Zombies and Psychos

For the last two months I’ve been reading ‘American Psycho‘ by Brett Easton Ellis. It doesn’t usually take me this long to get through a book but I tend to have to stop for a while every time the character takes another girl home, slices up her sexual organs, chainsaws her in half and has sex with her entrails. I’m a bit of a wuss that way. In between those scenes, the book is fantastic – the character of Bateman is hugely compelling and the world Ellis has created is both alien and familiar, attractive and repulsive. In the morally ambiguous, superficial and self-centred society Bateman inhabits, it’s no wonder he acts the way he does.

But, when I started reading it, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it all felt very familiar; as if I had read it before even though I knew I hadn’t. It wasn’t until maybe 60 pages in that I realised that Paul Howard had lifted the style of the book and applied it to Ross O’Carroll-Kelly. It made perfect sense: both worlds share that shallow, label-obsessed materialism. But for the next 50 pages, I couldn’t shake the image of Bateman just being Ross in a suit and living in late-80’s New York. Very distracting.

A Start To The Week

These kinds of days are always Mondays. Wet, cold Mondays. I was in town, spending my birthday money on new albums, a FLApes ticket (October 12, Cyprus Avenue. Woot!) and a big thick hardback book of “post-underground” comics… whatever that’s supposed to mean. I should have been set for the day. But, instead, I was set upon by an uncomfortable feeling with no discernible root – tasting broadly of apprehension and anxiety with subtle hints of fear and sadness; a bouqet of melancholy followed by an aftertaste of gloom. It sat heavy on my chest for the rest of the day.

Tapdancing About Architecture

When I mention this blog to people, I’m sometimes asked what kind of blog it is. And I hesitantly reply that it’s a “music blog… sort of.” But it never feels like a music blog, just more like the blog of a person who loves music. I don’t really review albums or gigs much. I don’t unearth great new talents – I’m actually pretty bad at finding new music. I think I tend to write mostly about my personal reaction to music. But most of the blogs I do read would be music blogs, a lot of the magazines I read are music magazines and when pushed about what I want to be when I grow up, I usually toss out some variation on the music/arts journalist theme. Or a Booker prize winning author, if it’s going. Either will do.

But I think part of the reason that this blog isn’t even more music-centric, part of the reason it’s not the next Nialler9 or Egoeccentric is because every once in a while I just get pissed off with the whole idea of writing about music. I have to stop reading the blogs and magazines now and again because something grates on me, gets under my skin. I think the root cause may be that I find myself thinking, deep down, that writing about music is futile. Irrelevant and perhaps even irreverent. I think someone may have once compared it to tap-dancing about architecture. They may, in fact, have been talking about something else entirely but the metaphor does fit.

HWCH #3 – Dublin

I just know I’m going to come off as a wide-eyed culchie from the shticks to all you jaded Dublin-types when I write this piece, but it doesn’t matter.

The Whites of Their Eyes

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.

Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?

So The Girlfriend left for Edinburgh almost three weeks ago, to do a post-grad that could last the bones of two years. We decided to break up (though that phrase sounds inappropriately harsh), given that the intensity of her course and the distance would not be conducive to a happy relationship and we’d rather end it and remain on good terms and in contact rather than have the thing fall apart bitterly several months down the line. The right decision? Maybe; it is always trial and error in these matters. But needless to say, I’m pretty upset. After three years, an important part of myself is absent. Everything speaks of her. The intermittent texts and emails can’t hope to match the daily calls, the physical contact and the reassurance of her presence.

But I don’t write this blog to pour out my innermost feelings to one and all; it’s just not really my thing. So I turn to the real subject of this post. Since she’s left, I find my listening habits predictably turning to the more melancholy aspects of my collection. Plenty of guys with their guitars – Elliott Smith, Dylan, Bright Eyes and Rice. The more wistful and baleful Sigur Ros moments and some of the lonelier Efterklang bits. A spot of Sufjan and a portion of Bell X1 here and there, as well as plenty of other stuff that fail my memory right now.I mean, don’t get me wrong, there have been intervals of more upbeat, less despondent music – I’m thinking particularly of Tubelord, Why?, Kanye West and Fight Like Apes- but on the whole, my current soundtrack has been matching my situation.

“Well…the tourists are gonna get an eye-full!”

(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.

A Decleration Of Unfocussed Intent

This blog is approaching the one year mark and in some ways has hit an existential crossroads. I’m having trouble remembering why I started this blog and it’s plain to see it has hit a slump in terms of motivation and content. For the three years I was in UCC, I wrote for the UCC Express – or rather its art, culture and entertainment magazine: Ex2. Within a few months I had already interviewed the likes of Tommy Tiernan, Josh Ritter, Damian Dempsey, et al. Not too bad for my first year. In my third year I became editor of the same magazine. After graduating (with a rather unemployable BA in English and Philosophy) I pretty much went from writing a couple of thousand words a week to writing nothing. So I suppose I started this blog to just keep writing. Unfortunately, I’ve never really been one to impose strict schedules and deadlines on myself and so with a lack of regular structure and routine (as well as muddling through an art portfolio course), the output of the blog suffered. As such, the contributions here have been in fits and bursts of varying quality rather than in a steady stream…of varying quality.

The realisation that I have to put in more effort, more thought and a institute better routine hit home while in bed the other night. It was reinforced somewhat by Rosie’s post in critique of the Irish blogosphere. But my inner crisis comes in the form of what I want this blog to be. It started as a music blog with the intention of focussing on the Cork scene. But that’s shifted somewhat and in reality I don’t really know what it is anymore. These self doubts arise from wondering whether the Cork scene is really worth writing about, the fact that music blogs are a dime a dozen and that I don’t have the energy or attention span to constantly be on the look out for the hot new act. I tend to get an album and give it a lot of attention, almost exhausting it through repeated listening. There’s no way I can keep up with everything new with my listening habits.
But like any blogger, I want a readership. As big a readership as I can get. If I didn’t, there would be no point in this. Blogs tend to occupy niches though. Even UnaRocks or Rick O’Shea, whose blogs are somewhat miscellaneous in content, fill a certain place; they fit under a given tag. I’m too wordy to do short sharp posts on internet culture or assorted oddities but my interests vary too wildly to stick to lengthy dissertations on obscure 50’s Motown/Jazz hybrid bands. My life isn’t quite eventful enough for a witty personal blog and yet I hate blogs that have a cold and aloof feel. I have political views, but they are neither impassioned or partisan. I love art but find most of the art media interminably boring. I love the Irish language but am not confident enough to write in it.

This post is a declaration of intent. Now if only I could figure out what I intend to do. I suppose the answer is to just throw all the random bits and pieces of me into the blog, blender-like and hope for the best. I suppose routine, more than anything else is important. If readers have something new to look at every day or two, that’s what keeps them coming back.

So as empty as this declaration may be, as doomed to failure as this resolution probably is: I shall strive to make this a better blog. I shall impose upon myself a better routine and post at least every two days. Because sometimes wanting to just isn’t enough, sometimes it takes force and will and perseverance.

Here’s hoping.

A Few More Points On Eurovision – Just To Get It Out Of My System

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.

Europe: Probably Not The Best Continent In The World!

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.