 'work' is directing photo shoots of F16s, Gazelle helicopters and the King's eye-wateringly luxurious personal 747s, so I'm not sure his feelings are single-mindedly missing our company. Jammy swine.
---
What we can also attest to after today is that Dilmun was a trading nation for some three thousand years, its paraditical identity surviving the influence of pushy investors no less significant than the Assyrians, the Babsters and the Messy-potamers, until self promotion monster Alex 'the just great, y'know' rebranded them to Tylos, about three hundred years before Christ. And he didn't even go there. Those Greek egotists. Bet he'd had his teeth done.
Anyway, modern Bahrain owes a very great deal to the black gold discovered only eighty-odd years ago here. And to the shadow of the great Arab homeland looming behind it. But despite the now-physical connection to a giant desert land with no cinemas or alchohol, thousands of weekend visitors from Saudi stream over the causway because of its decidedly laid-back approach to its Islamic identity.
As a result, the country has become a centre of international business in the region and some 40% of Bahrain's population is ex-patriate. So bars and cinemas and Innocent smoothies in local supermarkets are all a normal part of life here. Just like the motor car. Plus the American fifth fleet is based here, so Blackhawks shuttle to and fro along the shimmering coast every day. No idea what they cost to run. Perhaps cheap enough for anyone to rent one.
But the cheapest way to get around would have to be one of the most practical too, and one suggested in an unintentional malapropal moment by Caroline.
"Bahrain is an archepedalo, isn't it?" she said, when we arrived.
"That's right, " I nodded knowingly, "everyone wisely shuttles between the islands by self-powered pleasure boats."
Having found ourselves whisked off to the water's edge outside Julian's flat, the night we arrived, bobbing around in the middle of the glass-flat lagoon being assailed by flying fish a mere hour after landing in the balmy darkness, I can attest to the sense of adopting padalos or kayaks as a means of getting around here.
It took us a brisk 25mins to cross to the neighbouring island for a Costa Americano this morning, striding through the seering heat and brickdust of a building site residence; it took us a casual five minutes to cross the water to it at drifting speed that first night.
Not sure anyone would listen to us, however. Think if we approached the security men on the gates at Tila island with kayaks and said: "You chaps should really TRY these babies..." they would look no less incredulous than when we asked them if they could point us to the nearest public transport.
My feet hurt.
If there's one thing we can attest to, it's that Bahrain is not for the pedestrian.
This isn't news. Most emerging cities in the Middle East are built on a very twentieth century principle, and for a blindingly obvious and unassailable reason – the car and oil. Duh.
To underscore it, I'll say simply that when I filled up our modestly-powered runabout just before we left our windy-wet shores, it cost me fifty quid. Julian mentioned casually as we were cruising through the shifting shining panorama of Manama yesterday that he'd just filled his umpteen-litre gas guzzler for less than a tenner.
So pavements lead nowhere, buses are a kind of parked billboard system and people in coffee shops in the more exclusive island developments have no concept of where to find a number for a taxi here.
---
We do this everywhere we go. We wander instinctively and end up always at some point in some nameless back road with locals leaning in doorways casually eyeing the purposeful and conspicuously English-looking couple striding confidently towards the iron smelting plant/canal/industrial car park. But we feel we've seen the real wherever as a result. The unromantic, boring, foot-wearing, passing-pity-inducing real wherever.
But, there's nothing like treading out the real footprint of a place. Which I do largely mean. Now that I've made it back and had a shower.
Given that our trip out here is more of a visit to chums than a dreamy holiday, we're pretty happy to wander between places with no real itinerary. Although it's a bitter irony to Jules that he's landed a lot of all-hours appointments with work the very moment his chums arrive to see him, having had rather more space to be sociable up until now.
Still, work is work and Bahrain is intriguing, whoever we're with.
Plus his 'work' is directing photo shoots of F16s, Gazelle helicopters and the King's eye-wateringly luxurious personal 747s, so I'm not sure his feelings are single-mindedly missing our company. Jammy swine.
---
What we can also attest to after today is that Dilmun was a trading nation for some three thousand years, its paraditical identity surviving the influence of pushy investors no less significant than the Assyrians, the Babsters and the Messy-potamers, until self promotion monster Alex 'the just great, y'know' rebranded them to Tylos, about three hundred years before Christ. And he didn't even go there. Those Greek egotists. Bet he'd had his teeth done.
Anyway, modern Bahrain owes a very great deal to the black gold discovered only eighty-odd years ago here. And to the shadow of the great Arab homeland looming behind it. But despite the now-physical connection to a giant desert land with no cinemas or alchohol, thousands of weekend visitors from Saudi stream over the causway because of its decidedly laid-back approach to its Islamic identity.
As a result, the country has become a centre of international business in the region and some 40% of Bahrain's population is ex-patriate. So bars and cinemas and Innocent smoothies in local supermarkets are all a normal part of life here. Just like the motor car. Plus the American fifth fleet is based here, so Blackhawks shuttle to and fro along the shimmering coast every day. No idea what they cost to run. Perhaps cheap enough for anyone to rent one.
But the cheapest way to get around would have to be one of the most practical too, and one suggested in an unintentional malapropal moment by Caroline.
"Bahrain is an archepedalo, isn't it?" she said, when we arrived.
"That's right, " I nodded knowingly, "everyone wisely shuttles between the islands by self-powered pleasure boats."
Having found ourselves whisked off to the water's edge outside Julian's flat, the night we arrived, bobbing around in the middle of the glass-flat lagoon being assailed by flying fish a mere hour after landing in the balmy darkness, I can attest to the sense of adopting padalos or kayaks as a means of getting around here.
It took us a brisk 25mins to cross to the neighbouring island for a Costa Americano this morning, striding through the seering heat and brickdust of a building site residence; it took us a casual five minutes to cross the water to it at drifting speed that first night.
Not sure anyone would listen to us, however. Think if we approached the security men on the gates at Tila island with kayaks and said: "You chaps should really TRY these babies..." they would look no less incredulous than when we asked them if they could point us to the nearest public transport.
My feet hurt.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Arse and soul.
Arse and soul.
If you spend any of your time mucking about with matters creative, even as a self-confessed amateur, enthusiast or garden shed hobbyist, you will sooner or later be tempted by the demon of derision.
Taste is a matter of taste. But if you consider yourself to have it, you will also be very aware of who doesn't.
As you develop any kind of confidence at your craft – by week three of your pottery class, for example – you will begin to feel an instinct to voice the odd confident remark. The remarks of judgement. Things like: "That pot's crap, Dave. What were you thinking, you idiot. Looks like a child did it." And so forth. You've been there.
And so have I. I have to rein in this veritable beast of momentary certainty every day. I can't helping looking at, well, everything, and trying not to despair that I wasn't consulted. It's such a burden being a creative sometimes, it is.
Of course, it's one thing to rediscover disbelief and incredulity at the Eurovision song contest each year, or to wonder how no-one in this week's losing Apprentice team couldn't see how risibly poor the layout of their posters was. The maddening propensity of local British business to reach for the typeface Brush Script when designing a shop front is something that gives me indegestion and migrane from grinding my teeth… but most people are largely unaffected by these things. Beyond the scope of their respective creative jobs, these items are largely – dare I say it? – cosmetic.
But if there's one thing that to me rather matters, one creative medium we should all be pressuring our councils and our friends who are developers and our blummen' MPs more about, if I had to sacrifice my Lyn Truss Mega-Wedge-Tip Emergency Apostrophe Maker for one truly worthy creative critical cause... it's archetecture. Buildings. Your very environment.
For, the canvas of the archetect is the rest of your chuffing life, mate.
We have to LIVE with the epic lack of wellbeing created by most of the business compromises dotting our high street. Walk past them, around them, under them – dear Lord, into them – every day of our lives. Their massive brooding presence creates just that – presence in our outlook. Casting shadows or light. Making our journey to here and there easy or hard, uplifting or depressing.
Buildings won't go away. You're not allowed to just blow them up. I've asked.
And so it is in this high-minded spirit of condecending frustration, utterly un-schooled or qualified but bloody right, obviously, that I share this link with you. I am not proud that this will take you to a page of the Daily Mail. I will attempt to apologise for this another time. But look at the pictures and weep. If your soul can stand it:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1180949/From-bargain-bin-store-bingo-hall-sad-fate-Odeon-popcorn-palaces.html
The vein in my head is throbbing again, dear.
I think it means that another tiny but important part of me has died.
If you spend any of your time mucking about with matters creative, even as a self-confessed amateur, enthusiast or garden shed hobbyist, you will sooner or later be tempted by the demon of derision.
Taste is a matter of taste. But if you consider yourself to have it, you will also be very aware of who doesn't.
As you develop any kind of confidence at your craft – by week three of your pottery class, for example – you will begin to feel an instinct to voice the odd confident remark. The remarks of judgement. Things like: "That pot's crap, Dave. What were you thinking, you idiot. Looks like a child did it." And so forth. You've been there.
And so have I. I have to rein in this veritable beast of momentary certainty every day. I can't helping looking at, well, everything, and trying not to despair that I wasn't consulted. It's such a burden being a creative sometimes, it is.
Of course, it's one thing to rediscover disbelief and incredulity at the Eurovision song contest each year, or to wonder how no-one in this week's losing Apprentice team couldn't see how risibly poor the layout of their posters was. The maddening propensity of local British business to reach for the typeface Brush Script when designing a shop front is something that gives me indegestion and migrane from grinding my teeth… but most people are largely unaffected by these things. Beyond the scope of their respective creative jobs, these items are largely – dare I say it? – cosmetic.
But if there's one thing that to me rather matters, one creative medium we should all be pressuring our councils and our friends who are developers and our blummen' MPs more about, if I had to sacrifice my Lyn Truss Mega-Wedge-Tip Emergency Apostrophe Maker for one truly worthy creative critical cause... it's archetecture. Buildings. Your very environment.
For, the canvas of the archetect is the rest of your chuffing life, mate.
We have to LIVE with the epic lack of wellbeing created by most of the business compromises dotting our high street. Walk past them, around them, under them – dear Lord, into them – every day of our lives. Their massive brooding presence creates just that – presence in our outlook. Casting shadows or light. Making our journey to here and there easy or hard, uplifting or depressing.
Buildings won't go away. You're not allowed to just blow them up. I've asked.
And so it is in this high-minded spirit of condecending frustration, utterly un-schooled or qualified but bloody right, obviously, that I share this link with you. I am not proud that this will take you to a page of the Daily Mail. I will attempt to apologise for this another time. But look at the pictures and weep. If your soul can stand it:
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1180949/From-bargain-bin-store-bingo-hall-sad-fate-Odeon-popcorn-palaces.html
The vein in my head is throbbing again, dear.
I think it means that another tiny but important part of me has died.
Friday, May 08, 2009
No jokes. Seriously good.
No jokes. Seriously good.
So, I won't labour the point. All you need to know is... it was worth the wait. The long wait. It was very much worth it.
At one point, half way through, I thought to myself: "Cripes, it's actually even better than I hoped it could be."
Really. Ish.
Ish?
Well, the impact in the cinema is a mighty wallop.Most pleasingly, Mr Abrams makes a point of frequently teaching you his new language for Star Trek – that it is a new one. The way he'll scrape a camera along a spaceship or zoom in on some battered shuttle skid or a let the kitchen spot lights all over the bridge of the Enterprise bleed atmospherically all over the lens – he's saying very pointedly: "This is visceral, mate, innit?"
Lots of nice touches everywhere. Lots of details to bring it to life and to nod to classic Trek. Lots of entertaining amusing things and entertaining exploding things and a whole heck of a lot of trying to make it feel more like Star Wars. And no one lets down the cast. Even Scotty's accent.
I cheered at Bones. He was the star of the characters for me. But Spock's wig didn't detract in the end and Kirk is completely likeable as a lead; not annoyingly pretty. Though he is.
Of course, the end is usually a let down from the beginning. It all got a little too neatly wrapped up and Getting The Gang Together – almost too hasty an edit, to ensure it was punchy. And they did a clever amount of stuff in two hours. But it really could have been an extra ten or even twenty minutes long and left a couple more thoughtful emotional transitions in it. In the cold light of day, forced to criticise it, I'd say that. Simply because it was so chuffing GOOD. It's own bench mark was very high.
Of course, it's still Star Trek. It's brilliant fun. But does the Star Trek world still make sense now? Not 100% sure. ..But, like, who cares?
The way they literally 're-boot' things is jolly clever for all the writers, but it might grate with fans once they calm down. But it makes sense.
And my final actual criticism – perhaps my only one – is the score. Very Saturday morning picture show. And as romantic as that description sounds, the music is simply unsubtle. Not nearly as subtle as the film. It lacks emotional nuance – and there are no beautiful set themes. It's bordering on the poor, in the context of this outstanding film.
James Horner's work for the second two Trek movies, back in the day, is the very best of cinematic space music – vast, but intimate. Poised. Downright moving in places, without being obvious or hokey.
I feel a heel saying it, but Michael Giacchino's score is emotionally flat. Which is a great shame, as his work on Lost is classy stuff – stylistically distinctive and a perfect fit for the show. This did all the competent orchestral stuff but was wallpaper. Sorry, Mike – JJ might have over-directed you there.
The piece of music they used on the third outstanding trailer was less intricate than Horner's work but as an emotional motif that simply built up, it was great – but it didn't seem to appear in the film. It was very direct emotionally and would have been a good take-home musical connection.
But for example, when we saw the Enterprise for the first time, there was no romance, no mystery, no otherworldlyness, no... wonder. Just wallop. Just Ooh Isn't It Dramatic This Big Spaceship stuff. Music I've forgotten.
So, a gripe. But only because the film sets such a high standard.
Can't wait to go see it again, obviously.
So, I won't labour the point. All you need to know is... it was worth the wait. The long wait. It was very much worth it.
At one point, half way through, I thought to myself: "Cripes, it's actually even better than I hoped it could be."
Really. Ish.
Ish?
Well, the impact in the cinema is a mighty wallop.Most pleasingly, Mr Abrams makes a point of frequently teaching you his new language for Star Trek – that it is a new one. The way he'll scrape a camera along a spaceship or zoom in on some battered shuttle skid or a let the kitchen spot lights all over the bridge of the Enterprise bleed atmospherically all over the lens – he's saying very pointedly: "This is visceral, mate, innit?"
Lots of nice touches everywhere. Lots of details to bring it to life and to nod to classic Trek. Lots of entertaining amusing things and entertaining exploding things and a whole heck of a lot of trying to make it feel more like Star Wars. And no one lets down the cast. Even Scotty's accent.
I cheered at Bones. He was the star of the characters for me. But Spock's wig didn't detract in the end and Kirk is completely likeable as a lead; not annoyingly pretty. Though he is.
Of course, the end is usually a let down from the beginning. It all got a little too neatly wrapped up and Getting The Gang Together – almost too hasty an edit, to ensure it was punchy. And they did a clever amount of stuff in two hours. But it really could have been an extra ten or even twenty minutes long and left a couple more thoughtful emotional transitions in it. In the cold light of day, forced to criticise it, I'd say that. Simply because it was so chuffing GOOD. It's own bench mark was very high.
Of course, it's still Star Trek. It's brilliant fun. But does the Star Trek world still make sense now? Not 100% sure. ..But, like, who cares?
The way they literally 're-boot' things is jolly clever for all the writers, but it might grate with fans once they calm down. But it makes sense.
And my final actual criticism – perhaps my only one – is the score. Very Saturday morning picture show. And as romantic as that description sounds, the music is simply unsubtle. Not nearly as subtle as the film. It lacks emotional nuance – and there are no beautiful set themes. It's bordering on the poor, in the context of this outstanding film.
James Horner's work for the second two Trek movies, back in the day, is the very best of cinematic space music – vast, but intimate. Poised. Downright moving in places, without being obvious or hokey.
I feel a heel saying it, but Michael Giacchino's score is emotionally flat. Which is a great shame, as his work on Lost is classy stuff – stylistically distinctive and a perfect fit for the show. This did all the competent orchestral stuff but was wallpaper. Sorry, Mike – JJ might have over-directed you there.
The piece of music they used on the third outstanding trailer was less intricate than Horner's work but as an emotional motif that simply built up, it was great – but it didn't seem to appear in the film. It was very direct emotionally and would have been a good take-home musical connection.
But for example, when we saw the Enterprise for the first time, there was no romance, no mystery, no otherworldlyness, no... wonder. Just wallop. Just Ooh Isn't It Dramatic This Big Spaceship stuff. Music I've forgotten.
So, a gripe. But only because the film sets such a high standard.
Can't wait to go see it again, obviously.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Space and time.
Space and time.
So here's a genuine question. Why does time slow down when you exercise?
I don't just mean, why does an hour in the gym seem like a lifetime? I mean, why does your – or at least my – perception of time literally, well, slow down?
Know how I know?
Because I know that iPods don't run down amusingly like old Walkmans.
It's something I've actually noticed many times after doing a circuits class; you get to the car, purple and dizzy, trying not to clutch your chest or fall over before you close the door, the track on the CD picks up where it left off and... it's playing slower. Except, it can't be – it's a CD. Isn't it?
Lastnight, this phenomewhatsit struck home as I limped home from a run. Mad, flab-chap that I am. The tunes on the iPod were beginning to run so much slower in tempo I could almost drive a bus between the BPM. ..BUT IT'S A CHUFFING iPOD!
How much gravity am I displacing when I try to move my bulk? Am I bending Mr Einstein's continuum that much with a bit of tummy chub?
---
Of course, if I'm going to get all exercised about the space/time wotnot today, it's for a good reason. For today is... T-day.
Trek day.
..STARTREKDAY!
At last. And I should be more excited than my capitals and exclaimation mark imply I am. And I am, obviously; I'm expecting the world from this flick. But when I shook the To Do list earlier in the week, lots of annoying little bits fell out all over the desk. And I'm trying to clear them up before going boldly out.
..Oh dear. You see, that's how it starts. One little Trek slip; one little reference to some part of this brand's gigantic cannon of cultural references. And before you know it – you're falling back on some of the most tiresome jokes in newspaper review history. Shan't be doing that.
Not until tomorrow, when I write my review, anyway – when we shall see if the franchise re-boot really is set to stun.
I.. I need a sit down.
So here's a genuine question. Why does time slow down when you exercise?
I don't just mean, why does an hour in the gym seem like a lifetime? I mean, why does your – or at least my – perception of time literally, well, slow down?
Know how I know?
Because I know that iPods don't run down amusingly like old Walkmans.
It's something I've actually noticed many times after doing a circuits class; you get to the car, purple and dizzy, trying not to clutch your chest or fall over before you close the door, the track on the CD picks up where it left off and... it's playing slower. Except, it can't be – it's a CD. Isn't it?
Lastnight, this phenomewhatsit struck home as I limped home from a run. Mad, flab-chap that I am. The tunes on the iPod were beginning to run so much slower in tempo I could almost drive a bus between the BPM. ..BUT IT'S A CHUFFING iPOD!
How much gravity am I displacing when I try to move my bulk? Am I bending Mr Einstein's continuum that much with a bit of tummy chub?
---
Of course, if I'm going to get all exercised about the space/time wotnot today, it's for a good reason. For today is... T-day.
Trek day.
..STARTREKDAY!
At last. And I should be more excited than my capitals and exclaimation mark imply I am. And I am, obviously; I'm expecting the world from this flick. But when I shook the To Do list earlier in the week, lots of annoying little bits fell out all over the desk. And I'm trying to clear them up before going boldly out.
..Oh dear. You see, that's how it starts. One little Trek slip; one little reference to some part of this brand's gigantic cannon of cultural references. And before you know it – you're falling back on some of the most tiresome jokes in newspaper review history. Shan't be doing that.
Not until tomorrow, when I write my review, anyway – when we shall see if the franchise re-boot really is set to stun.
I.. I need a sit down.
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Souk du jour.
Souk du jour.
Well, I may be sitting here listening to some marvelously noodley Bach harpsichord concertos, but as this short working week begins I should probably be listening to something Moroccan – for our quirky little TV show, Sophie in the souk, is now being trailed by the Travel Channel and is confirmed as being aired on Monday nights at 9pm, from the 18th May.
And to celebrate, you can visit the Momo:tempo website and hear a whole selection of tunes from the score.
That's right – NEW MUSIC FROM MOMO! You might want to sit down.
http://www.momotempo.co.uk
And, I noted too, a reasonably prime-time slot for the show. I've not spoken with Ben yet, but the Travel Channel people apparently love it. Huge props to Ben for making something with such a strong identity for such a stunt budget – it's been great fun to be a little part of.
On the Promo pages over there, there's a little news item about it all which includes a link to the TC's site where you can check out some trails and info.
---
Of course, there's a reality check for the almost single handful of you who care. Yeah. I know.
Sorry.
As a result of all these durbeck pop larks and shimmy-shingling, I've not been working on The Golden Age for, well, ages.
I KNOW I KNOW already. I'm back on it this week. Promise. In fact, we're working to a deadline of the end of June for it. Really. Schedule's in front of me.
In the mean time, if you're new to Momo:tempo, there is a new mix of Momo:radio on the Demo pages over there, which is a jolly little introduction to what it/we/I does/do, and there's also the promotional tunes from the album currently on the Electro pages. Oh it's all such good fun – go see for yourself.
..Go on, don't just be polite. Pop the kettle on, make some fresh mint tea, turn up your computer speakers, get your bendir out and join in the Yey-Heys.
Shoukran et merci.
Well, I may be sitting here listening to some marvelously noodley Bach harpsichord concertos, but as this short working week begins I should probably be listening to something Moroccan – for our quirky little TV show, Sophie in the souk, is now being trailed by the Travel Channel and is confirmed as being aired on Monday nights at 9pm, from the 18th May.
And to celebrate, you can visit the Momo:tempo website and hear a whole selection of tunes from the score.
That's right – NEW MUSIC FROM MOMO! You might want to sit down.
http://www.momotempo.co.uk
And, I noted too, a reasonably prime-time slot for the show. I've not spoken with Ben yet, but the Travel Channel people apparently love it. Huge props to Ben for making something with such a strong identity for such a stunt budget – it's been great fun to be a little part of.
On the Promo pages over there, there's a little news item about it all which includes a link to the TC's site where you can check out some trails and info.
---
Of course, there's a reality check for the almost single handful of you who care. Yeah. I know.
Sorry.
As a result of all these durbeck pop larks and shimmy-shingling, I've not been working on The Golden Age for, well, ages.
I KNOW I KNOW already. I'm back on it this week. Promise. In fact, we're working to a deadline of the end of June for it. Really. Schedule's in front of me.
In the mean time, if you're new to Momo:tempo, there is a new mix of Momo:radio on the Demo pages over there, which is a jolly little introduction to what it/we/I does/do, and there's also the promotional tunes from the album currently on the Electro pages. Oh it's all such good fun – go see for yourself.
..Go on, don't just be polite. Pop the kettle on, make some fresh mint tea, turn up your computer speakers, get your bendir out and join in the Yey-Heys.
Shoukran et merci.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Viva Aviva.
Viva Aviva.
So Insurance giant Aviva – from historic cathedral city of Norwich – has been accused of slightly squandering M£80 on it’s rebrand campaign.
Now, money thrown at branding is always an easy rant; it’s sometimes just a less personalised version of the old essay: Why Build A Gallery For All This Art Crap When There Are Kiddies Dying. People matter, stuff doesn’t. Especially just decorative stuff.
Sounds true, as a statement. But we’ll talk about wellbeing and the exploration of the human soul and reasons to get out of bed in the first place, as well as effective financial administration in humanitarian crises another time.
But branding stuff is, after all, really about reaching people – so that the people doing the reaching get to take a pay cheque home to their families. So any criticism of a rebrand should be entirely judged on its effectiveness at reaching people. More than that – connecting with people. It's not about the logo, it's about the lingo.
Well, whatever. And maybe the jury’s out on that for Aviva – though their ads are surely getting seen. What people think Aviva means to them is another thing. >YAAAAWWWWNN< probably.
My point is the chuffing idea. If you're going to spend squillions on something – at least make sure it makes SENSE.
"Would this have happened to Walter Willis?"
Yes, Bruce, you berk.
You might not have wanted them calling you Wally, but even then – you're Bruce. Walter. Whatever – you. You're cool and balding and look great in a sweaty vest. Who CARES about the name? You're either any good or you're not.
Two words: Englebert Humpadink. It's as if he's proving a point – by changing his name TO something freakishly stupid.
Bit of a Vauxhall Aviva, if you ask me.
So Insurance giant Aviva – from historic cathedral city of Norwich – has been accused of slightly squandering M£80 on it’s rebrand campaign.
Now, money thrown at branding is always an easy rant; it’s sometimes just a less personalised version of the old essay: Why Build A Gallery For All This Art Crap When There Are Kiddies Dying. People matter, stuff doesn’t. Especially just decorative stuff.
Sounds true, as a statement. But we’ll talk about wellbeing and the exploration of the human soul and reasons to get out of bed in the first place, as well as effective financial administration in humanitarian crises another time.
But branding stuff is, after all, really about reaching people – so that the people doing the reaching get to take a pay cheque home to their families. So any criticism of a rebrand should be entirely judged on its effectiveness at reaching people. More than that – connecting with people. It's not about the logo, it's about the lingo.
Well, whatever. And maybe the jury’s out on that for Aviva – though their ads are surely getting seen. What people think Aviva means to them is another thing. >YAAAAWWWWNN< probably.
My point is the chuffing idea. If you're going to spend squillions on something – at least make sure it makes SENSE.
"Would this have happened to Walter Willis?"
Yes, Bruce, you berk.
You might not have wanted them calling you Wally, but even then – you're Bruce. Walter. Whatever – you. You're cool and balding and look great in a sweaty vest. Who CARES about the name? You're either any good or you're not.
Two words: Englebert Humpadink. It's as if he's proving a point – by changing his name TO something freakishly stupid.
Bit of a Vauxhall Aviva, if you ask me.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Tweed and Twit.
Tweed and Twit.
I seem to have been caught up. Not in revelry, or in some religious ecstasy, but with work 'n' stuff, I guess. For whatever disappointing reason, anyway, I haven't put pen to blog in a couple of weeks. But I've moved on as a person in that time. For a couple of reasons.
I could say it's musically, as I have discovered Donald Byrd and George Duke, who are each adding to Momo's faux-70s working atmosphere very nicely. But it's not that. It's in two key respects that I have developed socially of late – and I'm not sure which of them is really a step backwards.
---
Firstly, I spent my first weekend in tweed.
Now, itchy and hot it may be. Apparently ill-suited to go karting it is. But this robust material of chap choice does sort of, well, help one's countenance.
It's not simply that it feels a little like it might be stab proof. If not a complete country house alternative to kevlar, it does give one a feeling of security around the vitals, if wearing the full three-piece. It also just, well, helps you stand up straight. The kind of help I really need.
---
The stag do in London for Jules went off fine. I was robbed of at least a silver trophy on the karting track, smug tweeds under my jump suit and helmet not withstanding; after winning two heats, I was on the grand prix grid in third out of eleven and had comfortably taken second place by the second lap and was chasing Mike Lander for tea and medals when I was scurrilously black flagged. Pulled over for... a flapping chin strap. Mention it not. I finished one from last.
My winning find in Clobber on Friday – the work of a mere forty minutes from leaving the workload to returning to it – was a much enjoyed element of the chappish shenanigans, though I must say that Jules also wore his blazer and panama for most of the day and Mr Parker's country jacket and cap were surpassed only by his nifty hip flask of snifters.
Of course, it says something of your age when what you really fancy doing of a Saturday night in London, on a hearty fellow's pre-ennuptualment rollocking, is knocking a bobby's helmet off as a jape, in the hope of ending up in Marylebone clink for the night. Either that or taking to the roof tops for a spot of light-fingered cat burglary for diamonds.
It says, of course, you're not cut out for the real world.
Which, sitting there in a bar in Brick Lane at one in the morning in a tweed suit and still toying with my brolly, just didn't seem to matter.
Jules pulled an essentially great gang of chaps around him that night, that's the point, and it was good to see them each. ..But it was even gooder to come home thinking: now I know tweed.
---
Secondly, however, and possibly to my detriment, I have signed on to Twitter.
Why? Why why WHY?
I fear I may become as wired to it as every other of its converts – if I can work out how to come up with different status updates and items of news about my largely not at all interesting ordinary life for the blog, MySpace, Facebook and the big Twit.
Oh. That and actually service my clients. Of. Course.
I'm on simply as 'Momotempo' anyway. Twit me if you fancy.
Though, perhaps there's a third way that I have moved on at last, in the last two weeks. For – news to follow imminently – I've actually gone and finished a music project.
I seem to have been caught up. Not in revelry, or in some religious ecstasy, but with work 'n' stuff, I guess. For whatever disappointing reason, anyway, I haven't put pen to blog in a couple of weeks. But I've moved on as a person in that time. For a couple of reasons.
I could say it's musically, as I have discovered Donald Byrd and George Duke, who are each adding to Momo's faux-70s working atmosphere very nicely. But it's not that. It's in two key respects that I have developed socially of late – and I'm not sure which of them is really a step backwards.
---
Firstly, I spent my first weekend in tweed.
Now, itchy and hot it may be. Apparently ill-suited to go karting it is. But this robust material of chap choice does sort of, well, help one's countenance.
It's not simply that it feels a little like it might be stab proof. If not a complete country house alternative to kevlar, it does give one a feeling of security around the vitals, if wearing the full three-piece. It also just, well, helps you stand up straight. The kind of help I really need.
---
The stag do in London for Jules went off fine. I was robbed of at least a silver trophy on the karting track, smug tweeds under my jump suit and helmet not withstanding; after winning two heats, I was on the grand prix grid in third out of eleven and had comfortably taken second place by the second lap and was chasing Mike Lander for tea and medals when I was scurrilously black flagged. Pulled over for... a flapping chin strap. Mention it not. I finished one from last.
My winning find in Clobber on Friday – the work of a mere forty minutes from leaving the workload to returning to it – was a much enjoyed element of the chappish shenanigans, though I must say that Jules also wore his blazer and panama for most of the day and Mr Parker's country jacket and cap were surpassed only by his nifty hip flask of snifters.
Of course, it says something of your age when what you really fancy doing of a Saturday night in London, on a hearty fellow's pre-ennuptualment rollocking, is knocking a bobby's helmet off as a jape, in the hope of ending up in Marylebone clink for the night. Either that or taking to the roof tops for a spot of light-fingered cat burglary for diamonds.
It says, of course, you're not cut out for the real world.
Which, sitting there in a bar in Brick Lane at one in the morning in a tweed suit and still toying with my brolly, just didn't seem to matter.
Jules pulled an essentially great gang of chaps around him that night, that's the point, and it was good to see them each. ..But it was even gooder to come home thinking: now I know tweed.
---
Secondly, however, and possibly to my detriment, I have signed on to Twitter.
Why? Why why WHY?
I fear I may become as wired to it as every other of its converts – if I can work out how to come up with different status updates and items of news about my largely not at all interesting ordinary life for the blog, MySpace, Facebook and the big Twit.
Oh. That and actually service my clients. Of. Course.
I'm on simply as 'Momotempo' anyway. Twit me if you fancy.
Though, perhaps there's a third way that I have moved on at last, in the last two weeks. For – news to follow imminently – I've actually gone and finished a music project.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
"Infectious, gay music".
"Infectious, gay music".
I've bought an odd collection of musical items this week.
I'd say that the ones to have given me the most instant gratification would have to be those which I came home with this afternoon, after a few hours lazily trawling the charity shops between Southbourne and Boscombe.
It's hard to imagine why anyone in the western world would bother putting a price tag of "20p" on anything in 2009. It's also hard to understand how some classic charity shop bargains of yesteryear can still be found, in this nouvelle-student, post-ironic world. But they can. For, browsing the modest LP section of Help The Aged's Boscombe shop, I found the Torero Band's Tijuana Sound of Brass, from 1968, and its remarkably suitable bedfellow A swingin' safari by Bert Kaempfert and his orchestra, from 1963.
The title track to the latter is, it turns out, every lazy bank ad's soundtrack of choice – the one that goes: 'duh-duh DUP duh-duh DUP, duh-duh DUP duh-duh DUP, duh-duh DUP duh-duh DUP, duh-duh duh-duh dah' on two penny whistles. Oh, you know the one. It's Mr Kaempfert, anyway – who knew?
And the very pre-Avengers lady on the cover, clicking her fingers and doing a toe point while dressed in pith helmet and khaki shorts, with a couple of lank leopard skins, a rotten djembi and an old ficus from someone's living room sort of all placed around her in an otherwise conspicuously un-dressed white photographer's studio, is a period delight. Certainly very Kaempf.
Meanwhile, the ignominious Toreros may patently not be Herb Alpert's more legendary outfit of Not Ironic, Mexican horn grinners, but on this playful long player they're delivering some of the same classic numbers I'd been pining for for years, such as Spanish Flea.
I'd been pining for these, in fact, since I first discovered the arduous side of graphic design. Working the final weeks towards my degree show in '93, I well recall how someone found a copy of Mr Alpert's greatest hits in an equivolent of Help The Aged in Leicester at the time and brought it in to cheer a stressed, overworked studio of students – only, also taking the trouble to deliver it with the added creative inspiration of recording the old LP at the record speed of a seven-inch.
My subsequent memory of hearing this essentially Pinky & Perky-ed version of what is already undeniably some of the campest lift music in the world – under the susceptible emotional conditions of workload nervous meltdown, of course – is among my fondest in life.
People were coughing up organs with laughter. Bless me – I can still see myself, lying there on the floor, turning blue for lack of oxygen and all but filling my trousers with the convulsions.
To have found almost the equivalent today, for 20p, was a gem. And, at my age, normal speed seemed pleasure enough somehow.
The sleave notes describe the Tijuana sounds celebrated in these recordings as: "the newest, freshest, gayest Latin tribute to popular music", ramming home its point in the next par by emphasising it was "infectious, gay music which reflects the land of sunshine and wild scenery".
No one would wish to argue a single moment with that.
---
Earlier in the week, I came home from an arduous daytime forray to the far side of Poole and back with three distinctly differently-sized and shaped boxes. A big, square, heavy one; a little, flat, light one, and a medium-sized triangular one.
When I'd arrived at Absolute Music Solutions that afternoon, I'd thought that I should come clean and play the Dim Momo Doofus card fairly strongly, as I later put it on Facebook. Not a sausage of knowledge did I have about any of my utterly random collection of requirements, as I smiled good-naturedly at the polite music expert behind the sweeping showroom desk.
But, none the less, I left their good patronage some thirty minutes later with some new monitor speakers, a looping DJ widget of some kind, and the ugliest, "most offensively cheap" guitar they could sell me, as specifically requested. "Parts of it look like they're from discarded 70s prosthetic limbs" I had said flatly, as I and the store chap had stared down at the offending implement. "You did ask" he then pointed out simply, and I handed over my credit card.
---
I'm just so very bad at getting around to some things. The boring things. The boring but essential things – like having speakers in my studio of aspirationally-professional musical creative that are at least almost as good as the cheap set in my invisibly grease-draped kitchen. Or having at least a basic way to chime out some bad chords on one of the most fundamental instruments in modern music.
Or being able to at least see the floor of my aspirationally-professional workspace for boxes, leads, job bags, drums, things that clack, things that shingle, CDs, proofs, old magazines and random clothing.
This last point I plan to work on before the long Easter weekend is out. Really. On the other points I now have no excuse.
Still, since when was I interested in taking music that seriously?
I've bought an odd collection of musical items this week.
I'd say that the ones to have given me the most instant gratification would have to be those which I came home with this afternoon, after a few hours lazily trawling the charity shops between Southbourne and Boscombe.
It's hard to imagine why anyone in the western world would bother putting a price tag of "20p" on anything in 2009. It's also hard to understand how some classic charity shop bargains of yesteryear can still be found, in this nouvelle-student, post-ironic world. But they can. For, browsing the modest LP section of Help The Aged's Boscombe shop, I found the Torero Band's Tijuana Sound of Brass, from 1968, and its remarkably suitable bedfellow A swingin' safari by Bert Kaempfert and his orchestra, from 1963.
The title track to the latter is, it turns out, every lazy bank ad's soundtrack of choice – the one that goes: 'duh-duh DUP duh-duh DUP, duh-duh DUP duh-duh DUP, duh-duh DUP duh-duh DUP, duh-duh duh-duh dah' on two penny whistles. Oh, you know the one. It's Mr Kaempfert, anyway – who knew?
And the very pre-Avengers lady on the cover, clicking her fingers and doing a toe point while dressed in pith helmet and khaki shorts, with a couple of lank leopard skins, a rotten djembi and an old ficus from someone's living room sort of all placed around her in an otherwise conspicuously un-dressed white photographer's studio, is a period delight. Certainly very Kaempf.
Meanwhile, the ignominious Toreros may patently not be Herb Alpert's more legendary outfit of Not Ironic, Mexican horn grinners, but on this playful long player they're delivering some of the same classic numbers I'd been pining for for years, such as Spanish Flea.
I'd been pining for these, in fact, since I first discovered the arduous side of graphic design. Working the final weeks towards my degree show in '93, I well recall how someone found a copy of Mr Alpert's greatest hits in an equivolent of Help The Aged in Leicester at the time and brought it in to cheer a stressed, overworked studio of students – only, also taking the trouble to deliver it with the added creative inspiration of recording the old LP at the record speed of a seven-inch.
My subsequent memory of hearing this essentially Pinky & Perky-ed version of what is already undeniably some of the campest lift music in the world – under the susceptible emotional conditions of workload nervous meltdown, of course – is among my fondest in life.
People were coughing up organs with laughter. Bless me – I can still see myself, lying there on the floor, turning blue for lack of oxygen and all but filling my trousers with the convulsions.
To have found almost the equivalent today, for 20p, was a gem. And, at my age, normal speed seemed pleasure enough somehow.
The sleave notes describe the Tijuana sounds celebrated in these recordings as: "the newest, freshest, gayest Latin tribute to popular music", ramming home its point in the next par by emphasising it was "infectious, gay music which reflects the land of sunshine and wild scenery".
No one would wish to argue a single moment with that.
---
Earlier in the week, I came home from an arduous daytime forray to the far side of Poole and back with three distinctly differently-sized and shaped boxes. A big, square, heavy one; a little, flat, light one, and a medium-sized triangular one.
When I'd arrived at Absolute Music Solutions that afternoon, I'd thought that I should come clean and play the Dim Momo Doofus card fairly strongly, as I later put it on Facebook. Not a sausage of knowledge did I have about any of my utterly random collection of requirements, as I smiled good-naturedly at the polite music expert behind the sweeping showroom desk.
But, none the less, I left their good patronage some thirty minutes later with some new monitor speakers, a looping DJ widget of some kind, and the ugliest, "most offensively cheap" guitar they could sell me, as specifically requested. "Parts of it look like they're from discarded 70s prosthetic limbs" I had said flatly, as I and the store chap had stared down at the offending implement. "You did ask" he then pointed out simply, and I handed over my credit card.
---
I'm just so very bad at getting around to some things. The boring things. The boring but essential things – like having speakers in my studio of aspirationally-professional musical creative that are at least almost as good as the cheap set in my invisibly grease-draped kitchen. Or having at least a basic way to chime out some bad chords on one of the most fundamental instruments in modern music.
Or being able to at least see the floor of my aspirationally-professional workspace for boxes, leads, job bags, drums, things that clack, things that shingle, CDs, proofs, old magazines and random clothing.
This last point I plan to work on before the long Easter weekend is out. Really. On the other points I now have no excuse.
Still, since when was I interested in taking music that seriously?
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Monkeying.
Monkeying.
I don't know about you, but I've never really had a thing about primates.
Those hairy, goofy guys. I can only say that, having finally visited Dorset family attraction, Monkey World Ape Rescue Centre, for the first time at the weekend, I was disappointed on a number of counts. Not once did we see lemurs, chimps, baboons or gibbons:
1: making tea.
2: moving pianos.
3: serving on the turnstiles.
4: jamming.
Now, call me old-fashioned. But I think Tara, Ryan, Caroline and I were all disappointed when we asked one of the keeper ladies "where they set up the drums" only to be told that "this is an ape rescue centre. We don't encourage our monkeys to form jazz bands".
Obviously the delightful niece and nephew suffered the kind of disappointment grown disproportionately fast by a 45-minute drive with a hyping uncle, but still. No swing? In a monkey house? C'maaan, lady.
We did however learn a couple of things I had no idea about, including:
1: Orangutans are found only in Borneo and Sumatra. That's it.
2: long-tailed Lemurs are found only in Madagascar.
3: loads of the really cool monkeys and apes are stupidly close to extinction.
4: uncle Tim looks like a lot of them.
Obviously had some idea about point 4, but my overall point is that Monkey World is a great day out with kids. Or it is if the sun shines all day and you have two such basically gorgeous young people with you as we did. If I ever actually get to pretend to be a parent for real, I'm not doing it unless I get a couple of little monkeys like them. And that's that.
So anyway, in the words of Michael Jackson: "Mama se, mama sa, moo marmoset".
---
Previous weekend saw a bit of monkeying around too. Year two of our Eight Men Rolling Manfully Around The Solent weekend and we had a grand time, yawing and jarring our way up and down the coast of the Isle of Wight in the very good ship Mawimbi. Thanks in huge part to the good skip, King. Steve once again put together a good crew of easy guys to hang off a sheet with.
Young Chris, the only cast replacement, turned out to have a sager head and more practical hands than most of the rest of us and even managed to scale the 46-footer's imposing mast, just to amuse us all. He didn't hang off the top spreaders by his knuckles exactly, but he did sit perched up there for an hour as we cruised around Cowes.
I cooked a hack's galley meal on the Friday night and managed not to tank the ship into anything during manful moments behind the wheel.
In fact, the boat and the sailing weather and the ambience in harbour were all so good, we expended more energy bickering about cheese and music choices than anything else.
Of course, while carving your award winning local soft blue, from the late night speciality deli, I personally think you can't go wrong with a nice bit of swing.
I don't know about you, but I've never really had a thing about primates.
Those hairy, goofy guys. I can only say that, having finally visited Dorset family attraction, Monkey World Ape Rescue Centre, for the first time at the weekend, I was disappointed on a number of counts. Not once did we see lemurs, chimps, baboons or gibbons:
1: making tea.
2: moving pianos.
3: serving on the turnstiles.
4: jamming.
Now, call me old-fashioned. But I think Tara, Ryan, Caroline and I were all disappointed when we asked one of the keeper ladies "where they set up the drums" only to be told that "this is an ape rescue centre. We don't encourage our monkeys to form jazz bands".
Obviously the delightful niece and nephew suffered the kind of disappointment grown disproportionately fast by a 45-minute drive with a hyping uncle, but still. No swing? In a monkey house? C'maaan, lady.
We did however learn a couple of things I had no idea about, including:
1: Orangutans are found only in Borneo and Sumatra. That's it.
2: long-tailed Lemurs are found only in Madagascar.
3: loads of the really cool monkeys and apes are stupidly close to extinction.
4: uncle Tim looks like a lot of them.
Obviously had some idea about point 4, but my overall point is that Monkey World is a great day out with kids. Or it is if the sun shines all day and you have two such basically gorgeous young people with you as we did. If I ever actually get to pretend to be a parent for real, I'm not doing it unless I get a couple of little monkeys like them. And that's that.
So anyway, in the words of Michael Jackson: "Mama se, mama sa, moo marmoset".
---
Previous weekend saw a bit of monkeying around too. Year two of our Eight Men Rolling Manfully Around The Solent weekend and we had a grand time, yawing and jarring our way up and down the coast of the Isle of Wight in the very good ship Mawimbi. Thanks in huge part to the good skip, King. Steve once again put together a good crew of easy guys to hang off a sheet with.
Young Chris, the only cast replacement, turned out to have a sager head and more practical hands than most of the rest of us and even managed to scale the 46-footer's imposing mast, just to amuse us all. He didn't hang off the top spreaders by his knuckles exactly, but he did sit perched up there for an hour as we cruised around Cowes.
I cooked a hack's galley meal on the Friday night and managed not to tank the ship into anything during manful moments behind the wheel.
In fact, the boat and the sailing weather and the ambience in harbour were all so good, we expended more energy bickering about cheese and music choices than anything else.
Of course, while carving your award winning local soft blue, from the late night speciality deli, I personally think you can't go wrong with a nice bit of swing.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Galactica.
Galactica.
So, it's over. The greatest TV experience of science fiction in history. Finished. Story told. ..What do we do with Tuesday nights now?
I saw a friend's status update the morning after the final episode of Battlestar Galactica had aired in the US, at the weekend, and it said he thought it was ''all a bit... meh."
Oh dear.
This meant I was secretly set for a bit of a disappointment lastnight, as Laura and Chris joined us for the ceremonially last getting together for our favourite show. But this can, I find, sometimes enhance your discovery of a film or program. Low expectations – good life lesson, kids.
For, in the end, lastnight's episode essentially rocked. But gently.
They did all the right things, really. Well, almost. Two things that disappointed for me were the limp disappearance of one of the most dynamic characters in the dynamic ensemble, Starbuck – "Right, so bye then." >pop!< – and the end of the eponymous heroine, Galactica herself.
I reeeally wanted dramatic closure. I wanted to choke up manfully as we watched an unwarranted amount of CG man hours pull apart the old girl's every nut and rivet – because to me it would have been warranted. Symbol of hope and safety and fighting chance, Galactica was ending her life and service. Off into the sunset wasn't good enough – I wanted a phoenix end with surging score and way too much screen time.
..Although, on that score (as it were) they did deliver. I'd always hoped, since pretty much the beginning, that in the last ever episode someone would have the courage to deliver the original colonial theme. It's just a great theme. And thankfully, after what amounts to probably the greatest musical build up in screen story-telling history, Bear McCreary finally got permission to surge in with Stu Phillips' stirring motif. As the fleet broke orbit around Earth for the last time and in came the tune, I cheered. Annoyingly.
Hooray for great tunes. Well done, Bear – you did the right thing. Though you have a silly name.
---
Interestingly though, the young composer has said that LA is a great place to find musicians who play odd things. By which I assume he means unusual instruments, rather than Daft Punk on the tuba, or something. Though I'm sure you could get that too.
My point is that Bournemouth is not a great place to find musicians who play odd things. I could really have done with finding an oud player for Sophie at least. Or even better, a vocalist. But, as much as I'm having to fake it, I should say that the pieces coming together for Ben's little show are cute and groovy. But still more to write and arrange before next week when he delivers the first of it.
So, it's over. The greatest TV experience of science fiction in history. Finished. Story told. ..What do we do with Tuesday nights now?
I saw a friend's status update the morning after the final episode of Battlestar Galactica had aired in the US, at the weekend, and it said he thought it was ''all a bit... meh."
Oh dear.
This meant I was secretly set for a bit of a disappointment lastnight, as Laura and Chris joined us for the ceremonially last getting together for our favourite show. But this can, I find, sometimes enhance your discovery of a film or program. Low expectations – good life lesson, kids.
For, in the end, lastnight's episode essentially rocked. But gently.
They did all the right things, really. Well, almost. Two things that disappointed for me were the limp disappearance of one of the most dynamic characters in the dynamic ensemble, Starbuck – "Right, so bye then." >pop!< – and the end of the eponymous heroine, Galactica herself.
I reeeally wanted dramatic closure. I wanted to choke up manfully as we watched an unwarranted amount of CG man hours pull apart the old girl's every nut and rivet – because to me it would have been warranted. Symbol of hope and safety and fighting chance, Galactica was ending her life and service. Off into the sunset wasn't good enough – I wanted a phoenix end with surging score and way too much screen time.
..Although, on that score (as it were) they did deliver. I'd always hoped, since pretty much the beginning, that in the last ever episode someone would have the courage to deliver the original colonial theme. It's just a great theme. And thankfully, after what amounts to probably the greatest musical build up in screen story-telling history, Bear McCreary finally got permission to surge in with Stu Phillips' stirring motif. As the fleet broke orbit around Earth for the last time and in came the tune, I cheered. Annoyingly.
Hooray for great tunes. Well done, Bear – you did the right thing. Though you have a silly name.
---
Interestingly though, the young composer has said that LA is a great place to find musicians who play odd things. By which I assume he means unusual instruments, rather than Daft Punk on the tuba, or something. Though I'm sure you could get that too.
My point is that Bournemouth is not a great place to find musicians who play odd things. I could really have done with finding an oud player for Sophie at least. Or even better, a vocalist. But, as much as I'm having to fake it, I should say that the pieces coming together for Ben's little show are cute and groovy. But still more to write and arrange before next week when he delivers the first of it.
Short weeks like this often seem to attract more deadlines than normal weeks, I've noticed. Pulling my hair a little leading up to time away on the boat – during which I'll probably be thinking about all the music I'm not doing leaning over in the middle of the Solent.
Still, I had to pay homage to the most impressive thing on TV. Ron Moore did the right thing with Galactica's last episode, apparently writing on a white board in a production meeting: 'it's the characters, stupid'. It was the right thing to do to amble around and say goodbye and tie up loose ends for these people – they deserved it.
I would say, however, that there was so much to practically get through, it was hard to pack a real wallop of an emotional punch. Too many places to apportion your emotion, really. So there were no tears as we said goodbye, though a good number of emotive moments – especially President Roswell's thankyou to the doctor – just a feeling of satisfaction.
Well rounded, damned interesting story. Seemless cast of powerful performances. Writing that pushed TV drama hard, but with compelling integrity. And production values that were frequently bloody amazing.
How do such things come into existence? How can TV get things so right occasionally? It's a little miracle of creativity.
But that is the key – commitment to creative integrity. When suits trust the creatives and creatives trust their instincts, you get a smash hit.
So say we all.
(..Unless the creatives turn out to be crap. But don't spoil the noble mood. Shh.)
Friday, March 20, 2009
Equinox(e).
Equinox(e).
It's still my favourite Jean Michel Jarre album, I feel.
Zoolook – that's the one, obviously. The creative one. The one I'll say I'm taking with me on Desert Island Disks, largely because of Ethnicolor. And because it's sort of the original inspiration behind me making music at all.
But I slipped on the ol' iPod headphones the other night, alone on the sofa, and found myself dialling up this old 1978 electronic record, Equinoxe, and just enjoyed it as an old, old friend. Beyond critical faculties.
I mention it only because today is the spring equinox. Day as long as night. A tipping point into summer, perhaps.
We've had a joyous week of consistent, high, sunny skies and still the houses beyond the studio window are bathed in warm evening glow at nearly half five on this Friday evening. Felt the sunshine for much of it too, though not all. But, y'know, some things are done as the week ends, other things are at least progressed, and a mezze platter with friends is waiting for me in town right now. So life is sunny overall, I know.
Plus, more importantly, I'm falling in love with a new tune I've produced for Sophie. Over twenty years, there's been more than just French space music or Kraut techno pop influencing my writing, but I still feel as energised by finishing a new tune as ever I did back in the days I was recording in a shed on a four track.
Expect to hear a giant mix of Trailblender online sometime soon.
I am a tart. But it's spring, so it's good to get frisky in some way.
It's still my favourite Jean Michel Jarre album, I feel.
Zoolook – that's the one, obviously. The creative one. The one I'll say I'm taking with me on Desert Island Disks, largely because of Ethnicolor. And because it's sort of the original inspiration behind me making music at all.
But I slipped on the ol' iPod headphones the other night, alone on the sofa, and found myself dialling up this old 1978 electronic record, Equinoxe, and just enjoyed it as an old, old friend. Beyond critical faculties.
I mention it only because today is the spring equinox. Day as long as night. A tipping point into summer, perhaps.
We've had a joyous week of consistent, high, sunny skies and still the houses beyond the studio window are bathed in warm evening glow at nearly half five on this Friday evening. Felt the sunshine for much of it too, though not all. But, y'know, some things are done as the week ends, other things are at least progressed, and a mezze platter with friends is waiting for me in town right now. So life is sunny overall, I know.
Plus, more importantly, I'm falling in love with a new tune I've produced for Sophie. Over twenty years, there's been more than just French space music or Kraut techno pop influencing my writing, but I still feel as energised by finishing a new tune as ever I did back in the days I was recording in a shed on a four track.
Expect to hear a giant mix of Trailblender online sometime soon.
I am a tart. But it's spring, so it's good to get frisky in some way.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Saturday night, Sunday morning.
Saturday night, Sunday morning.
They're not meant to go together. Not when Sunday morning becomes the time to do exercise.
I'm a fan of the Littledown Centre. As much as people defect over the road to The Village for its Starbucks coffee and its swimming pool you can actually swim in, I think the Littledown flies the flag for municipal sports facilities pretty well.
You're already thinking I'm taking the pee, right? The same pee it takes five hundred gallons of chlorine to sterilise the idea of in the minds of swimmers in the main pool, right?
Well, no. I speak as someone evidently unschooled, skilled or motivated in matters sporting, of course; Laurent Garnier's The man with the red face is not my favourite workout track for nothing. But this council-run sports centre has created a nice enough vibe to keep me coming back. If only because they need my money a little too much to throw me out of the classes as a hazard.
Sunday was its 20th anniversary. To celebrate, they'd apparently decided to have a day of '1989'-style activities and prices and Adrian announced at the end of Thursday's circuits class that he was holding a special version of one on Sunday morning.
For some freakish reason, I decided to go.
To the sports centre.
On a Sunday morning.
Me.
The guy so not cut-out for sporting prowess that his only emergency asset in the gymn – his personality – is emergency over-ridden by blood flow and some autonomic safety reaction when engaging in exercise. All I have in there is Funny. Only it stops working after five minutes of running, leaving me floundering like a flipped turtle in my panting exchanges with Actually Fit people as they spring past. Cheeky smiles become villainous leers, amusing quips become spittle-repeated weirdo remarks to strangers, and boyish confidence becomes stooping, sweating, staggering, purple-faced vulnerability.
Me.
---
It was a gorgeous morning as I pulled on my shorts and irreconcilably-deformed sports shirt. And it felt odd as hell doing so.
Pulling up to the swooping shape of the Littledown, I felt a hint of the same kind of trepidation I felt going to a pre-term summer sports week, before I started big school. Everyone laughed at my Super Saints sports bag, I recall. Thankfully, I knew so little about football even then, it didn't scar me.
Who else would turn up to this? And why couldn't I think of a place to get a sweat band?
But, as I approached the windows overlooking the main hall, I found myself grinning. Adventure play today, kids.
The middle station included some spongy stairs and crash mats, a spongy hole-in-the-wall and some crash mats, some more crash mats to run along and some beams to leap under and over, without crash mats. Fun, in other words. And a legitimate reason to waste time experimenting with amusing comments in the heat of exercise. Like comedy boot camp.
Adrian was, as I'd have place money on him being, wearing sweatbands. I ruminated as we started the warm-up run that this was the one occasion when I could have legitimately held my stupid floppy hair out of my face without unspoken pity – in fact, with the jump-started pride of a man Evidently Amusing – but I'd missed it.
The thing was. Yeah. That thing.
Working out to eighties music is weird. I couldn't work out whether we were all secretly energised by Eye of the tiger or whether, by the time Living in America was bouncing off the high walls, we were all feeling very uncomfortably like we were doing Robert Webb's now infamous Flashdance routine.
In my head, I could feel the cling of lycra and the inexplicable ankle heat of leg warmers. I could feel myself starting to mince-skip, between stations. By the time There's no stopping us (no stopping) from the original soundtrack to Breakdance II: the electric boogaloo had me side-tapping my head and singing along, its 808 beat marking my jogging steps, I was beginning to just feel dirty.
---
It was a feeling subsumed, I should continue, by fatigue. That adventure playground was no playground. Those spongy stairs weren't for softies. Crash mats? Crash and burn mats, baby.
Obviously all the fittists took it seriously. I however, after one lap of running through what felt like treacle, found myself draped over the high bar like, in my wife's worryingly-immediate words afterwards, "one of the 118 blokes".
I know at one point I opted for the positive alternative of shouting instructions and encouragement to the people still actually using the equipment for exercise. "Come on. Yep – nice one, keep going. Now over the mat. Good – knees up..." You get it.
I think I ended the session on my back, spilling out of either end of the spongy hole-in-the-wall. Cheering in a very can-do fashion, so quietly that no-one could hear.
---
To be fair, some of the Genuinely Fit People almost made to invite me to come to the normal Sunday morning class, sans spongy toys. But I think it will be a while before I do anything reckless with my Sunday mornings again.
I really should have put this to good use and at least been sponsored for Comic Relief.
They're not meant to go together. Not when Sunday morning becomes the time to do exercise.
I'm a fan of the Littledown Centre. As much as people defect over the road to The Village for its Starbucks coffee and its swimming pool you can actually swim in, I think the Littledown flies the flag for municipal sports facilities pretty well.
You're already thinking I'm taking the pee, right? The same pee it takes five hundred gallons of chlorine to sterilise the idea of in the minds of swimmers in the main pool, right?
Well, no. I speak as someone evidently unschooled, skilled or motivated in matters sporting, of course; Laurent Garnier's The man with the red face is not my favourite workout track for nothing. But this council-run sports centre has created a nice enough vibe to keep me coming back. If only because they need my money a little too much to throw me out of the classes as a hazard.
Sunday was its 20th anniversary. To celebrate, they'd apparently decided to have a day of '1989'-style activities and prices and Adrian announced at the end of Thursday's circuits class that he was holding a special version of one on Sunday morning.
For some freakish reason, I decided to go.
To the sports centre.
On a Sunday morning.
Me.
The guy so not cut-out for sporting prowess that his only emergency asset in the gymn – his personality – is emergency over-ridden by blood flow and some autonomic safety reaction when engaging in exercise. All I have in there is Funny. Only it stops working after five minutes of running, leaving me floundering like a flipped turtle in my panting exchanges with Actually Fit people as they spring past. Cheeky smiles become villainous leers, amusing quips become spittle-repeated weirdo remarks to strangers, and boyish confidence becomes stooping, sweating, staggering, purple-faced vulnerability.
Me.
---
It was a gorgeous morning as I pulled on my shorts and irreconcilably-deformed sports shirt. And it felt odd as hell doing so.
Pulling up to the swooping shape of the Littledown, I felt a hint of the same kind of trepidation I felt going to a pre-term summer sports week, before I started big school. Everyone laughed at my Super Saints sports bag, I recall. Thankfully, I knew so little about football even then, it didn't scar me.
Who else would turn up to this? And why couldn't I think of a place to get a sweat band?
But, as I approached the windows overlooking the main hall, I found myself grinning. Adventure play today, kids.
The middle station included some spongy stairs and crash mats, a spongy hole-in-the-wall and some crash mats, some more crash mats to run along and some beams to leap under and over, without crash mats. Fun, in other words. And a legitimate reason to waste time experimenting with amusing comments in the heat of exercise. Like comedy boot camp.
Adrian was, as I'd have place money on him being, wearing sweatbands. I ruminated as we started the warm-up run that this was the one occasion when I could have legitimately held my stupid floppy hair out of my face without unspoken pity – in fact, with the jump-started pride of a man Evidently Amusing – but I'd missed it.
The thing was. Yeah. That thing.
Working out to eighties music is weird. I couldn't work out whether we were all secretly energised by Eye of the tiger or whether, by the time Living in America was bouncing off the high walls, we were all feeling very uncomfortably like we were doing Robert Webb's now infamous Flashdance routine.
In my head, I could feel the cling of lycra and the inexplicable ankle heat of leg warmers. I could feel myself starting to mince-skip, between stations. By the time There's no stopping us (no stopping) from the original soundtrack to Breakdance II: the electric boogaloo had me side-tapping my head and singing along, its 808 beat marking my jogging steps, I was beginning to just feel dirty.
---
It was a feeling subsumed, I should continue, by fatigue. That adventure playground was no playground. Those spongy stairs weren't for softies. Crash mats? Crash and burn mats, baby.
Obviously all the fittists took it seriously. I however, after one lap of running through what felt like treacle, found myself draped over the high bar like, in my wife's worryingly-immediate words afterwards, "one of the 118 blokes".
I know at one point I opted for the positive alternative of shouting instructions and encouragement to the people still actually using the equipment for exercise. "Come on. Yep – nice one, keep going. Now over the mat. Good – knees up..." You get it.
I think I ended the session on my back, spilling out of either end of the spongy hole-in-the-wall. Cheering in a very can-do fashion, so quietly that no-one could hear.
---
To be fair, some of the Genuinely Fit People almost made to invite me to come to the normal Sunday morning class, sans spongy toys. But I think it will be a while before I do anything reckless with my Sunday mornings again.
I really should have put this to good use and at least been sponsored for Comic Relief.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Short.
Short.
I promised myself I'd be wedded to the timecode today. Ben's now sent me three little edits of the show and I'd hoped to be well into the fun bit by the time I was sitting here in a fresh shirt, about to go and watch a bunch of films that actually got finished.
Somehow, unsurprisingly, didn't get that far. I've, like, watched all the clips though.
It is the fun bit, reacting to the pictures and the edit. But I won't be able to get back to it until Sunday now; Mark and I are taking a road trip to Bedford tomorrow.
Tonight, however, we're going as far as Bournemouth pier. After a flurry of emails, the chaps now hosting Future Shorts are showcasing their organisational skills tonight. Mark and I had chatted seriously about taking over the franchise down here, it's so cool. He'd naturally gotten as far as basically convincing the lady from FS in London to give it to us too. But realistically? How would either of us have found the time to organise a miniature film festival?
White Lantern, the prod co who've taken it over are good chums of Mark's however, and however much they've turned in a good deal of enthusiasm for tonight's lavish gala of short films and minor movie production celebs, I can't help suspecting something of this will still end up on his desk in the, well, future.
---
Wednesday I did something I've not made the time to do before. Take a morning off and just go for a walk.
I shouldn't be blogging this, of course. I'm up to my eyes etc. But the point is, I usually am. And when do I go take in the seaside charm I'm always telling my clients it's great to work near?
Near? What difference is near? Unless you're completely at, you're not there at all.
So I slung a little bag over my shoulder and walked. With a decent pile of things to do that were all largely pending someone getting back to me with something crucial to make them finished things, I paused the Skype pipe and pottered off into the crispy sunshine.
I took myself into Tuckton and along the river and up to the Head, naturally. Found a weird and perfect sweet spot on Warren Hill and watched the waves breaking against the beach in the mouth of the solent. Wandered back eventually past Ma's place to find her 'wagging six tails' at the new carpet that had been finally put down that morning. Dad's old room looks stunning. Largely thanks to the efforts of my wife.
Efforts are something she doesn't have right now, though. Still run down enough to be sleeping rather than working today, poor thing.
So, I'm leaving her to Brideshead Revisited – a very long thing she's almost entirely through – while I go out with our bright young things to watch a series of short things.
Sometimes you just need to get a way for a short time on your own. Off to a beach head, or into another world. Helps you get back to all the workish, creative, real world a little more equipped.
---
One thing I did manage to do by the end of the week was revisit something I thought I'd finished but hadn't – Disfunkshun. So much fun, but... what was the piece missing still?
Mucking about with the beats still further, like something I should leave well alone, I hit upon a little detail by accident that suddenly made it fall into place. Just... there it was. Grinning like a loon, I suddenly knew what we were supposed to be doing with the video.
The Hospital mix is now up on the website and the MySpace. Not much different but different.
Short can be sweet. Especially when it's the short little something that finally connects up the very long something that still didn't quite reach.
I promised myself I'd be wedded to the timecode today. Ben's now sent me three little edits of the show and I'd hoped to be well into the fun bit by the time I was sitting here in a fresh shirt, about to go and watch a bunch of films that actually got finished.
Somehow, unsurprisingly, didn't get that far. I've, like, watched all the clips though.
It is the fun bit, reacting to the pictures and the edit. But I won't be able to get back to it until Sunday now; Mark and I are taking a road trip to Bedford tomorrow.
Tonight, however, we're going as far as Bournemouth pier. After a flurry of emails, the chaps now hosting Future Shorts are showcasing their organisational skills tonight. Mark and I had chatted seriously about taking over the franchise down here, it's so cool. He'd naturally gotten as far as basically convincing the lady from FS in London to give it to us too. But realistically? How would either of us have found the time to organise a miniature film festival?
White Lantern, the prod co who've taken it over are good chums of Mark's however, and however much they've turned in a good deal of enthusiasm for tonight's lavish gala of short films and minor movie production celebs, I can't help suspecting something of this will still end up on his desk in the, well, future.
---
Wednesday I did something I've not made the time to do before. Take a morning off and just go for a walk.
I shouldn't be blogging this, of course. I'm up to my eyes etc. But the point is, I usually am. And when do I go take in the seaside charm I'm always telling my clients it's great to work near?
Near? What difference is near? Unless you're completely at, you're not there at all.
So I slung a little bag over my shoulder and walked. With a decent pile of things to do that were all largely pending someone getting back to me with something crucial to make them finished things, I paused the Skype pipe and pottered off into the crispy sunshine.
I took myself into Tuckton and along the river and up to the Head, naturally. Found a weird and perfect sweet spot on Warren Hill and watched the waves breaking against the beach in the mouth of the solent. Wandered back eventually past Ma's place to find her 'wagging six tails' at the new carpet that had been finally put down that morning. Dad's old room looks stunning. Largely thanks to the efforts of my wife.
Efforts are something she doesn't have right now, though. Still run down enough to be sleeping rather than working today, poor thing.
So, I'm leaving her to Brideshead Revisited – a very long thing she's almost entirely through – while I go out with our bright young things to watch a series of short things.
Sometimes you just need to get a way for a short time on your own. Off to a beach head, or into another world. Helps you get back to all the workish, creative, real world a little more equipped.
---
One thing I did manage to do by the end of the week was revisit something I thought I'd finished but hadn't – Disfunkshun. So much fun, but... what was the piece missing still?
Mucking about with the beats still further, like something I should leave well alone, I hit upon a little detail by accident that suddenly made it fall into place. Just... there it was. Grinning like a loon, I suddenly knew what we were supposed to be doing with the video.
The Hospital mix is now up on the website and the MySpace. Not much different but different.
Short can be sweet. Especially when it's the short little something that finally connects up the very long something that still didn't quite reach.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Bankst.
Bankst.
Can you believe it's snowing again? As wet as it is out there, snow is back – and settling. Which is unsettling.
Chillier is the news that the Bank of England is about to announce another interest rate cut, apparently – to 0.5%. It's another attempt to unfreeze the economy, while Gordy tries to warm the UK/US entente cordiale. Or at least get Obama's autograph.
As everyone over-analysed the two leaders' body language this week, I couldn't help thinking that Prime Minister Brown must represent an odd partner in the economic fight – wasn't he at the helm of the UK's influential economy for the precise ten year period that we built the success time bomb? Wasn't he at the head of the drooling mob, stuffing fifties into the M&S y-fronts of various vulgarly gyrating bank bosses, burring: "Devilishly imprudent, you naughty boys"?
To say nothing of his public backing of Blair in the war on Iraq.
A nice ironic daydream I've had is Blair still being PM alongside the Obama administration; though they represent fairly fundamentally different micro-eras in world politics, I can picture them dragging out every press con with charming jokes and little witty winks to one another. Possibly with stiff little declarations of love creeping into the routine...
Tony:
"I meeen, y'know, c'mon, Mr President knows, ah, y'know," >LOOKS UP, DEAD-PAN< "that I love him. >PAUSES< "Asyouknow," >SMIRKS BASHFULLYTO ONE SIDE< "it's always beeen a vury... speshul relationship... and..." >LOOKS UP AGAIN, PRESIDENTIALLY< "I'd like him to take me in his arms and tell me the warrineerack was just a bad dream."
Barry:
>MOUTHS THE WORDS< I Love You Tony.
Well, it's Gordy and Barry doing the stand up. And I think they should let Baz do the jokes.
..Maybe that's the ticket, yknow. While Mr Brown returns home and discusses quantitative easing with the bankers, fretting over where to get more cash from, I think the US should send Obama on a world comedy tour. Really. Can't you see him, perched louchely on a cocktail lounge stool? Knocking them out to rapturous guffaws?
Wouldn't just ease everyone's tensions. I think it would be a licence to print money.
Can you believe it's snowing again? As wet as it is out there, snow is back – and settling. Which is unsettling.
Chillier is the news that the Bank of England is about to announce another interest rate cut, apparently – to 0.5%. It's another attempt to unfreeze the economy, while Gordy tries to warm the UK/US entente cordiale. Or at least get Obama's autograph.
As everyone over-analysed the two leaders' body language this week, I couldn't help thinking that Prime Minister Brown must represent an odd partner in the economic fight – wasn't he at the helm of the UK's influential economy for the precise ten year period that we built the success time bomb? Wasn't he at the head of the drooling mob, stuffing fifties into the M&S y-fronts of various vulgarly gyrating bank bosses, burring: "Devilishly imprudent, you naughty boys"?
To say nothing of his public backing of Blair in the war on Iraq.
A nice ironic daydream I've had is Blair still being PM alongside the Obama administration; though they represent fairly fundamentally different micro-eras in world politics, I can picture them dragging out every press con with charming jokes and little witty winks to one another. Possibly with stiff little declarations of love creeping into the routine...
Tony:
"I meeen, y'know, c'mon, Mr President knows, ah, y'know," >LOOKS UP, DEAD-PAN< "that I love him. >PAUSES< "Asyouknow," >SMIRKS BASHFULLYTO ONE SIDE< "it's always beeen a vury... speshul relationship... and..." >LOOKS UP AGAIN, PRESIDENTIALLY< "I'd like him to take me in his arms and tell me the warrineerack was just a bad dream."
Barry:
>MOUTHS THE WORDS< I Love You Tony.
Well, it's Gordy and Barry doing the stand up. And I think they should let Baz do the jokes.
..Maybe that's the ticket, yknow. While Mr Brown returns home and discusses quantitative easing with the bankers, fretting over where to get more cash from, I think the US should send Obama on a world comedy tour. Really. Can't you see him, perched louchely on a cocktail lounge stool? Knocking them out to rapturous guffaws?
Wouldn't just ease everyone's tensions. I think it would be a licence to print money.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Life.
Life.
It goes on. Things happen, and then more things happen. Or don't.
Doesn't sound like much of a screenplay idea to pitch to God, I'll grant you. Life: stuff keeps, like, happening. But it's obviously more complicated than that.
..Plus we'll fill in a lot of it with CG and snappy editing.
---
So, after a remarkably sociable, productive weekend, Caroline and I are starting the week a little pooped. But, y'know. Okay.
The sun is out again this morning and I've written my first list of things to do. There will undoubtedly be more flamming and thwacking and clacking and shimmy-shingling and wailing to test the remarkable patience of our neighbours, as I get more into the film score, and Caroline seems to have yet more Very Important Meetings to deliver things into, but all of this is helpful momentum for us in what are weird times for many of the people we sat around mugs, glasses and tables with over the last 48 hours. And those we were hoping to with but couldn't.
But, Sunday morning I was reminded of the need to sometimes get away alone and remember what's really important in this fleeting life. Momentum can also be inertia, making it hard to steer the right direction.
So perhaps I'll start this Monday with a walk up to the bakery and the bank in the sunshine. Before all the rythmns of life this week carry me along.
It goes on. Things happen, and then more things happen. Or don't.
Doesn't sound like much of a screenplay idea to pitch to God, I'll grant you. Life: stuff keeps, like, happening. But it's obviously more complicated than that.
..Plus we'll fill in a lot of it with CG and snappy editing.
---
So, after a remarkably sociable, productive weekend, Caroline and I are starting the week a little pooped. But, y'know. Okay.
The sun is out again this morning and I've written my first list of things to do. There will undoubtedly be more flamming and thwacking and clacking and shimmy-shingling and wailing to test the remarkable patience of our neighbours, as I get more into the film score, and Caroline seems to have yet more Very Important Meetings to deliver things into, but all of this is helpful momentum for us in what are weird times for many of the people we sat around mugs, glasses and tables with over the last 48 hours. And those we were hoping to with but couldn't.
But, Sunday morning I was reminded of the need to sometimes get away alone and remember what's really important in this fleeting life. Momentum can also be inertia, making it hard to steer the right direction.
So perhaps I'll start this Monday with a walk up to the bakery and the bank in the sunshine. Before all the rythmns of life this week carry me along.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Slumming it.
Slumming it.
So we finally made it to the cinema. For two apparent 'movie lovers' we haven't exactly boosted the British film industry with our patronage over the last twelve months. What have we been watching all that time? Don't tell me it's Will and Grace.
Of course, everyone says they're a movie lover. What they mean is they love being given largely mindless things that move for a couple of hours, to stare at from the sofa. Bloody proles, eh? Eh? Wouldn't know a subtitle if it explained what it was in Hindi to them. Those saps.
Everyone also says they're a lover of Oscar smash, Slumdog Millionaire. And who are we to argue with the masses? I love those masses – they're right. For we have seen it at last and can verify, it's fab.
It's one of those dead simple ideas, like the perfect pop tune, that seems so obvious it must have always been around.
I think Caroline's draining few weeks made her rather vulnerable to its triumph-over-adversity charms as we sat there hugging in the cinema, last to leave. The cleaner guy looked uncomfortable.
Now we can join the throng, Bollywood sequence dancing in the street over it's loveability. Masses, shaking their asses.
And I have long wanted to do a Bollywood dance number for a video. Like I said on my Facebook status the next morning, Charminster high street - that's the place to do it. Someone ring the council. Someone ring an Indian choreographer. Someone ring the camera track and boom rental people. Someone leaflet the shops.
And the guy who knows the guy at the Giant Silk Pantaloons R Us store - make the call.
---
Sunshine's out this morning. Been a productive week in some ways; artwork to press and articles written. Even managed to get Slumdog into my e-mailer for Team this week: "The slums of Mumbai may be a long way from the semis of Corfe Mullen..." Almost poetry.
Ben and I had a good first chat around his shoot in Morocco and my first skits for the soundtrack. Think he digs it generally so I'll be skitting some more as we tackle first edit next week – jeepers, all eight episodes have to be delivered by the end of March.
And now I have some brochures to put to bed. Not tucked up under a quilt, you understand. Just finished and sent to the printers. But my business needs all the cooler-sounding street slang for what it does that it can get.
I've put on Cafe Del Mar volume Seis and am in an officially summery mood ahead of the weekend. These little delusions are the fuel you need. They're the little shiny moments to bask in while you wait in vain for the big gameshow win to set off the glitter droppers and change your life.
Ah, Dusty doing The Look of Love. Let's go to work, people; the world can be made alright.
So we finally made it to the cinema. For two apparent 'movie lovers' we haven't exactly boosted the British film industry with our patronage over the last twelve months. What have we been watching all that time? Don't tell me it's Will and Grace.
Of course, everyone says they're a movie lover. What they mean is they love being given largely mindless things that move for a couple of hours, to stare at from the sofa. Bloody proles, eh? Eh? Wouldn't know a subtitle if it explained what it was in Hindi to them. Those saps.
Everyone also says they're a lover of Oscar smash, Slumdog Millionaire. And who are we to argue with the masses? I love those masses – they're right. For we have seen it at last and can verify, it's fab.
It's one of those dead simple ideas, like the perfect pop tune, that seems so obvious it must have always been around.
I think Caroline's draining few weeks made her rather vulnerable to its triumph-over-adversity charms as we sat there hugging in the cinema, last to leave. The cleaner guy looked uncomfortable.
Now we can join the throng, Bollywood sequence dancing in the street over it's loveability. Masses, shaking their asses.
And I have long wanted to do a Bollywood dance number for a video. Like I said on my Facebook status the next morning, Charminster high street - that's the place to do it. Someone ring the council. Someone ring an Indian choreographer. Someone ring the camera track and boom rental people. Someone leaflet the shops.
And the guy who knows the guy at the Giant Silk Pantaloons R Us store - make the call.
---
Sunshine's out this morning. Been a productive week in some ways; artwork to press and articles written. Even managed to get Slumdog into my e-mailer for Team this week: "The slums of Mumbai may be a long way from the semis of Corfe Mullen..." Almost poetry.
Ben and I had a good first chat around his shoot in Morocco and my first skits for the soundtrack. Think he digs it generally so I'll be skitting some more as we tackle first edit next week – jeepers, all eight episodes have to be delivered by the end of March.
And now I have some brochures to put to bed. Not tucked up under a quilt, you understand. Just finished and sent to the printers. But my business needs all the cooler-sounding street slang for what it does that it can get.
I've put on Cafe Del Mar volume Seis and am in an officially summery mood ahead of the weekend. These little delusions are the fuel you need. They're the little shiny moments to bask in while you wait in vain for the big gameshow win to set off the glitter droppers and change your life.
Ah, Dusty doing The Look of Love. Let's go to work, people; the world can be made alright.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Networking.
Networking.
I have no idea how to do this. Never have.
You're given a room full of people and a sticker with your name on it, and you have to just launch yourself in there and, like, talk to people. Say: "Hi! I'm Tim. I'm groovy and you want a piece of me. You do. You just didn't know that you do before I sauntered over and finger pistoled you a compelling wink. Yeah. ..By the way, I should tell you that this kind of groovy does NOT come cheap..."
Right. Of course I'm comfortable doing that.
Mark took me to a fairly convincingly organised-looking affair at Landmarc lastnight; film students and, er, film students, I think. No sign of movie producers weeping for need of a really creative musician to bring their well-funded, starry-casted, lavish, big screen production to life.
So I killed time and my embarrassed Out Of Placeness by being a table whore.
Thank goodness there were some people who'd brought tables of leaflets. I sauntered around the gallery chatting to a nice succession of people manning various tables of leaflets and finding out what they do. Interesting things, it turns out. Could have chatted with some of them for longer quite happily.
But I was that awful thing at events – a chatty useless punter. I was no good to any of them for business. And none of them needed a groovy electro-beat score for anything. So I tried not to keep them for too long, and instead of networking, we just chatted and swapped branded material. It was nice. It was pointless.
It was my kind of business.
---
This morning, getting up early to get the latest Team e-mailer in shape, I found an e-mail from one Guru Josh Project (Official). Asking to be friends on MySpace.
Now, I don't know if you know much about Guru Josh, he of the Infinity tune that was a smack-rave hit in the early 90s and has been again over Christmas, 18 years later. I didn't. I only knew that the sax riff on that record is quite nice and GJ obviously knows this because he repeats the b'sheesh out of it for five minutes. Fair play. This creative attitute made a life-long career for Vangelis.
So I click to the page and find his biog.
OMG. As young MySpacers might put it. Which he clearly isn't.
I couldn't tear myself away from his story.
He's hustled and blagged and worked his way through so many mad tales and bank accounts, I had to keep reading. Fortunes made and given away repeatedly. Sometimes intentionally.
Read it, you'll see what I mean. His straight-talking yarning reminds me of friends I've known who've lived on the street – which he kind of has, I suppose, working it. It's fascinating, and it's under About Guru Josh:
http://profile.myspace.com/gurujoshmusic
Wish I had a story like this. Though I suspect the loved ones around me are glad I'm a little more predictable...
---
This morning, however, the only person I really want to network with is one of my oldest chums and fellow musical explorers, Kev.
I'm turning off Skype for a couple hours, pausing the studio's deadlines, to go have a nice chat with my mate. Doubt it'll make either of us any money. It'll just be great to see him.
That's my kind of networking.
I have no idea how to do this. Never have.
You're given a room full of people and a sticker with your name on it, and you have to just launch yourself in there and, like, talk to people. Say: "Hi! I'm Tim. I'm groovy and you want a piece of me. You do. You just didn't know that you do before I sauntered over and finger pistoled you a compelling wink. Yeah. ..By the way, I should tell you that this kind of groovy does NOT come cheap..."
Right. Of course I'm comfortable doing that.
Mark took me to a fairly convincingly organised-looking affair at Landmarc lastnight; film students and, er, film students, I think. No sign of movie producers weeping for need of a really creative musician to bring their well-funded, starry-casted, lavish, big screen production to life.
So I killed time and my embarrassed Out Of Placeness by being a table whore.
Thank goodness there were some people who'd brought tables of leaflets. I sauntered around the gallery chatting to a nice succession of people manning various tables of leaflets and finding out what they do. Interesting things, it turns out. Could have chatted with some of them for longer quite happily.
But I was that awful thing at events – a chatty useless punter. I was no good to any of them for business. And none of them needed a groovy electro-beat score for anything. So I tried not to keep them for too long, and instead of networking, we just chatted and swapped branded material. It was nice. It was pointless.
It was my kind of business.
---
This morning, getting up early to get the latest Team e-mailer in shape, I found an e-mail from one Guru Josh Project (Official). Asking to be friends on MySpace.
Now, I don't know if you know much about Guru Josh, he of the Infinity tune that was a smack-rave hit in the early 90s and has been again over Christmas, 18 years later. I didn't. I only knew that the sax riff on that record is quite nice and GJ obviously knows this because he repeats the b'sheesh out of it for five minutes. Fair play. This creative attitute made a life-long career for Vangelis.
So I click to the page and find his biog.
OMG. As young MySpacers might put it. Which he clearly isn't.
I couldn't tear myself away from his story.
He's hustled and blagged and worked his way through so many mad tales and bank accounts, I had to keep reading. Fortunes made and given away repeatedly. Sometimes intentionally.
Read it, you'll see what I mean. His straight-talking yarning reminds me of friends I've known who've lived on the street – which he kind of has, I suppose, working it. It's fascinating, and it's under About Guru Josh:
http://profile.myspace.com/gurujoshmusic
Wish I had a story like this. Though I suspect the loved ones around me are glad I'm a little more predictable...
---
This morning, however, the only person I really want to network with is one of my oldest chums and fellow musical explorers, Kev.
I'm turning off Skype for a couple hours, pausing the studio's deadlines, to go have a nice chat with my mate. Doubt it'll make either of us any money. It'll just be great to see him.
That's my kind of networking.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Moroccan role.
Moroccan role.
So I've been immersing myself in North West African beats and flavours for the last few weeks. Amazon have been helpful, as has a very informed chap called DJ Umb, who has been chatting to me on MySpace. After which, I coincidentally found he'd compiled one of the albums I'd had delivered, Experience Morocco – a great contemporary spin around this fabulously groovy country.
Also been chatting with a chap based out there called Steve. A Canadian musician who's fallen for the vibe. And a girl, I think. Who can blame him for moving into it all.
I contemplated blowing some of Momo's moola on a plane ticket out there, especially as Ben is still shooting this week. But, though I asked myself seriously 'why'd you always choose Sensible, Tim?' I did eventually conclude that Sensible had a point – spending rather than making on the project is not the smartest use of the Mo machine.
So here I am in Southbourne still, working through some early versions of vaguely oriental sounding things that don't yet approximate anything properly Moroccan. The sketches I have together so far sound more like the score to a Middle Eastern political thriller.
Which is, of course, what I really want to be scoring. Might need to dial it down a tad for a cookery show.
---
Had a bonkers kind of few weeks, with odd experiences littering the normal itinery as casually as scientists now seem to be talking about alien life and the God Particle and Earth Like Planets. Will go into all that one day over coffee, perhaps. But I've been forcing myself to finish reading the intriguingly thought-out but risibly written out Alastair Reynolds book, Revelation Space, while also watching Around the world in 80 faiths and Battlestar Galactica, on again tonight. So once again, Real World and Play World are getting badly blurred for me.
I like it.
Would like to blur the Real Wallet and the Play Wallet enough to get on a plane to Marrakech and go record Gnawa zither music and Bedouin Chaabi for two weeks, mind. Think I'd like to put weird robot love aside for rocking the Casbah. WIth Caz, preferably.
So I've been immersing myself in North West African beats and flavours for the last few weeks. Amazon have been helpful, as has a very informed chap called DJ Umb, who has been chatting to me on MySpace. After which, I coincidentally found he'd compiled one of the albums I'd had delivered, Experience Morocco – a great contemporary spin around this fabulously groovy country.
Also been chatting with a chap based out there called Steve. A Canadian musician who's fallen for the vibe. And a girl, I think. Who can blame him for moving into it all.
I contemplated blowing some of Momo's moola on a plane ticket out there, especially as Ben is still shooting this week. But, though I asked myself seriously 'why'd you always choose Sensible, Tim?' I did eventually conclude that Sensible had a point – spending rather than making on the project is not the smartest use of the Mo machine.
So here I am in Southbourne still, working through some early versions of vaguely oriental sounding things that don't yet approximate anything properly Moroccan. The sketches I have together so far sound more like the score to a Middle Eastern political thriller.
Which is, of course, what I really want to be scoring. Might need to dial it down a tad for a cookery show.
---
Had a bonkers kind of few weeks, with odd experiences littering the normal itinery as casually as scientists now seem to be talking about alien life and the God Particle and Earth Like Planets. Will go into all that one day over coffee, perhaps. But I've been forcing myself to finish reading the intriguingly thought-out but risibly written out Alastair Reynolds book, Revelation Space, while also watching Around the world in 80 faiths and Battlestar Galactica, on again tonight. So once again, Real World and Play World are getting badly blurred for me.
I like it.
Would like to blur the Real Wallet and the Play Wallet enough to get on a plane to Marrakech and go record Gnawa zither music and Bedouin Chaabi for two weeks, mind. Think I'd like to put weird robot love aside for rocking the Casbah. WIth Caz, preferably.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Snow further.
Snow further.
So, I'm standing in the bay window of the studio, pouring a coffee. I'm looking out at a Christmas fairy cake icing version of the street outside, made by what I can only assume is a gigantic foam spewing machine somewhere behind the house, and I'm wondering where to start with my Moroccan TV score.
---
In a surprisingly rare clash of car itineraries this morning, I found myself walking to Boscombe to visit a very nice hygienist lady, who very nicely told me that I clean my teeth too well.
"Are you saying I shouldn't be using the belt sander?" I asked incredulously. "Either you're impressed with the lack of tartar or you're not, lady."
No, it is remarkable how nice going to the dentist is these days. Apart from the dental horror snaps they slideshow past you on the plasma telly while you wait in the very expensively slate-tiled reception area.
Anyway, the walk up there was a sort of biting wet one, made essentially pleasant by the genius addition of an umbrella and some rush mixes of the new Momo:tempo album.
But by the time I'd been in the waiting room, avoiding eye contact with the gum gore and teeth fear scrolling overhead, the wet stuff had turned distinctly to white stuff. With cold air reeshing around my shot blasted smile, some time later, I found myself walking back to the flat in a snow flurry.
The bakery at the top of the road always looks so inviting on days like this, doesn't it? So naturally I popped in for a giant comfort bun, while there were still so many plump specimens lolling against the glass at me.
---
Now?
Jeepers, how does it do this so fast? This week-long, country-wide, weird weather? The crossroads outside looks like a seasonal greetings card. Snow has flumped over everything and the world is white again.
Which makes for a nice Friday feeling, for sure. Not due anywhere else today or tonight, so I think I might work on into the evening pizza zone. Which is also the disco zone, I believe.
---
All this warm lighting and work feels increasingly like some strange privilege at the moment. It's the simple cutting edge of being homeless, this kind of weather. And with the scrolling list of businesses going under and people losing work, even my jolly stoicism is just beginning to get wary.
But busy I currently still am, for as long as I can avoid being a professional bumhead, as my Advertising Guru, Gellan, might put it.
The trick is working out how to spread any of this around. It all kind of needs my brain. So little of what I do is hand-overable artworking, or easy to brief work. It's something I'm still thinking about, when thinking of other creative friends.
I can, though, make my own schedule sound fun, even if the reality isn't the kind of swaggering money pump that some city agencies have the giant snowballs to charge. Ask Lorraine and Vernon what we were talking about on Wednesday evening. Sheesh, I need to get a London postcode...
Still, down here at the wintery seaside, do you fancy a glamorous peek at what a real-world idle creative gets up to? If you're interested in a snapshot of a typical Momo To Do list, then I can tell you that I've pushed through some core brand material and web art for one client this week, signed off some scary-smart print for another, made a start on some cute folder pack for someone else, chewed around some reasonably clever-sounding headline creative for a charity campaign in the last couple of weeks, written a series of convincing articles about the local area for Team's weekly e-bulletin and come up with a very cute brand for a chain of local fish and chip shops that will have all Momo afficionados scorning my One Design FIts All approach to creative. Not that I care here – it's so jolly friendly. And 'typical Momo' was exactly what the client asked for. ..I DO have more than one typeface installed on this thing. I DO.
I'm now about to sit down with the layout pad for the start of something else new. ..Come on brain, stop staring out of the window at the snow. It's just snow. ..Lots more fairy-pixie-playful but oddly portentous-seeming snow. ..Nothing to see here.
I suspect, however, that the real challenge this weekend won't be messaging a new electronics testing business – it'll be how to create a hazy North African vibe for a TV score filming in Marrakech next week.
I'm not sure gazing out of the window for inspiration will help...
Fill you in on that random addition to the schedule later. But if you happen to have an authentic raita reed horn somewhere – pleeeease may I borrow it?
So, I'm standing in the bay window of the studio, pouring a coffee. I'm looking out at a Christmas fairy cake icing version of the street outside, made by what I can only assume is a gigantic foam spewing machine somewhere behind the house, and I'm wondering where to start with my Moroccan TV score.
---
In a surprisingly rare clash of car itineraries this morning, I found myself walking to Boscombe to visit a very nice hygienist lady, who very nicely told me that I clean my teeth too well.
"Are you saying I shouldn't be using the belt sander?" I asked incredulously. "Either you're impressed with the lack of tartar or you're not, lady."
No, it is remarkable how nice going to the dentist is these days. Apart from the dental horror snaps they slideshow past you on the plasma telly while you wait in the very expensively slate-tiled reception area.
Anyway, the walk up there was a sort of biting wet one, made essentially pleasant by the genius addition of an umbrella and some rush mixes of the new Momo:tempo album.
But by the time I'd been in the waiting room, avoiding eye contact with the gum gore and teeth fear scrolling overhead, the wet stuff had turned distinctly to white stuff. With cold air reeshing around my shot blasted smile, some time later, I found myself walking back to the flat in a snow flurry.
The bakery at the top of the road always looks so inviting on days like this, doesn't it? So naturally I popped in for a giant comfort bun, while there were still so many plump specimens lolling against the glass at me.
---
Now?
Jeepers, how does it do this so fast? This week-long, country-wide, weird weather? The crossroads outside looks like a seasonal greetings card. Snow has flumped over everything and the world is white again.
Which makes for a nice Friday feeling, for sure. Not due anywhere else today or tonight, so I think I might work on into the evening pizza zone. Which is also the disco zone, I believe.
---
All this warm lighting and work feels increasingly like some strange privilege at the moment. It's the simple cutting edge of being homeless, this kind of weather. And with the scrolling list of businesses going under and people losing work, even my jolly stoicism is just beginning to get wary.
But busy I currently still am, for as long as I can avoid being a professional bumhead, as my Advertising Guru, Gellan, might put it.
The trick is working out how to spread any of this around. It all kind of needs my brain. So little of what I do is hand-overable artworking, or easy to brief work. It's something I'm still thinking about, when thinking of other creative friends.
I can, though, make my own schedule sound fun, even if the reality isn't the kind of swaggering money pump that some city agencies have the giant snowballs to charge. Ask Lorraine and Vernon what we were talking about on Wednesday evening. Sheesh, I need to get a London postcode...
Still, down here at the wintery seaside, do you fancy a glamorous peek at what a real-world idle creative gets up to? If you're interested in a snapshot of a typical Momo To Do list, then I can tell you that I've pushed through some core brand material and web art for one client this week, signed off some scary-smart print for another, made a start on some cute folder pack for someone else, chewed around some reasonably clever-sounding headline creative for a charity campaign in the last couple of weeks, written a series of convincing articles about the local area for Team's weekly e-bulletin and come up with a very cute brand for a chain of local fish and chip shops that will have all Momo afficionados scorning my One Design FIts All approach to creative. Not that I care here – it's so jolly friendly. And 'typical Momo' was exactly what the client asked for. ..I DO have more than one typeface installed on this thing. I DO.
I'm now about to sit down with the layout pad for the start of something else new. ..Come on brain, stop staring out of the window at the snow. It's just snow. ..Lots more fairy-pixie-playful but oddly portentous-seeming snow. ..Nothing to see here.
I suspect, however, that the real challenge this weekend won't be messaging a new electronics testing business – it'll be how to create a hazy North African vibe for a TV score filming in Marrakech next week.
I'm not sure gazing out of the window for inspiration will help...
Fill you in on that random addition to the schedule later. But if you happen to have an authentic raita reed horn somewhere – pleeeease may I borrow it?
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