A Complete Explanation Of Everything
Monday, September 25, 2006
sunday roast: shelley, susan bluechild, rebecca collins
A report from the frontline of the irish music scene.
Thomas Read's played host last night to the Sunday Roast, an acoustic type get together in Dublin's city centre supposedly aimed at those wishing to simply chill out from the excess of Saturday night.
It was Rob who mooted the possibly of going in and despite the excess of his Saturday night made it, whilst I dragged from myself from Suburbia and a ridiculously undebauched weekend to cast critical eye and ear over proceedings. Our merry group was rounded out by the addition of Hugh and an unexpected Gar. The musicians in question clearly had quite a task ahead to get any kudos from this lot.
Despite being advertised for 8pm, proceedings did not get underway until roughly 9pm when the diminutive Shelley took the stage. The west coast usian drawl that accompanied the in-between song banter was not out of place with the self-professed "glam-folk" that she was peddling. I kept thinking Mamas & Papas minus the resplendent harmonies.
Rather more advanced in years than the main act, you'd wonder what Shelley's goals actually are in terms of music in Dublin at this point. If she's here to have a good time and play some gigs more power to her plectrum I'd say but anything more than that would seem unthinkable based on last night's performance.
Then came ms Bluechild, seemingly hailing from Australia, apparently if we'd been keeping an ear to the radiocharts (something I never do and by the cut of the jib of the audience in the pub, I wasn't alone in this) then we'd have been exposed to ms Bluechild long previously. She certainly wasn't backwards in coming forwards with that information and it wasn't long before the studied indifference of her audience made ms Bluechild rather catty.
The addition of keys, to the now standard male guitarist accompanying female artist hardly clarified proceedings, the sound was muddy at best and the organisers minds were clearly focused on the prospect of picking up a gong at the Fringe Fest awards across town. This hampered the technical delivery of the uber bland pop that ms Bluechild seems to trade in but quite honestly the audience didn't give a fig, or even a complementary roast potato which the house was offering (Sunday Roast, get it?) and were lost in contemplation of their metropolitan selves.
Meanwhile, back at our table, Rob was kicking my ass in chess. It was two stupid moves to one in his favour and defeat was but a moment away.
Approaching 11pm, Rebecca Collins flanked by another member of the Dublin's female phalanx of sultry chanteuses, Miriam Ingram and accompanied by accordion and trumpet took the spotlight. This was not the first occasion that the music of Collin's has graced our ears and though years have passed, it still retains to my taste that originality which is crucial and has only been improved by advances in technique and songsmithery.
I didn't know any of the tunes from past incarnations tonight but what was played was certainly enough to whet one's appetite for an eventual, fully realised, commercial release from the girl.
It can't come too soon.
Thomas Read's played host last night to the Sunday Roast, an acoustic type get together in Dublin's city centre supposedly aimed at those wishing to simply chill out from the excess of Saturday night.
It was Rob who mooted the possibly of going in and despite the excess of his Saturday night made it, whilst I dragged from myself from Suburbia and a ridiculously undebauched weekend to cast critical eye and ear over proceedings. Our merry group was rounded out by the addition of Hugh and an unexpected Gar. The musicians in question clearly had quite a task ahead to get any kudos from this lot.
Despite being advertised for 8pm, proceedings did not get underway until roughly 9pm when the diminutive Shelley took the stage. The west coast usian drawl that accompanied the in-between song banter was not out of place with the self-professed "glam-folk" that she was peddling. I kept thinking Mamas & Papas minus the resplendent harmonies.
Rather more advanced in years than the main act, you'd wonder what Shelley's goals actually are in terms of music in Dublin at this point. If she's here to have a good time and play some gigs more power to her plectrum I'd say but anything more than that would seem unthinkable based on last night's performance.
Then came ms Bluechild, seemingly hailing from Australia, apparently if we'd been keeping an ear to the radiocharts (something I never do and by the cut of the jib of the audience in the pub, I wasn't alone in this) then we'd have been exposed to ms Bluechild long previously. She certainly wasn't backwards in coming forwards with that information and it wasn't long before the studied indifference of her audience made ms Bluechild rather catty.
The addition of keys, to the now standard male guitarist accompanying female artist hardly clarified proceedings, the sound was muddy at best and the organisers minds were clearly focused on the prospect of picking up a gong at the Fringe Fest awards across town. This hampered the technical delivery of the uber bland pop that ms Bluechild seems to trade in but quite honestly the audience didn't give a fig, or even a complementary roast potato which the house was offering (Sunday Roast, get it?) and were lost in contemplation of their metropolitan selves.
Meanwhile, back at our table, Rob was kicking my ass in chess. It was two stupid moves to one in his favour and defeat was but a moment away.
Approaching 11pm, Rebecca Collins flanked by another member of the Dublin's female phalanx of sultry chanteuses, Miriam Ingram and accompanied by accordion and trumpet took the spotlight. This was not the first occasion that the music of Collin's has graced our ears and though years have passed, it still retains to my taste that originality which is crucial and has only been improved by advances in technique and songsmithery.
I didn't know any of the tunes from past incarnations tonight but what was played was certainly enough to whet one's appetite for an eventual, fully realised, commercial release from the girl.
It can't come too soon.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Shelbourne 2 - 2 Derry City
Four goals, a sending off and alot of slack marking.
Just back from the game in Tolka and it was memorable for a few things, the shocking first touch of the Shels lads for one. The inability to get the ball down and play it in midfield, mainly because of the Derry City workrate.
Great header for the equaliser for Crowe but Derry could have easily been three nil up in the first half thanks to some extraordinarily slack marking.
Other points of note, Tolka Park and Drumcondra are still inhospitable as ever and though the rain that the tail end of Hurricane Gordon threatened didn't come to pass, the covered two sides of the grounds were barely enough for what was a mammoth attendance by Eircom League standards.
The title initiative is now handed to Derry City but Shelbourne have points in the bag compared to Derry's games in hand, so we'll see.
Finished off with a slight pub crawl up the road with my Dad into the Cat & Cage (a shithole) and then onto Carthy's, which was feeling much better.
The game was also memorable for the fact that I got to show off my new philosophy football t-shirt.
"In football, everything is complicated by the presence of the opposition."
- Jean Paul Sartre, No. 10
Quite.
Just back from the game in Tolka and it was memorable for a few things, the shocking first touch of the Shels lads for one. The inability to get the ball down and play it in midfield, mainly because of the Derry City workrate.
Great header for the equaliser for Crowe but Derry could have easily been three nil up in the first half thanks to some extraordinarily slack marking.
Other points of note, Tolka Park and Drumcondra are still inhospitable as ever and though the rain that the tail end of Hurricane Gordon threatened didn't come to pass, the covered two sides of the grounds were barely enough for what was a mammoth attendance by Eircom League standards.
The title initiative is now handed to Derry City but Shelbourne have points in the bag compared to Derry's games in hand, so we'll see.
Finished off with a slight pub crawl up the road with my Dad into the Cat & Cage (a shithole) and then onto Carthy's, which was feeling much better.
The game was also memorable for the fact that I got to show off my new philosophy football t-shirt.
"In football, everything is complicated by the presence of the opposition."
- Jean Paul Sartre, No. 10
Quite.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Work is the only thing I have complete control over...
...not.
Anyway, I had best inform you all of my recent travails in terms of getting promoted / career advancement at work.
It all started out innocently enough, simply put, a good friend of mine who has risen through the ranks was in the position to pretty much offer a change of scene on a plate for myself. A lateral move but a ticket to the easy life in some ways, we've worked together before and it would have been quite a laugh.
So in tandem with my current direct report going on maternity leave until perhaps February of next year (this was all back in July), the ball and the advantage was firmly in my court. Outside of material recompense, this company has been pretty good to me (if you leave aside the soul destruction of coming in here everyday and operating one single cog in the wheel of capitalism 40 hours a week) and I did manage to get them to pay for the masters and also sneaked three months unpaid leave following a threat to simply quit.
So perhaps, I'm expecting too much, to have my hard earned contempt rewarded with anything more than the current dead end I find myself in. But then again, am I? Things go relatively well in work and certainly when I'm here, I feel like contributing and enjoy the job to a certain extent because welfare economics and price cap regulation is essentially a big game. A really boring big game but a game nonetheless and you can get lost in the plot of it and to some degree believe that you are actually delivering a benefit to society. In the sense that all going well, if we applied policy correctly, we'd end up with a nice shiny airport that was comfortable and didn't cost the earth.
However, anybody who has travelled through Dublin in the last 15 years might guess that we have been the victims of alot of very bad policy and became a sort of political football for the neo-conservative elements of the national administration during the last election.
But bringing this all back to me, because this is about me.
My manager basically agreed to plumb for a regrading of my current job which would allow me to suckle at the teat of junior management and pretty much represent fair value (in my honest opinion) for the six years of my young glorious life that I have wasted in this coalmine. All well and good, says I.
Then we write the shiny job evaluation document.
Then it turns out human resources (or as I like to refer to them, the devil incarnate) request a job profile to go on the side with that.
Well, that's really just re-hashing the job evaluation document so I do that.
It all gets submitted then with suitably glowing support from my manager and my big boss.
Timeframe? 6-8 weeks.
Ok, not ideal but sure let's see what happens.
This week, eight weeks expires with 'nary a word, I contact human resources to be informed the application will be reviewed shortly and even at that point, the CX gets the final "yay" or "nay" on it.
Then on top of that, HR decide they want to meet yesterday (with the head of Internal Audit in attendance) to: "get a better understanding of your role and key responsibilities"???
Hello??? Have you read the shagging document I fucking sent you???
Anyway, we have our little shindig and then in a moment of clarity it hits me, I'm the one here doing all the bloody work! Gone are the days when you worked and were rewarded on the basis of performance, when it was within the manager's gift to grant cash and seniority (the usually associated symbology of advancement and progress), now, it's left to the poor pleb, him or herself to justify your supposed hauteur.
So yeah, I pushed human resources on the timeframe one more time yesterday, at the end of our amicable little chat, and I'm looking at a further 2-3 weeks before a recommendation is even issued on the application.
Then, if (and that might be a bigger "if" then I had first envisaged) a recommendation is given, it is then passed up to the high altar of the Chief Executive for an arbitrary decision.
And lo, with the wisdom of Solomon, the man from Del Monte says: "No".
I have forseen it.
Work sucks.
Anyway, I had best inform you all of my recent travails in terms of getting promoted / career advancement at work.
It all started out innocently enough, simply put, a good friend of mine who has risen through the ranks was in the position to pretty much offer a change of scene on a plate for myself. A lateral move but a ticket to the easy life in some ways, we've worked together before and it would have been quite a laugh.
So in tandem with my current direct report going on maternity leave until perhaps February of next year (this was all back in July), the ball and the advantage was firmly in my court. Outside of material recompense, this company has been pretty good to me (if you leave aside the soul destruction of coming in here everyday and operating one single cog in the wheel of capitalism 40 hours a week) and I did manage to get them to pay for the masters and also sneaked three months unpaid leave following a threat to simply quit.
So perhaps, I'm expecting too much, to have my hard earned contempt rewarded with anything more than the current dead end I find myself in. But then again, am I? Things go relatively well in work and certainly when I'm here, I feel like contributing and enjoy the job to a certain extent because welfare economics and price cap regulation is essentially a big game. A really boring big game but a game nonetheless and you can get lost in the plot of it and to some degree believe that you are actually delivering a benefit to society. In the sense that all going well, if we applied policy correctly, we'd end up with a nice shiny airport that was comfortable and didn't cost the earth.
However, anybody who has travelled through Dublin in the last 15 years might guess that we have been the victims of alot of very bad policy and became a sort of political football for the neo-conservative elements of the national administration during the last election.
But bringing this all back to me, because this is about me.
My manager basically agreed to plumb for a regrading of my current job which would allow me to suckle at the teat of junior management and pretty much represent fair value (in my honest opinion) for the six years of my young glorious life that I have wasted in this coalmine. All well and good, says I.
Then we write the shiny job evaluation document.
Then it turns out human resources (or as I like to refer to them, the devil incarnate) request a job profile to go on the side with that.
Well, that's really just re-hashing the job evaluation document so I do that.
It all gets submitted then with suitably glowing support from my manager and my big boss.
Timeframe? 6-8 weeks.
Ok, not ideal but sure let's see what happens.
This week, eight weeks expires with 'nary a word, I contact human resources to be informed the application will be reviewed shortly and even at that point, the CX gets the final "yay" or "nay" on it.
Then on top of that, HR decide they want to meet yesterday (with the head of Internal Audit in attendance) to: "get a better understanding of your role and key responsibilities"???
Hello??? Have you read the shagging document I fucking sent you???
Anyway, we have our little shindig and then in a moment of clarity it hits me, I'm the one here doing all the bloody work! Gone are the days when you worked and were rewarded on the basis of performance, when it was within the manager's gift to grant cash and seniority (the usually associated symbology of advancement and progress), now, it's left to the poor pleb, him or herself to justify your supposed hauteur.
So yeah, I pushed human resources on the timeframe one more time yesterday, at the end of our amicable little chat, and I'm looking at a further 2-3 weeks before a recommendation is even issued on the application.
Then, if (and that might be a bigger "if" then I had first envisaged) a recommendation is given, it is then passed up to the high altar of the Chief Executive for an arbitrary decision.
And lo, with the wisdom of Solomon, the man from Del Monte says: "No".
I have forseen it.
Work sucks.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Snakes On A Plane
Ok. After a couple of weeks of fruitless attempting to twist people's arms to come and see this movie, I finally said: "Feck the begrudgers" and headed on into Cineworld in town to catch one of the final few showings.
The local cinema in suburbia didn't deem this movie worthy of it's critical audience but little matter, I was in town anyway.
So, popcorn loaded and exorbitant price for admission paid, I took my seat for the visual spectacular in what was a surprisingly crowded cinema given that SOAP was at the end of it's run and that it was 6.30pm. Maybe, this was the difference between suburbia and the city centre crowd? A cosmopolitan crowd willing to not take itself too seriously and appreciate that this is movie is actually laughing with us.
Coming off the internet hype, this movie could have disappointed in a big way but I thought it was a thoroughly enjoyable flick.
The whole premise of Snakes... is ludicrous of course but the whole approach to the movie allows the audience to mentally queue up the inevitable, obvious but well constructed gags and dialogue. I won't spoil anybody's evening in the future by relating what these gags are because, truth told, there isn't much of a movie without them and that is perhaps, for me, Snakes real weakness.
The plot of how the snakes are actually embarked on the flight and slipped past whatever cursory security there was (maybe it's pre 911, in fact there are no references to 911 in the film at all) is never established and the actual ability of any smuggler to round up that many snakes in size and variety requires extreme disbelief suspension. But other than that the director does a good job of creating audience approved human cannon fodder for the snakes, makes all the right moves in terms of limiting the gore but at the same time bringing the humour and shows Samuel in his best light.
Which is ass-kicking.
Though, obviously, the snakes have no asses to speak of.
And whilst Sam's character quickly got his fill of the "motherfucking snakes" on the "motherfucking plane", I personally couldn't get enough.
Leave your brain at the door and enjoy a movie that comes on like a bizarre hybrid of Airplane with the tongue in cheek dialogue of Commando.
Snakes On A Plane
Director: David Ellis
Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Rachel Blanchard, Nathan Philips, Todd Louiso
Details: USA / 105 mins (15A)
Rating: 4/5
Motherfucker!
The local cinema in suburbia didn't deem this movie worthy of it's critical audience but little matter, I was in town anyway.
So, popcorn loaded and exorbitant price for admission paid, I took my seat for the visual spectacular in what was a surprisingly crowded cinema given that SOAP was at the end of it's run and that it was 6.30pm. Maybe, this was the difference between suburbia and the city centre crowd? A cosmopolitan crowd willing to not take itself too seriously and appreciate that this is movie is actually laughing with us.
Coming off the internet hype, this movie could have disappointed in a big way but I thought it was a thoroughly enjoyable flick.
The whole premise of Snakes... is ludicrous of course but the whole approach to the movie allows the audience to mentally queue up the inevitable, obvious but well constructed gags and dialogue. I won't spoil anybody's evening in the future by relating what these gags are because, truth told, there isn't much of a movie without them and that is perhaps, for me, Snakes real weakness.
The plot of how the snakes are actually embarked on the flight and slipped past whatever cursory security there was (maybe it's pre 911, in fact there are no references to 911 in the film at all) is never established and the actual ability of any smuggler to round up that many snakes in size and variety requires extreme disbelief suspension. But other than that the director does a good job of creating audience approved human cannon fodder for the snakes, makes all the right moves in terms of limiting the gore but at the same time bringing the humour and shows Samuel in his best light.
Which is ass-kicking.
Though, obviously, the snakes have no asses to speak of.
And whilst Sam's character quickly got his fill of the "motherfucking snakes" on the "motherfucking plane", I personally couldn't get enough.
Leave your brain at the door and enjoy a movie that comes on like a bizarre hybrid of Airplane with the tongue in cheek dialogue of Commando.
Snakes On A Plane
Director: David Ellis
Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, Rachel Blanchard, Nathan Philips, Todd Louiso
Details: USA / 105 mins (15A)
Rating: 4/5
Motherfucker!
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I don't need your drunken soundtracks - sunday
Last day.
And the wellingtons are beginning to chafe.
An ill advised bout of drunken self righteousness as the lads attempted to put the drunken cavalier to bed lead to sleeping boots outside of the tent for the vast majority of the night.
Up with the birds (for a piss as usual), I surveyed the damage.
The campsite looked godawful. Rob's skull drawings had not improved the outward vista of the tent, it still had that motivated seller look about it, swaying without conviction of gravity in the breeze.
Today would be done.
Stone Cold Sober.
Right, off to the car once more to deposit the gear, I returned (after the 40 min roundtrip) to a mere note and an unclear idea of my kamaradens whereabouts. Within ten minutes, we had once more stumbled upon each other.
Rob was clearly feeling the effects and the last smoothie of the batch wasn't clearing the excess of the night before from his eyes. After I had passed out, the lads moved on to the Bodytonic dance tent... So there was I, suitably refreshed, with a long stone cold sober day ahead and two reprobates for company.
I sought refuge in the comedy tent. An old mate from back home and a former colleague (of sorts, more of a slacker really) was doing a set at 2pm.
It was more a test of endurance than anything else. It's probably 'cos I know the poor bugger. I know how funny he can be, the forced nature of his material just leaves me cold but when we used to work together, we used to have each other in stitches. Mind you, the wider audience seemed to have a good time, so good luck to them all, says I!
I didn't really say that, sitting cross legged in the comedy tent (on the wet grass) had left my legs for dead and as I stood up and quickly fell down again (fuck), it was with a renewed weariness for the trials ahead that I ventured into the unforgiving weather.
It wasn't too bad looking out but it was hardly sun kissed.
Off to Duke Special, the Belfast based troubadour gave a good account of himself. First time I'd ever caught his thing live and it was thoroughly enjoyable, he'd obviously managed to marshall the northern element of the Picnic quite successfully and certainly towards the front, they seemed quite familiar with the material. 40 mins later and a death defying stage dive later Duke took his leave.
I was faced with a difficulty now.
Hang for Neosupervital or go back and catch the lads. In the end, I opted for the comrades when I really should have stuck to my guns. Ten minutes of Hot Chip didn't really do it for me, I probably wasn't in the mood sans alcohol so I wandered towards the at the beach wartime moroseness of Richard Hawley.
Much more my speed on the day. The ex-Pulp man delivered in spades. Despite the indignity of soundchecking his gear personally and the ironic cheers when he reappeared seconds after the soundcheck, he genuinely seemed to warm to the crowd. A fairly full Crawdaddy tent probably, given the competition of four other stages, a couple of dance things and general festival madness, gave the man heart. The band were thoroughly professional, cold and calculating to a degree but managed to portray the songs in their best light. The off kilter between song patter (I'm from Sheffield, England and I'll bleedin' kill ya) gave the thing a nice edge and we all finished happy in ourselves.
Time was killed.
People were getting steadily drunker but I wasn't touching a drop. The newly legislated for random alcohol tests were surely to be in evidence later on that night and in any case, I don't want blood on my conscience and certainly not in that fashion.
Rufus Wainwright... Josh Ritter...
Fuck it.
Where are The Yeah Yeah Yeahs???
You call that NYC?
You call that post-modern rock???
Karen O and gang took the stage at nine pm.
And what a gig. What a gig. The kids are alright.
Rob, Brian and all the gang were steadily getting drunker and more incoherent.
The end was in sight though, The Ys played "Maps" and a few more tunes and left the stage, I said my protracted goodbyes and trudged to safety in the dark of the rural night.
I sat in the car at 10:10pm in that crazy field.
I pondered the correct exit route in the complete absence of signage for a moment.
And turned the ignition.
Home at midnight.
PS> I didn't get breathalysed. Rob did. The next day. He passed though. Yay!
And the wellingtons are beginning to chafe.
An ill advised bout of drunken self righteousness as the lads attempted to put the drunken cavalier to bed lead to sleeping boots outside of the tent for the vast majority of the night.
Up with the birds (for a piss as usual), I surveyed the damage.
The campsite looked godawful. Rob's skull drawings had not improved the outward vista of the tent, it still had that motivated seller look about it, swaying without conviction of gravity in the breeze.
Today would be done.
Stone Cold Sober.
Right, off to the car once more to deposit the gear, I returned (after the 40 min roundtrip) to a mere note and an unclear idea of my kamaradens whereabouts. Within ten minutes, we had once more stumbled upon each other.
Rob was clearly feeling the effects and the last smoothie of the batch wasn't clearing the excess of the night before from his eyes. After I had passed out, the lads moved on to the Bodytonic dance tent... So there was I, suitably refreshed, with a long stone cold sober day ahead and two reprobates for company.
I sought refuge in the comedy tent. An old mate from back home and a former colleague (of sorts, more of a slacker really) was doing a set at 2pm.
It was more a test of endurance than anything else. It's probably 'cos I know the poor bugger. I know how funny he can be, the forced nature of his material just leaves me cold but when we used to work together, we used to have each other in stitches. Mind you, the wider audience seemed to have a good time, so good luck to them all, says I!
I didn't really say that, sitting cross legged in the comedy tent (on the wet grass) had left my legs for dead and as I stood up and quickly fell down again (fuck), it was with a renewed weariness for the trials ahead that I ventured into the unforgiving weather.
It wasn't too bad looking out but it was hardly sun kissed.
Off to Duke Special, the Belfast based troubadour gave a good account of himself. First time I'd ever caught his thing live and it was thoroughly enjoyable, he'd obviously managed to marshall the northern element of the Picnic quite successfully and certainly towards the front, they seemed quite familiar with the material. 40 mins later and a death defying stage dive later Duke took his leave.
I was faced with a difficulty now.
Hang for Neosupervital or go back and catch the lads. In the end, I opted for the comrades when I really should have stuck to my guns. Ten minutes of Hot Chip didn't really do it for me, I probably wasn't in the mood sans alcohol so I wandered towards the at the beach wartime moroseness of Richard Hawley.
Much more my speed on the day. The ex-Pulp man delivered in spades. Despite the indignity of soundchecking his gear personally and the ironic cheers when he reappeared seconds after the soundcheck, he genuinely seemed to warm to the crowd. A fairly full Crawdaddy tent probably, given the competition of four other stages, a couple of dance things and general festival madness, gave the man heart. The band were thoroughly professional, cold and calculating to a degree but managed to portray the songs in their best light. The off kilter between song patter (I'm from Sheffield, England and I'll bleedin' kill ya) gave the thing a nice edge and we all finished happy in ourselves.
Time was killed.
People were getting steadily drunker but I wasn't touching a drop. The newly legislated for random alcohol tests were surely to be in evidence later on that night and in any case, I don't want blood on my conscience and certainly not in that fashion.
Rufus Wainwright... Josh Ritter...
Fuck it.
Where are The Yeah Yeah Yeahs???
You call that NYC?
You call that post-modern rock???
Karen O and gang took the stage at nine pm.
And what a gig. What a gig. The kids are alright.
Rob, Brian and all the gang were steadily getting drunker and more incoherent.
The end was in sight though, The Ys played "Maps" and a few more tunes and left the stage, I said my protracted goodbyes and trudged to safety in the dark of the rural night.
I sat in the car at 10:10pm in that crazy field.
I pondered the correct exit route in the complete absence of signage for a moment.
And turned the ignition.
Home at midnight.
PS> I didn't get breathalysed. Rob did. The next day. He passed though. Yay!
Saturday, September 16, 2006
I don't need your drunken soundtracks - saturday
I feel like crap.
The wind and rain are literally howling outside of the tent, Mr. Bridges (unfortunately), lies comatose to my side and Mr. Naik can be heard emitting loud, sonourous type sounds from the seperate 2 man compartment of the overall 6 man tent which is really only suitable for 3-4 people.
It's early.
It's a festival.
And you are dying for relief.
The hedge beckons.
For dis relief much thanks Horatio as Spike Milligan would say.
So. Later.
After an advanced chat with Brian about the state of Irish politics, activism and our roles within that particular milieu. I adjourned to my vehicle to retrieve the wellington boots. It had rained overnight and the ground now demanded respect.
Boots secured and the 40 min roundtrip thereabouts endured, Rob still being pretty dead to the world, myself and Brian headed off to see Dublin band, The Things. Arch-purveyors of psycho-billy rock and consumate performers to go with. At midday, with a stonking hangover there really is nothing better and although the lead singer didn't treat us to the usual hand shoved down his own trousers treatment, they were still full value for money.
Saturday was a good day at the Picnic. We broke up the day at Fable (Jane's fair trade t-shirt shtick) and the rain kept off mostly and with that, wellington boot armoured as we were, things were fine.
Lying there with the gang, reminiscing with Jimmy and Siobhan about our respective memories of New Zealand all seemed rather well with the world and so it should. I could drink till the sun went down. Sunday would be an entirely different day.
I found my way to the main stage for Michael Franti (ex-Spearhead) and what a joy that was. Seriously. Ok, it was politics-lite, in an Eagle-Eye Cherry kind of vein but I wasn't complaining, it just about summed up my mood and I take my upbeat positive vibes where I can get 'em.
Hearing Monsieur Franti describe his experiences busking in Palestine and Israel really uplifted me, here was a guy who understood (at least in my conception) that to be sympathetic to the Palestinians didn't necessarily exclude or excuse their Israeli brethren.
With these happy thoughts I ran around the festival site, made a prayer for love, peace and beer at the non-denominational altar that Siobhan had going (her installation in the body & soul section of the festival) and debated with Christian the dubious merits of astrology.
I did not feel that my life was mapped in the stars but was totally within my grasp.
My velocity and orbit completely controlled by my own celestial body.
Then Broken Social Scene rocked our socks.
Canadian hipsters hoy, a beautiful blend of melancholy and noise rock. The Electric Arena, a communal church of non-denominational worship. Mebbe the hooch was kicking in... Lord knows...
At this point, the evening became fuzzy (but the knowing looks the next day told me I had a good time) and the end approacheth.
New Order took the main stage and we joined communally, in the spot that had been written. To the right of the sound desk.
A girl was dancing beside me.
"How does it feel? To treat me like you do?"
The wind and rain are literally howling outside of the tent, Mr. Bridges (unfortunately), lies comatose to my side and Mr. Naik can be heard emitting loud, sonourous type sounds from the seperate 2 man compartment of the overall 6 man tent which is really only suitable for 3-4 people.
It's early.
It's a festival.
And you are dying for relief.
The hedge beckons.
For dis relief much thanks Horatio as Spike Milligan would say.
So. Later.
After an advanced chat with Brian about the state of Irish politics, activism and our roles within that particular milieu. I adjourned to my vehicle to retrieve the wellington boots. It had rained overnight and the ground now demanded respect.
Boots secured and the 40 min roundtrip thereabouts endured, Rob still being pretty dead to the world, myself and Brian headed off to see Dublin band, The Things. Arch-purveyors of psycho-billy rock and consumate performers to go with. At midday, with a stonking hangover there really is nothing better and although the lead singer didn't treat us to the usual hand shoved down his own trousers treatment, they were still full value for money.
Saturday was a good day at the Picnic. We broke up the day at Fable (Jane's fair trade t-shirt shtick) and the rain kept off mostly and with that, wellington boot armoured as we were, things were fine.
Lying there with the gang, reminiscing with Jimmy and Siobhan about our respective memories of New Zealand all seemed rather well with the world and so it should. I could drink till the sun went down. Sunday would be an entirely different day.
I found my way to the main stage for Michael Franti (ex-Spearhead) and what a joy that was. Seriously. Ok, it was politics-lite, in an Eagle-Eye Cherry kind of vein but I wasn't complaining, it just about summed up my mood and I take my upbeat positive vibes where I can get 'em.
Hearing Monsieur Franti describe his experiences busking in Palestine and Israel really uplifted me, here was a guy who understood (at least in my conception) that to be sympathetic to the Palestinians didn't necessarily exclude or excuse their Israeli brethren.
With these happy thoughts I ran around the festival site, made a prayer for love, peace and beer at the non-denominational altar that Siobhan had going (her installation in the body & soul section of the festival) and debated with Christian the dubious merits of astrology.
I did not feel that my life was mapped in the stars but was totally within my grasp.
My velocity and orbit completely controlled by my own celestial body.
Then Broken Social Scene rocked our socks.
Canadian hipsters hoy, a beautiful blend of melancholy and noise rock. The Electric Arena, a communal church of non-denominational worship. Mebbe the hooch was kicking in... Lord knows...
At this point, the evening became fuzzy (but the knowing looks the next day told me I had a good time) and the end approacheth.
New Order took the main stage and we joined communally, in the spot that had been written. To the right of the sound desk.
A girl was dancing beside me.
"How does it feel? To treat me like you do?"
Friday, September 15, 2006
I don't need your drunken soundtracks - friday
Slightly belated but what better way to kick off the new blog than with a review of The Electric Picnic experience and a weekend spent under canvas (rarely) in Stradbally, Co. Laois.
The ticket had been purchased well in advance and upon my return from parts known and despite the price, €175, I can truly say I was moist with anticipation. The Picnic is heralded as the hispter answer to the Irish festival experience. Oxegen is for example, definitely a once in a lifetime experience. Go once and you'll never want to go back. The mainstream acts tend to bring the GAA jersey & buckfast packing brigade out in force and tho' some are good natured, there is a certain predilection amongst this group for the getting totally out of it within five minutes, hurdle the tent, set fire to the tent and generally annoy the crap out of everybody else.
Therefore, probably because The Picnic is disassociated with this type of clientele, there is a certain distasteful inverse snobbery to the whole thing. The fears that the regulars had, seeing as the attendance was increased by 10-15000 thousand this year on the usual 25000 were set in the context of the newcomers not being as chilled as the old hands and that there would be "trouble".
These fears were far from realised in the final event and though certainly there were more people than ever before, the general atmosphere was certainly chilled and far more relaxed than at Oxegen.
I left the airport at lunchtime on the Friday, having dispatched the tent to Stradbally earlier in the day in the company of some of Rob's mates. The decision to drive was a tough one but given the fact that my annual leave is non-existent and the extreme likelihood of a no show on Monday at work should I stay the Sunday night meant I was burning gravel at about 1:30pm.
Two hours or so of stationary traffic later in the slip lane off the motor way on the way into Stradbally, I exited the car.
Outstanding in my own field.
Other festival types were quickly making their preparations for war, an operation that probably rivalled a D-Day landing in it's efficiency. Tents, trays of beers, wellington boots, extra socks, all these essentials were ferreted from the depths of thousands of automobiles. I surveyed the scene for a moment and then joined the rabble in the panic.
Having gotten through security and located the campsite where the lads had staked their claim, I approached with supplies in one hand, the mobile in the other and trepidation everywhere else.
Jay was supposed to have put up the tent.
It was clear that the tent had been erected by someone who had no material interest in it's structural integrity or the material well being of those prisoners who would rely upon it for shelter. In view of the inclement weather in prospect, there had been no rain as of yet but it was certainly promised, I immediately set about righting the structure and inserting the sturdier pegs that I had specifically purchased for just such an emergency. Ably abetted by two cans of beer, Rob and Brian and in just 40 mins, we had righted the tent and all was well with the world. It was time for the mad dash across the fields to catch the first worthwhile band of the weekend, those mighty Belgian art rockers, dEUS.
On returning to the campsite later, we would discover that our tent efforts had been for naught. Some uncomprising peg stealers that arrived during Friday night left our structural integrity well below what was recommended and at times during the weekend, the stability of the tent would be dependent solely upon the comatose bodies resting within it.
Back to the art rock. dEUS at 6:30pm on a Friday evening with a beer in one hand and a full weekend of shenanigans in prospect, well. I was a happy person. Following a suitably electric performance, with an excellent version of my dEUS favourite - "Put the Freaks Upfront" from The Ideal Crash, we adjourned to the merchandise stalls to hunt good friends.
Jane, Christian's significant other had her new label partnership, Fable, up and running and a concession at the festival itself. The tent boutique provided a useful meeting point for the next three days and we managed to rendezvous frequently and annoy the hell out of Jane doubtless. Still though, she managed to get The Rapture one of her t-shirts on the Sunday so that should have been more than enough recompense!
Ear-splittery was on hand next from instrumental (mostly) noise rockers Mogwai. We followed this up with a quick jaunt to the Crawdaddy tent and PJ Harvey who was in suitably bewitching form. I have vague recollections of Massive Attack on the main stage but unfortunately the excitement and exertions of the day and the heroic consumption of alcohol had by now taken it's inevitable toll.
I repaired to the tent at some point and swiftly lost consciousness whilst the more energetic and severely drugged amongst the picnic faithful disappeared to the dance arenas and into other people's tents to do unspeakable things.
There was a still whole world to explore tomorrow.
The ticket had been purchased well in advance and upon my return from parts known and despite the price, €175, I can truly say I was moist with anticipation. The Picnic is heralded as the hispter answer to the Irish festival experience. Oxegen is for example, definitely a once in a lifetime experience. Go once and you'll never want to go back. The mainstream acts tend to bring the GAA jersey & buckfast packing brigade out in force and tho' some are good natured, there is a certain predilection amongst this group for the getting totally out of it within five minutes, hurdle the tent, set fire to the tent and generally annoy the crap out of everybody else.
Therefore, probably because The Picnic is disassociated with this type of clientele, there is a certain distasteful inverse snobbery to the whole thing. The fears that the regulars had, seeing as the attendance was increased by 10-15000 thousand this year on the usual 25000 were set in the context of the newcomers not being as chilled as the old hands and that there would be "trouble".
These fears were far from realised in the final event and though certainly there were more people than ever before, the general atmosphere was certainly chilled and far more relaxed than at Oxegen.
I left the airport at lunchtime on the Friday, having dispatched the tent to Stradbally earlier in the day in the company of some of Rob's mates. The decision to drive was a tough one but given the fact that my annual leave is non-existent and the extreme likelihood of a no show on Monday at work should I stay the Sunday night meant I was burning gravel at about 1:30pm.
Two hours or so of stationary traffic later in the slip lane off the motor way on the way into Stradbally, I exited the car.
Outstanding in my own field.
Other festival types were quickly making their preparations for war, an operation that probably rivalled a D-Day landing in it's efficiency. Tents, trays of beers, wellington boots, extra socks, all these essentials were ferreted from the depths of thousands of automobiles. I surveyed the scene for a moment and then joined the rabble in the panic.
Having gotten through security and located the campsite where the lads had staked their claim, I approached with supplies in one hand, the mobile in the other and trepidation everywhere else.
Jay was supposed to have put up the tent.
It was clear that the tent had been erected by someone who had no material interest in it's structural integrity or the material well being of those prisoners who would rely upon it for shelter. In view of the inclement weather in prospect, there had been no rain as of yet but it was certainly promised, I immediately set about righting the structure and inserting the sturdier pegs that I had specifically purchased for just such an emergency. Ably abetted by two cans of beer, Rob and Brian and in just 40 mins, we had righted the tent and all was well with the world. It was time for the mad dash across the fields to catch the first worthwhile band of the weekend, those mighty Belgian art rockers, dEUS.
On returning to the campsite later, we would discover that our tent efforts had been for naught. Some uncomprising peg stealers that arrived during Friday night left our structural integrity well below what was recommended and at times during the weekend, the stability of the tent would be dependent solely upon the comatose bodies resting within it.
Back to the art rock. dEUS at 6:30pm on a Friday evening with a beer in one hand and a full weekend of shenanigans in prospect, well. I was a happy person. Following a suitably electric performance, with an excellent version of my dEUS favourite - "Put the Freaks Upfront" from The Ideal Crash, we adjourned to the merchandise stalls to hunt good friends.
Jane, Christian's significant other had her new label partnership, Fable, up and running and a concession at the festival itself. The tent boutique provided a useful meeting point for the next three days and we managed to rendezvous frequently and annoy the hell out of Jane doubtless. Still though, she managed to get The Rapture one of her t-shirts on the Sunday so that should have been more than enough recompense!
Ear-splittery was on hand next from instrumental (mostly) noise rockers Mogwai. We followed this up with a quick jaunt to the Crawdaddy tent and PJ Harvey who was in suitably bewitching form. I have vague recollections of Massive Attack on the main stage but unfortunately the excitement and exertions of the day and the heroic consumption of alcohol had by now taken it's inevitable toll.
I repaired to the tent at some point and swiftly lost consciousness whilst the more energetic and severely drugged amongst the picnic faithful disappeared to the dance arenas and into other people's tents to do unspeakable things.
There was a still whole world to explore tomorrow.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Rebirth is good...
For backstory, go here!
