Primavera Dreaming

Back from nine days of sun, sea and psychedelia in the city of dreams: Barcelona. Because I currently have no voice, here's the lowdown in wordy form.

As a sidenote, I'm currently on my comedown which consists almost entirely of
i) me being socially terrible
ii) me battling narcolepsy
iii) everyone suffering
which is essentially my lifestyle all year round, but now with added tinnitus.

HIGHLIGHTS:

* Katie. My favourite chica in the world. Anyone who brings you falafel in bed, comes to watch every band you mention and puts up with your idiocy for nine whole days is worth an asterik.

Gratuitous picture of Katie and I by the portaloos. Hello boys.

* Barcelona on two wheels. What an beautiful city. Possibly my favourite bit was when a little old lady sat on the back of Katie's bike when we were at a crossing. Also in some kind of mystically stealthy move, I didn't get told off once for eschewing the bike lanes while Katie was lambasted. Bitchface strikes again!

* Parc Guell aka potentially the most enchanting place in the world. I could've stayed there forever but Katie's feet hurt (a recurring theme). There's musicians in the caves too! Paid for music for the first time in a while when I gave several Euros to the guys playing the most incongruously jolly version of Eleanor Rigby I've ever heard. The psychedelic didgeridoo guy was even better. Psychedelic. didgeridoo. Imagine. There's a video I made somewhere but unfortunately it lingers on some woman's arse too long so you really will just have to imagine.

* dance off during Numbers Showcase! Not that I remember it at all but apparently I had an hour-long dance off with some Spanish guy during. See also: Obits, where I unknowingly challenged a Spanish chica with my ass-shaking sass. I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I WAS HAVING A DANCE OFF. Anyway, I hope I served the homeland well. Gibraltar could depend on this.

* Benga! Disclaimer: Benga is fucking terrible and I would never listen to him on CD ever BUT when it's 4am and you're merry with mirth and you're dancing at the top of the hill while some guy as ridiculous as Benga storms the stage he becomes your favourite person in the world. I love Benga. and Marlene. and trying to go "higher higher" (Benga's only lyric) when you're already at the top of a hill (a challenge).

* Aeroplane. I don't really know what he did but I was having the best time to it.

* Singing Hero on the beach, in the taxi, between bands. Singing our homemade Katie song. Singing Hero. Hero. Celine Dion. Some Jackson 5 when the mood hit. Hero.

* I Break Horses aka the loudest dream I ever had. They were perfect. Suggestion: let's see them in an indoor venue and dance 'til our ears break.

* Taking a cable car to a fairground on top of a mountain only to find... it was closed. Except it wasn't. It was full of people, but if you wanted to go on a ride you had a selection of three and you had to go and get a person to operate it (fraught not least because nobody speaks English). It was kind of eerie, kind of charming but it did offer lovely views of Barcelona so...

* the castle. We went to the castle by accident. It was a good castle. Not really sure what else I can say about a castle.

* getting our picture taken for TWO fashion blogs. That they would choose Katie makes perfect sense but ME?! Convinced the "blog" is actually called Shit English Fashion and is just a slideshow of my Facebook pictures (confession: it's my Facebook and I took them myself).

* eating tapas for two on the regular. No regrets.

* beach chatter!

* sleepovers <3

* On a more general note, the food in Spain is predictably delicious. Pan con tomate, mushroom toast, chorizo, gazpacho, as much olive oil as you can gurgle. There was an excellent falafel place where we lived too. For a consummate carnivore, I really do rate falafel.

* bonding with Mancunians over the ONE TIME I went to Manchester. Can't quite believe I managed to squeeze so many conversations out of it but that'll be my verbal diahrrea doing its thing. Also managed to end up grooving right next to someone who'd been at the tiny Japandroids gig in Manchester before - at the Japandroids show. Kismet.

* the time where we lost our hostel. 

Speaking of the hostel. No really, this was actually it.

* Matty aka the one. Poor guy thought he'd sit next to us for a bit to have a look at our program and quite literally did not leave our side til around 48 hours later. And now we might not see him again. So it goes. EVERY TIME.

* Thee Oh Sees! I spent most of the set narrowly eschewing brain damage, just as planned. They ended so I left but then Sleep cancelled so they returned and I essentially turned into the cheerleader for all the people on the bleachers.

* The Cure. Oh sweet fuzzy Jesus, the Cure. I had this ridiculous moment at the beginning where I cried, open-mouthed, through all of Plainsong and most of Pictures of You and I wasn't even in the crowd at that point, so it was basically me having a breakdown while everyone around me chats in a language I don't understand (English) and gets stoned. STORY OF MY LIFE. Anyway, like a trooper I pulled through, disappeared into the crowd and went on to intermittently mope and groove for the following 3 hours. Seriously, it was like a musical equivalent of Return of the King: kept you wanting more despite the odd duff bit and (joyously) endless endings. I spent the set following some old guys around because they knew the words. It probably did creep them out but that's what I do. Then I paid 10 euros for a portable beer while they were playing Let's Go To Bed.
The good: Bananafishbones! They played it. Infact, they played lots off the Top which was a pleasant surprise. Also, Wrong Number. Robert: "lime green / lime green and tangerine" *green and orange lights*. I was probably just being deliriously delighted or something, but it was hilarious to me at the time.
The bad: No Fascination Street or Killing an Arab!
The ugly: They played Fight. Fight! The worst song. Robert introduced it by saying they hadn't played it since 1987. Yeah Rob, I think you should have left it there.

* The Big Book of Sex Scandals. What else can I say.

* falling in love with Dirty Beaches, the sleazy psycho. HOT DAMN. Katie and I never agree on guys (she likes preppy guys with bad shoes; I like slightly hairy metrosexuals) but whoa.We're already working on our characteristically juvenile banner for Bestival.

* the children's playground at Parc del Forum. Trying to fit my arse into a baby swing was a highlight. Katie liked the slide.

* Chromatics and their excellent decision to open with an abridged Tick of the Clock. Alas, no Ryan Gosling.

* Unintentional holiday soundtrack. I didn't take my iPod so this consisted of Katie and I's heartbreaking renedition of Hero and Spanish radio. Spanish DJs really love Gold by Spandau Ballet and Adele. The taxi back was the best though. I'm convinced we weren't listening to the radio but a mix designed to sound like the radio to pre-empt our departure lounge melancholy. 'Don't Stop Me Now' followed by 'Yesterday' was far too felicitous.

* people's attempts to guess where we were from. Katie got Arab, Spanish. I got (deep breath): Russian, Polish, Icelandic, Chinese (!), Swedish, Finnish. Secret: we're actually just sexy nomads.

* playing shag marry kill with the Primavera program. I married Grimes. Every time.

* the Weeknd's cover of Dirty Diana. Perfect in so many ways it's unreal. We spent about 10 minutes trying to make a video before we realised he was on to a different song.

* possessing the mystical (in?)ability to be able to find the beach from any spot in Barcelona, yet never find our way back.

* The disappearing bar we called "hot man bar", despite the conspicuous absense of any hot men whatsoever.

* The time we lost our hostel.

* The time we thought someone's garden was Parc Guell.

* Grooving to Grimes in the sun. Oblivion was like Gang Gang Dance doing First Communion at Green Man a few years ago: just mad euphoria. She had loads of sound problems at the start but she was so bloody adorable about it and ack, she's my favourite. Really would marry.

* Watching Katie watch Iceage.

* Mad Italians! They were Katie's best friends and I only got to meet them once but they were hilarious and all the words in the world won't do them justice.

 This. YO BITCH AND STUFF.

THE HMMS

* Saki! Saki is a 26 year old "promoter" who "owns" a bar where he doesn't know any of the drinks they sell. Things Saki likes: Celine Dion, trying to marry Katie. Things Saki dislikes: Becca's face, Becca's arms, men, when Becca walks two feet away to ring Katie to get her away from Saki in the least stealthy of all the actions. And it started  so well. Oh dear. Saki is the personification of hmm.

* Being the drunkest I've ever been - as in, I don't know when day happened - and subsequently attempting to kip on a bench, on the street, by some policemen. Was finally dragged on to the Metro where I passed out standing up and then resorted to mildly pikey-like behaviour. I've put it in the hmms but it's probably a nadir.

* finding a bottle of Absolut on the beach and actually concluding that it would be a good idea to drink it later on in the week. Bears no relation to the point above. None at all.

* The Spanish and their love of PDAs. As someone who struggles with mere DAs, it's most disconcerting to watch people make out on the metro, at a crossing, RIGHT INFRONT OF YOU WHILE THE CURE PLAY 'TRUST'. I mean, whatever works and all, but personally odes to gut eating despair don't do much for me.

* Mean (if exquisitely chiselled) Spanish bar staff. It only happened twice, but really, standing at the front of a bar for entire sets is not what I envisaged when I booked my ticket.

* The juicy revelation that the beach beer sellers hide their beer in the sewage system! Katie embarked on a righteous mission to inform our fellow tourists, which basically consisted of yelling "SEWAGE" every time the beer guys walked past. In the week's least surprising news, they fucking despised us.

* The questionable pick-up artistry of Spanish guys. Genuinely wish to conduct a study into how many times standing in a girl's way, going "sexy! sexy!" has resulted in intercourse. Or even a response.

* buying 7.6% "beer" which turned out to be (disgusting) lemon shandy that was simply named 7.6. At least it was cheap.

* being in the portaloo for It's Real and Wonder Years during Real Estate's set! I was in the crowd for a blissful renedition of Municipality though. Big mercies.

THE LOWS

* Gargantuan nationalist douchebag who went on some massive fuck-off rant about how we should be at Sonar and how the Chameleons are the only band worth seeing at Primavera. Right. He had a really cool Scottish friend though so I just chatted to him while Katie and Matty battled it out. Ever the pacifist, me.

* the bit where the Men didn't play Animal.

* not buying the amazing Japandroids t-shirt.

This isn't even the half of it. Gah. Not that I expect anyone will read this but I plan to carry on rambling regardless from tomorrow. Until then, adios amigos! (and te amo xxxxx if you actually read this)

2011: an abridged list of highlights

* waking up on New Year's Day in Tokyo replete with heavy head and happy heart. Tom, Finch and I spent the first week of the year hopping on and off the shinkansen, supping our Kahlua Milks and biking it around Hiroshima. We also went to the Ghibli Museum! I'll never find another country as perfect as Japan, and that's fine by me. 

* wheezing my way to the top of Kilimanjaro. It wasn't easy but I always feel like a fraud when I say it was hard. I mean it was quite hard but perfectly doable so long as you're i) lucky, ii) stubborn and iii) mobile. Thankfully on this occasion I was armed with the lot and, for my trouble, rewarded with an onslaught of otherworldliness and the most laboriously lovely experience of my life. We stayed in Africa afterwards but while Tanzania's a very interesting country I confess I didn't do a whole lot. Lobster is nice, though. A bit salty.

* graduating. I don't actually consider graduation a highlight so much as a necessary evil. I guess it was quite a nice day though and my family enjoyed it and the list probably wouldn't be complete without it, so er, yeah.

* the last six months of Uni, which were spent almost entirely in the Lansdowne. That's not even an exaggeration. Stepping down from Film Soc presidency was a low, but Preet has done such an ace job as my, uh, successor, I can't stay sad. I think one of my New Year's Resolutions is to stop being so precious about something I no longer have anything to do with, but there is still a part of me that's desperate to vet out the douchebags, like some deluded overthrown dictator.
I probably shouldn't admit that.

* ATP. Oh God, ATP. If there's a formula for a perfect weekend then Barry Hogan knows it and this is what he's done with it. Animal Collective curated but the real stars were Gang Gang, Black Dice, real ale, Group Doueh, new friends, old bands, dancing, breakfast buns and Ariel Pink's 3-second Burger King gig. I would gurgle glass for the opportunity to do it all again.

* Saturday Reading was fun. The festival itself is not cool - I didn't realise it was possible for something that's theoretically quite arty to be so blandly corporate - but the bands made up for it. And by bands, I mostly just mean Pulp, who were and remain the bees knees. Incidentally, my new New Years Resolution is to find and marry Jarvis Cocker.

* the London "holiday", which consisted of seeing Katie, eating Nandos, pub times and wandering around Shoreditch, Soho and places I'm not cool enough for. It doesn't sound like much but it was actually one of the loveliest things I've done all year, though this could just be my unyielding boner for London talking.

* Gigs. I didn't go to as many as I'd have liked, but there were two which would have stuck out any year: Les Savy Fav at the Sound Bar and (deep breath) Acid Mothers Temple and the Melting Paraiso UFO at the Hare and Hounds. LSF were stunning; I don't know if Tim Harrington putting something on my head and giving me his Corona legitimately constitues a claim-to-fame, but it's certainly a claim-to-, er, ace. AMT were also ridiculously great: loud and crazy and holy shit, THE GUITAR'S ON FIIIIRE!
Aw man.

* while we're on the subject of music, it's been a good year! I was supposed to do a proper top 10 (as in I've spent the year thinking about it) but I left it too late and now I have no time to write it up, though it does exist. If you're interested (and I'm sure you are), you can just message me for it or something. My Gmail account should be able to handle the 12,000 emails I expect to receive.

* Getting some words in the Guardian! I know two people who've managed to write entire articles for the Graun, crushing my woefully inordinate ego somewhat, but I'm still a pleased little pea. Read my stupid pretentious waffle here.

* finally getting a job. I mean, work is not a highlight in anybody's life (unless they go by the name of Taka Imamura) but it's nice that there are people out there who can see that I am capable of doing stuff. Also good: having money again. So much wine.

Ultimately I think I'd describe 2011 as bittersweet. I've had some of the best experiences of my life - absolutely - but, contrary to the above, I've also dealt with what were easily some of the worst. On balance, I guess it's been a learning curve but time will only tell whether I retain anything (unlikely).

My only real resolutions for 2012 are to do "more": have more fun, see more films, hear more music, buy more dresses (wut), write more, smile more, do more, etc.

Oh, and to be living, er, more abroad by this time next year.

Happy 2012, guys!

Films of the Year

Wankiness will ensue. Consider yourself warned.

5

I'll say one thing for Lars von Trier: he's never dull. His musing on the world's end is typically atypical, dotty and daft, but it's also genuinely heartfelt. A film of two halves, Melancholia is both a grim comedy of errors and a surreal exploration of misery and muliebrity. Inevitably it all occurs against the backdrop of, uh, Melancholia, a sinister sister planet-cum-aching great metaphor for human suffering. What's surprising is how real it all feels: after the grand-guignol theatricality of Antichrist, the honesty here is startling. The second hour is defined entirely by a sense of quiet resignation: the realisation that when it all ends, we won't be braving explosions, battling flames or shouting down suits at the bloody Pentagon; we'll be dealing with the relatives. It won't be heroic. It'll be pathetic. And in that, as von Trier illustrates here, really rather beautiful too.

4

This Korean revenge thriller seemed to slip under the radar a little, which is unfortunate because it's kind of brilliant. Byung-hun Lee plays the agent out to avenge his fiancee's murder; Min-sik Choi is the deliciously sadistic killer. It all sounds rather generic (for Korea) but what plays out is a thing of poetry - grim, but prettily and therefore palatably so. As much as I love the unabashedly badass way America does revenge in movies (see #1 and #2), there's something dignified, even honourable about it in Asian cinema and I Saw the Devil is no exception. The film glides by with near-Shakespearean elegance*, then it ends, and in the 2.5 hours between you witness something that is - if you'll excuse the pun - devilishly good.

* admittedly we're talking Titus Andronicus-Shakespearean "elegance", ie: pseudo-intellectual torture porn. But, y'know, amazing.

3

That this only comes in at third place says a lot for my Top 2. Just as its central couple cling to their relationship, Blue Valentine clung to my top spot for much of 2011. Franky I've never seen anything like it. Director Derek Cianfrance spent twelve years on the film and it shows. Honesty - real, documentary-like honesty - is like golddust in the movies, but Cianfrance, Michelle Williams and the perennially brilliant Ryan Gosling absolutely nail it. With the sole exception of Annie Hall (and perhaps Eternal Sunshine), I can't think of another film that captures the minutiae of relationships so well and so candidly. Blue Valentine is the kind of film that actually tells you things about yourself; some of them good, some of them insufferable, but what's great about it is that for all the years of hard graft and re-drafts, it doesn't even feel like it.

2

It's rare that a film will live up to the promise of a good trailer. It's just as rare that a guy as smart as David Fincher is given free rein to make a multi-million dollar blockbuster without compromising on something. But every now and again it happens, and as the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo proves, when it does it's absolutely jaw-dropping.
For all the talk of violence - and there's quite a bit - it's actually the humanity of the story that penetrates. The relationship between Rooney Mara's (literal) cyber punk and Daniel Craig's grizzled journo is unexpectedly tender, and gives the film some much-needed heart. One thing I'm a sucker for is a bittersweet ending, and GWTDT delivers one where the punch is compounded by the incongruous sweetness of what went before.

As the eponymous Girl, Mara is excellent, but the world and its dog knows that. Craig though, seems to have been overlooked by almost everybody. Blomkvist isn't a particularly showy role, but Craig imbues him with such warmth and turns a potentially underwritten character into one you really root for. It's great. It's all great, and accordingly the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is pretty much the film of the year.
Well. Sort of.

1

Surprise! I actually think this film has popped up on every End of-Year list in existence. If they're harsh it resides somewhere in the bottom five; if they're kind (and therefore right) it's number 1, because it is, y'know, the best. I wrote about it here but it's worth all reiterating because it's so good. There's nothing else like it but everything is like it. It wears its influences on its silver satin sleeve, and yet it's influential. It's a derivative true original. It's John Hughes and Chan-wook Park. It's synthpop, smashed thighs, elevator kisses, elevator assasinations, silent longing and amateur dental surgery all wrapped up in a hot pink bundle. It's a mood flick with a car chase. It's absolutely ridiculous and absolutely sublime. It's Drive, it's ace and it's my film of the year.

I'm in the Guardian

rambling on about a little-known masterpiece. Ironically, I have no words.

Best Pulp songs

A selection of their finest, because I'm on a writing kick and real life is boring.

In keeping with the spirit of things, I've added a prosaically titled 'sex rating' for the horndogs amongst you. As fellow Britpopster Phil Daniels might say, "you love a bit of it."

Sheffield: Sex City: Like the Serge Gainsbourg of South Yorkshire, Jarvis shrieks and purrs his way through eight muggy minutes, as keyboardist Candida rambles on about "the sound of people fucking". Essentially, it's the precursor to Acrylic Afternoons: coated in lust and attuned to the heat in the humdrum, but without all those bits about the tea.
Sex rating: 5/5. It's a bit naughty. 

Party Hard: Better than any song with a robot filter has the right to be and forever danceable. While the guitars are reminiscent of Wish-era Cure, the vocal is all Bowie: deep, talky and impossibly alluring. Never a bad thing.
Sex rating: 3/5. It's not exactly spilling over with sauce, but it does feature the line, "he just shed his load on your best party frock." Well, it's raunchier than anything else in the Britpop canon.

Cocaine Socialism: I'm too young to remember the 90s in any detail (it starts and stops at jelly sandals for me), but even I can get behind this acidic critique of New Labour, Cool Britannia and Tony blummin' Blair. Some say its a bit dated, and it's undeniably a product of its time - but then, that's its charm: it captures the zeitgeist and wrings its scaly neck. Nice bit of brass in there too.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless you fancy Tony Blair, in which case it gets a 1.

This is Hardcore: Or as one Last.fm user elegantly put it, "the sound of Jarvis Cocker fucking Britpop to death while Damon Albarn and the Gallagher brothers look on in horror." And what a sleazy, sticky, smoke-stained sound it is.
Sex rating: 5/5. Impossible to pick out just one line: the song is dripping with sex - just desperate, depressing and mostly figurative hate-sex.

O.U (Gone, Gone): Probably the closest Pulp ever came to a conventional pop song: short, sweet and stupidly catchy.
Sex rating: 1/5. "He needed her undressed" is exceptionally tame by Pulp standards.

I Spy: A song that seethes with class-hate, jealousy and the delectable nectar of vengeance. The venom is so palpable you can taste it; the menace so real that it scared the shit out of Luther Vandross when he shared the bill on Jools Holland. So vicious and sinister. So demented and pissed off. So immensely, wickedly delicious, it might even be my favourite Pulp song. God only knows what that says about me.
Sex rating: Anywhere between 0/5 - 5/5, depending on your class status, I guess.

Pink Glove: A charming little ditty about discovering your ex is into leather now, it has so much more heart than it should.
Sex rating: 4/5 for the general subject matter and melodic grunting. If they'd stuck around (any) longer they could have been the band to popularise harmonised moaning - and not in the Smithsian sense.

Mis-Shapes: A rallying cry to the mis-shapes and the misfits, the losers and the nerds, the geeks, the fat one, the "tramp", the boy who got sent to school in a jumper three sizes too big. One for anyone who's ever been laughed at, taunted or slapped around the head by some knob who thought he had it all worked out, when he couldn't even work out his maths. One for all those who are still slightly bitter, and not even ashamed of it. One for us.
Sex rating: 0/5, unless the thought of overthrowing a load of chavs turns you on. On second thought...

Bad Cover Version: It's a bit Christmassy, a bit anthemic and a lot sad. It does make me cry a little, as anything remotely poignant is wont to do.
Sex rating: 1/5. It's just too sad to be sexy.

Common People: Obviously.
Sex rating: 3/5. For all of its class anthem pretensions, it's essentially just a song about somebody wanting a shag, isn't it?

Pointless reviews of things you don't care about*

*with pretty pictures. 

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

 Gary Oldman searches for a mole. Not a bodily one - that would be weird - but a rogue agent spreading fear and doubt through a circus of spies in '70s Britain. Surprisingly, pacing isn't a problem; keeping up is the hard bit. It's a film that relies on its audience having an understanding of subtext, and more than one brain cell each. Sadly I'm deficient in this type of thing so it was all a bit of a slog, though a thoroughly absorbing one. I have it on good authority (Dad) that the period detail is spot-on: greys, browns, bad architecture and a general air of oppressiveness and paranoia. The performances are as good as you'd expect from such a cast and everyone gets their moment, which is a rare occurence with an ensemble but always nice. Take your brain, take your dad; don't take a toilet break.

*

Drive

 Impossibly sweet and unbelievably brutal, Drive is the sum of so many mutually-contradicting themes, scenes and quirks that it should be an incoherent, silly mess. Of course, it isn't: it's the most elegantly violent thing since Oldboy and the best mood piece since Lost in Translation. Ryan Gosling plays the getaway driver who deigns to help a brother out, and comes to pay for it. Cue kick-ins, amateur dental surgery and lots of weirdly gorgeous synthpop. I'd love to write a proper review but it would take 2,000 words and a detailed Venn diagram to merely describe the tone, so instead I'll say just this: it's the cutest film of the year, and the most brutal. How does it work? I don't know. But it's so much fun, I don't need to.

*

Tomorrow I'm seeing Crazy, Stupid, Love. I know. I hope you're sorry, Gosling.

Great Cure Songs (with wanky captions)

Bestival is over! Here's a playlist. The "hits" have (mostly) been omitted in favour of album tracks and B-sides, because i) I'm a snob and ii) I'm sort of trying to convert the unenlightened, and if they've not liked Boys Don't Cry for the last twenty years, they ain't likely to change now. The rest of you are welcome to share your opinions - unless, of course, you went to Bestival.

The Playlist (#2):

Breathe. Gorgeous.

Sugar Girl. Also gorgeous.

Plainsong. In which Robert perfects the formula for The Perfect Song, multiplies it by a million and makes a recording of what happens.

A Letter to Elise. 75% of why the Wish album is underrated. As in; it's so good it even atones for Wendy Time.

Pictures of You, Robert being lovely and melancholic over eight minutes (not five) of lovely melancholia. (It's late, shush).

2 Late. Not actually a Field Mice cover, though you'd be forgiven for thinking so for all the beatific jangly bliss.

Apart. For the chemists out there, this represents the other 25% of Wish's allure (and 100% of its woe).

Catch. Though I love it and regard it as one of the Cure's finest pop songs, I've partially included this for the video, which produces in me an inexorable desire to touch Robert's hair.

Underneath the Stars. From 2008's 4.13 Dream. Yep, they've still got it.

One Hundred Years. Well it wouldn't be complete without the mandatory dose of nihilism.