They had – in all the wisdom of a D’Unbelievables commit-TEE – hired the weddingplanner to do the job. To festoon the park in lights and glitter, to construct a family-friendly winter wonderland in a park normally populated by emos and winos.
It should have come as little surprise then, having seen his television show, that it would become a hellish Disney meets Vegas version of Christmas. The pathway is lit by garish purple fairy lights – hundreds of them – casting an unhealthy glow on everyone walking through. Small elf houses litter the park as post-boxes for Santa while – inexplicably – Peter Pan and Tinkerbell run around entertaining (but usually scaring) children. Apparently they work for Santa, though I don’t remember that ever being mentioned in the book. Perhaps all the Santa costumes had already been hired. A machine, only barely hidden in the bare branches of one of the thin trees, sprays foam in a poor attempt at snow. But worst of all, speakers hanging from every tree blast out a playlist of only three songs on repeat. They sound as if they’ve been lifted from sub-Disney animated movies, sickeningly saccharine and bland in their Americanism. Only one is an actual Christmas song – a chipmunks (honest to god) and girl version of ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’. The other two are simply vapid songs about being nice. Or something. One can’t help but wonder what Christmas is like in his house.
Surrounded by quiet terraced houses on an empty square, the old tall bell tower of Red Abbey shelters the Holy Family. The sight can catch you unawares as you turn the corner, walking home in the small hours. The square is dark, deserted and enclosed by sleep, but there stand a couple, caged and floodlit, staring at the baby with their ragged robes quivering in a breeze.
Up close, Joseph’s hand is too big and his face has begun to peel. So too has Mary’s. Jesus stares out into the night, with big black empty eyes and a serene look on his face. He actually looks sinister and unsettling. They’re joined by sheep, with sprayed-white hay for wool and shapeless papier-mache heads. One stands on stool legs, the others lie – legless – in the hay and on the stone floor.
I have no compulsion to pray; those beliefs left a long time ago. But I think about the story of that family and wonder about the people who made this simple, stark nativity. I’m jolted from my thoughts by a drunk group behind me, laughing and singing, their voices echoing sharply around the cold square. I tighten my scarf and walk away.
So I turned 23 on Saturday. This is the last year I can say I’m in my early twenties. This time next year, I’ll be in my mid-twenties, which traditionally then leads into the late twenties. And that is a most a horrifying thought. But I had a good birthday, spent with friends in a pub and a club, before we retired to a house. We had helium balloons and we had a guitar. And it was almost 3am. This video is the result.
I’m on the left, Cian is on the right. We’re singing 57 by Biffy Clyro…with helium. You can hear Aoife in the background singing harmonies.
Actually, I find it very odd to watch how I move. I look like an idiot.
Not every album you listen to will change your life. Not every movie you see will take your breath away. Not every book you read will dazzle you with poetic prose. Not every piece of art you absorb will alter your view of reality. Not every gig you attend will leave an indelible mark in your memory. To expect them to simply leaves you open to constant disappointment.
I consider myself to be a regular gig-goer. Sometimes these gigs are large affairs, involving touring buses, big crowds, formidable lighting set-ups and sound desks bigger than my bed. Other times, they are not quite so big but feature just as much technological tom-foolery, still-sizeable crowds and over-priced liquid refreshments. More often than not though, they’re small-to-tiny things, in a room above a pub, with perhaps less than a hundred people (a considerable percentage of whom I know), where the lighting is an unpretentious light bulb dangling from the ceiling and the sound-guy is friend of the singer’s.
In my time I’ve been dazzled by bright lights, big screens and bigger names. I’ve moved with the surge of a thousand people as a distant figure sings the soundtrack of my teenage years. These are indelible marks on my mind. But so often the power and intensity of tiny gigs is lost in the age of stadium tours and festivals.
Almost two weeks ago (shit, I’m so behind in my blogging!), I edged sideways into a room with fifty people above a tiny pub called The Whisky. We had gathered to see two English bands, Tubelord and Blakfish, who most of us had only discovered several months before when they played in the grotty upstairs of Fred Zeppelins. What unfolded that night proved to be one of the most intense gigs I’ve experienced.
Yeah…this is probably not safe for work. And if you’re a woman it’s gonna be rather offensive, but in a reasonably amusing and ironic way – I hope!
Breakfast – Le Le
LeftMyName found this song on a blog the other day and insisted that I listen. When I heard it first, I pictured in my head some misogynistic lecherous rapper, perhaps with a grill on his teeth with the word “Breakfast” made out in diamond studs. I imagined that while he was recording it, he was oiling up some woman’s jiggly ass – because that’s just what he does.
It turns out Le Le are a French/German pop outfit and the rest of their output, judging by their myspace, is your typical synthy europop-rap with some soul influences. ‘Breakfast‘ seems pretty different to most of their rest of their work. It is also comedy gold. To me, the voice sounds like a mix between Chapelle doing Rick James (bitch!) and Jemaine from Flight Of The Conchords. The conscientious part of me is, of course, appalled by the guys blatant objectification of women, the debasement of the subject to little more than food for the man to devour and other such feminist-literary criticisms. But that’s why it’s so good.
(WARNING - This is a rather long post. But it needs to be, so toughen up!)
(That’s me there. No, to the left of her. Bit further. Yeah, there I am!)
Well…that was certainly the most bizarre experience of my life. Though quite which part of the whole experience was the most bizarre is something I haven’t figured out yet. Being naked in a field with 1100 other naked people – everyone bent over double, desperately not wanting to look up for fear of what we might see in front of us – was definitely weird. Seeing it talked about all day today in the media, aware that I am one of those naked people they’re showing on the news bulletins is also very very strange. Seeing Ray D’Arcy naked – a man who played such an important role in my television viewing youth – is also immensely odd.
I arrived at Blarney Castle with my bravest friends – Mike, Jamie and Niamh – at 3am. There were protesters at the gates. But when we got closer, we realised they were a bunch of lads, dressed as priests. Their placards bore the immortal words: “Down with that sort of thing!” and “Careful now!” That’s when it began to dawn on me how crazy this whole thing was going to be. (more…)
I haven’t written here for over two weeks so I’ve got plenty more I want to write about, but it’s on my mind at the moment, so I have to exorcise these demons now.
1. Referring back to what I said in the previous post about stuff that’s different, I’m loving the French and Spanish entries. The french one is the first entry from France in English, but it’s a great pop song. It’s not a cliched ballad, it’s got this great electro-Beach Boys feel to it and you just gotta dig the facial hair and sunglasses.
Spain on the other hand are going for the quirky thing, allegedly taking inspiration from Dustin. The links to Dustin go further in that they seem to have formed an alliance and Dustin even appeared on the guys show! But it’s catchy, it’s got dance steps and it’s got the word Robocop. What more could you want?
2. Eurovision presenter’s somehow always manage to find new ways to look and particularly SOUND stupid. Two of them ACTUALLY said “See you later, alligator.” Live on air. In front of an entire continent. Not ironically. And to think we’re in a union with some of these people.
3. ….I had more…but I forgot them! If I remember and they’re worth writing, they’ll be here eventually.
So Dustin fails to even get to the final of the Eurovision. His legions of critics are sitting back now, grinning, self satisfied, itching to shout “I told you so!” But in reality, it’s not Dustin’s fault. It’s yet another example of Europe’s more than questionable taste in music.
Eurovision is an atrocity of music. Sort of like Celebrity You’re A Star without the charity. Some will say it’s gone downhill in the last ten years. They’ll look back on the time when Ireland ruled the roost with fondness. But it was just as crap then as it is now. Linda Martin, Dana, Johnny Logan. Those songs are terrible. Eurovision holds itself up to be a prestigious showcase of the best songwriting talent on the continent, which is about as delusional as the Burmese Junta thinking everything is under control. Only difference is, even the Junta are beginning to realise they might be a bit wrong. Those who take the competition seriously have really got to ask themselves why. I mean, Dustin’s critics proclaimed he would embarrass us, that we would be shamed from the competition. As if the viewers of Eurovision are a demographic whose perception of our country is something we should really be worried about.
Having said that, I did watch the semi-final tonight, more out of morbid curiosity and boredom than anything else though. I have to admit right here and now that it bothered me that Dustin didn’t qualify, but not out of some sense of national pride. What annoys me is that almost all of the songs that qualified were so terribly mediocre, so utterly devoid of merit. Such a gross display of poor taste on a multi-national level simply adds another reason to my “Why I Hate 95% Of The Human Race” list, which is already quite lenghty. (more…)
In case you haven’t heard, David Blaine apparently broke the world record for holding one’s breath underwater. He held it for just barely over 17 minutes, live on Oprah. Observe:
Now look when he comes out of the tank – particularly at 1:26, 1:33 and definitely at 1:37. How come his hair is so dry? I’m not necessarily saying he faked it. I’d have no problem believing really did it, because to be honest, it doesn’t make much of a differene to me one way or another, but why is his hair so dry? There should be water running from his hair, down his face. Dripping off his eyelashes. Also, he seems very capable of talking quite well for someone who hasn’t been breathing for the previous 17 minutes.
Y’see, I know this really because many of them are so poorly educated that they actually believe it. But I can’t help thinking that a few guys might have jumped on the bandwagon just to explain why their mickeys are so small.
