scrapbooks and photograph albums

New blog

2009-11-22T18:11:00.002+01:00

After opening the store over at Etsy I decided it was time to start a new blog. I've written in this one now on and off for over three years and felt it was time to move on. This blog was established as somewhere for me to write reviews/articles etc when I was a journalism student and a move into a different blogging area doesn't seem to be working here. I've graduated now and this blog is attached to an email address I no longer use (so annoying having to sign in and out), so I guess a move is well and truly overdue.
From now I can be found here, so follow me if you wish and I will follow you in return. I promise regular updates, outfit posts (yes, really), shop updates and occasional music nonsense.
See you there.
Ellie xx

Now Open

2009-11-17T20:50:00.002+01:00

My Etsy shop is now open! There isn't too much there at the moment (it's way more work than I ever imagined!), but there's more to come in the coming days/weeks. Below is a taste of what's currently in the shop. I hope you find something you like.

New blog on the way too!

Wednesday Wishlist

2009-11-11T19:44:00.000+01:00

Betsey Johnson knee socks and Pink Studio shoes from Ruche. 1920s inspired blouse handmade with love by Sacaton June at Etsy.

PS
My Etsy shop coming soon!

Dear Santa

2009-11-02T19:52:00.000+01:00

It's maybe a little early to be writing my wishlist to dear old Father Christmas but when I saw this beauty on four wheels I had to get out my pen and notebook. I've been looking for a Figaro since I first saw a pale green one parked outside the indie cinema near my parents house, but after I moved to Brighton the need and desire for the cutest car ever made became undeniable. I've seen several pastel-coloured ones in and around the city but while searching for the elusive pale blue model at an affordable price, I discovered the most adorable (not quite) classic car ever created. I can't afford this particular car but the search is on for it's ever-so-slightly rusty twin.

Autumn dresses

2009-10-30T20:32:00.000+01:00

At school we were taught that every season is three months in duration. If there’s any truth in such an idea then by Sunday it will be winter. But I’m not quite ready to let go of autumn just yet, especially as I’ve recently found myself surrounded by dresses that epitomize the golden tones of autumnal trees and their cascading leaves. I just wish that October had some holiday or momentous occasion at which any of these three beautiful dresses could be worn.

The yellow trim chiffon evening gown is from VogueVigilante at Etsy. Yellow and gold 1950s prom dress was sold on eBay last week. Gold 1960s mini dress by Caramelizedvintage at Etsy

Snooze

2009-10-27T20:06:00.000+01:00

In September I stayed in a small Brighton boutique hotel for a feature. Snooze, in Kemp Town, is a small B&B decorated in a style that I can only describe as retro chintz. If you're ever in Brighton it's worth at least one night. I took a few photos and completely forgot about them until today.

Hello all

2009-10-20T12:18:00.000+01:00

I've been away for a long time. I moved to Brighton at the start of September and have had sporadic internet ever since. That's all changed now and I'm closing the shutters in readiness for a cosy winter spent curled up with my laptop. Posts are planned, I promise.

x

Orwell's tips for perfect tea.

2009-08-24T22:46:00.001+01:00

A Nice Cup of Tea
By George Orwell
Evening Standard, 12 January 1946.

If you look up 'tea' in the first cookery book that comes to hand you will probably find that it is unmentioned; or at most you will find a few lines of sketchy instructions which give no ruling on several of the most important points.

This is curious, not only because tea is one of the main stays of civilization in this country, as well as in Eire, Australia and New Zealand, but because the best manner of making it is the subject of violent disputes.

When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. On perhaps two of them there would be pretty general agreement, but at least four others are acutely controversial. Here are my own eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden:

* First of all, one should use Indian or Ceylonese tea. China tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowadays — it is economical, and one can drink it without milk — but there is not much stimulation in it. One does not feel wiser, braver or more optimistic after drinking it. Anyone who has used that comforting phrase 'a nice cup of tea' invariably means Indian tea.

* Secondly, tea should be made in small quantities — that is, in a teapot. Tea out of an urn is always tasteless, while army tea, made in a cauldron, tastes of grease and whitewash. The teapot should be made of china or earthenware. Silver or Britanniaware teapots produce inferior tea and enamel pots are worse; though curiously enough a pewter teapot (a rarity nowadays) is not so bad.

* Thirdly, the pot should be warmed beforehand. This is better done by placing it on the hob than by the usual method of swilling it out with hot water.

* Fourthly, the tea should be strong. For a pot holding a quart, if you are going to fill it nearly to the brim, six heaped teaspoons would be about right. In a time of rationing, this is not an idea that can be realized on every day of the week, but I maintain that one strong cup of tea is better than twenty weak ones. All true tea lovers not only like their tea strong, but like it a little stronger with each year that passes — a fact which is recognized in the extra ration issued to old-age pensioners.

* Fifthly, the tea should be put straight into the pot. No strainers, muslin bags or other devices to imprison the tea. In some countries teapots are fitted with little dangling baskets under the spout to catch the stray leaves, which are supposed to be harmful. Actually one can swallow tea-leaves in considerable quantities without ill effect, and if the tea is not loose in the pot it never infuses properly.

* Sixthly, one should take the teapot to the kettle and not the other way about. The water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact, which means that one should keep it on the flame while one pours. Some people add that one should only use water that has been freshly brought to the boil, but I have never noticed that it makes any difference.

* Seventhly, after making the tea, one should stir it, or better, give the pot a good shake, afterwards allowing the leaves to settle.

* Eighthly, one should drink out of a good breakfast cup — that is, the cylindrical type of cup, not the flat, shallow type. The breakfast cup holds more, and with the other kind one's tea is always half cold before one has well started on it.

* Ninthly, one should pour the cream off the milk before using it for tea. Milk that is too creamy always gives tea a sickly taste.

* Tenthly, one should pour tea into the cup first. This is one of the most controversial points of all; indeed in every family in Britain there are probably two schools of thought on the subject. The milk-first school can bring forward some fairly strong arguments, but I maintain that my own argument is unanswerable. This is that, by putting the tea in first and stirring as one pours, one can exactly regulate the amount of milk whereas one is liable to put in too much milk if one does it the other way round.

* Lastly, tea — unless one is drinking it in the Russian style — should be drunk without sugar. I know very well that I am in a minority here. But still, how can you call yourself a true tealover if you destroy the flavour of your tea by putting sugar in it? It would be equally reasonable to put in pepper or salt. Tea is meant to be bitter, just as beer is meant to be bitter. If you sweeten it, you are no longer tasting the tea, you are merely tasting the sugar; you could make a very similar drink by dissolving sugar in plain hot water.

Some people would answer that they don't like tea in itself, that they only drink it in order to be warmed and stimulated, and they need sugar to take the taste away. To those misguided people I would say: Try drinking tea without sugar for, say, a fortnight and it is very unlikely that you will ever want to ruin your tea by sweetening it again.

These are not the only controversial points to arise in connexion with tea drinking, but they are sufficient to show how subtilized the whole business has become. There is also the mysterious social etiquette surrounding the teapot (why is it considered vulgar to drink out of your saucer, for instance?) and much might be written about the subsidiary uses of tealeaves, such as telling fortunes, predicting the arrival of visitors, feeding rabbits, healing burns and sweeping the carpet. It is worth paying attention to such details as warming the pot and using water that is really boiling, so as to make quite sure of wringing out of one's ration the twenty good, strong cups of that two ounces, properly handled, ought to represent.

(taken from The Collected Essays, Journalism and Letters of George Orwell, Volume 3, 1943-45)

Wuthering Heights

2009-08-23T23:32:00.000+01:00

Emily Bronte’s Wuthering Heights is my favourite novel. Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre is perhaps a close second. That probably says a lot more about me than it should.

Last Thursday I went on my second visit to the Bronte family home in Haworth, Yorkshire. There were several reasons for this return visit. Firstly the museum is currently home to a collection of photographs by artist Sam Taylor-Wood entitled Ghosts, inspired by Wuthering Heights and shot on the moors above the house. Secondly, the house currently showcases a selection of stunning costumes used in the forthcoming ITV adaptation of Wuthering Heights, to be broadcast at the end of this month. And finally, I had been desperate to go back to Haworth and explore the winding windy moors the Bronte sisters found so inspiring, and on which Cathy Earnshaw spent so much of her life. The house itself is now home to the Bronte society and has been lovingly restored back to how it was when the family lived there, complete with original furniture and possessions. One of the most moving pieces in the house is the sofa on which Emily died in 1848, refusing to admit she was ill until her last breath and aged just 30.

I was really excited by the costume exhibition which features outfits worn by Cathy, Heathcliff, Isabella, Catherine and Hareton. The dresses worn by Isabella and Catherine Linton were white with pastel decoration and reminded me more of nightwear than day dresses. In complete contrast Cathy’s wardrobe was bold with stark natural tones and seemed to blur with the seasonal metamorphosis of her outdoor environment. Her dark blue dress and orange jacket with back ruffles was my favourite ensemble but as photography isn’t allowed inside the house, you’ll have to watch the film to see its beauty.

Lace collar

2009-08-04T19:54:00.000+01:00

There’s one thing that is always present in photographs from my Grandmother’s youth. Lace collars adorned her neck and those of her friends on an almost daily basis, accompanying everyday smocks and Sunday bests. Constant comparisons to my Grandmother and her sister, coupled with my love of all things lace and crochet, led me to Ebay and this perfect vintage Nottingham lace collar.

Lark & Wolff

2009-08-02T22:30:00.000+01:00

UO’s designer collaborations aren’t always something to get excited about, but sometimes, just sometimes, something comes along that’s a little bit special. Earlier this year I was in love with the simplicity of Kim Gordon’s line Mirror/Dash and now I’m head over heels again, this time for Lark & Wolff by Steven Alan. I’m not terribly familiar with Alan’s clothes but after reading his own collections described as artfully dishevelled classics, I was immediately inspired to discover the UO collaboration pieces. Lark & Wolff is everything I look for in clothes; simple, short lengths, dark colours, plaids, stripes and ruffles. Modern collides with vintage and scatters all over the past century. Or as UO put it, contemporary style through a vintage lens.

I bought the blue apron dress when it went on sale and just adore it. My next purchase was going to be the navy dress but unfortunately it’s already sold out in xs. I can't wait to see what comes next.

Red Dress

2009-07-21T19:28:00.000+01:00

I'm so sorry for being a rubbish blogger. If it were not for summer you'd be inundated with boring posts about my Grandmother's youth and dusty trinkets found in damp attics. I'm kind of an outdoors person. Not in the sense that I participate in insane pursuits like rock climbing and rafting, but I love to feel the grass between my toes and the breeze on my cheeks. The winter is endless so I'm making the best of the unpredictable British summer while I can.

Recent rainy afternoons have forced me inside where I've attempted to seek solace in the world of Etsy. My wishlist now has more entries than all volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica. One item I have actually purchased however is the above adorable red Pierre Cardin dress. I love the colour and the sleeve ruffles. It will have to be hemmed up a little, but otherwise I cannot wait to wear it. It looks like a great date dress. If only someone knew of a cute single guy in a band they could send my way...

Tiny sewing kit

2009-07-10T23:12:00.001+01:00

I'm not much of a seamstress. I couldn't even sew on a button. This little sewing kit was found in the aforementioned box of treasure and I'm ashamed to say it took me a while to work out what it was. The black cotton is almost entirely missing but everything else is perfect. I feel slightly inspired to sew something now but fear disaster.

Handle with Care

2009-07-06T22:40:00.002+01:00

It's been a long time since I featured video on my blog (weekly video when I was over at Wordpress) but I was so excited when I saw this clip of the beautiful Jenny Lewis at Battery Park on 4th July. It features three of my favourite musicians - Jenny, Conor Oberst and my current crush, Nik Freitas (as well as Johnathan Rice). I love Jenny's outfit with the wee denim shorts.

From Grandma, with love

2009-07-05T22:48:00.005+01:00

A few weeks ago my uncle arrived at our house laden with plastic bags filled to the brim with what he called “junk”, found during a late spring clean he’d been having at his house. He wanted to throw these things away but was reluctant to do so without consulting my mother first. These posessions had belonged to my Grandmother who died in 1995 and had been collecting dust in various parts of the house (he lives in the ancestral home) ever since. I had a fleeting look and dismissed it as indeed junk. When my mother and I found time to investigate the bags properly we found ornaments I remembered from childhood, the special occasion trifle bowl that was the centre piece of every Christmas table, photograph albums and something rather special.

At the bottom of one of the bags we found a small handmade box made from picture postcards, sewn together with cotton and finished with a lone blue button. My mother immediately recognised it as belonging to her Aunt Clarissa, who died in the early seventies. It was full of jewellery. Below are the highlights of a box that was filled with more treasure than I could ever include on here, and my absolute favourites.

This was my Grandmother’s best necklace. It’s good as new and so beautiful. I love the flower clasp.

A gift from the English seaside.

I have an extensive collection of inherited brooches and this is my new favourite. I'll be pinning it on my blazer as soon as the cooler weather comes along.

Ladybirds!

One man’s junk really is another man's treasure!

Anne Boleyn

2009-07-02T23:54:00.001+01:00

They don’t teach much English history in British schools. Historical education here is all about the war-mongering bogey men of twentieth century Europe and greed inspired conflicts in Eastern sand-pits. I’m ashamed to say everything I know about the Britain of the past two thousand years I learnt from watching Time Team. That is however, excluding the Royal house of Tudor, which was taught to me in primary school by a scary elderley lady with wrinkles in her tights. I guess old Henry and his scandalous six wives are perfect for enchanting the enquiring mind of an eight year old. They certainly made an impression on me. Of Henry’s six wives staring back at me from a crumpled text book page it was always Anne Boleyn who excited me the most. It could have been because she seemed the most glamorous of an exceptionally unglamorous bunch, or that my Mother has always maintained she named me after Anne’s daughter, the first Queen Elizabeth, or maybe it was just the circumstances of her untimely demise… Anne just seemed interesting. As a grown up I stumbled across season two of The Tudors and my love of Anne was re-newed. Natalie Dormer’s Anne was, while not entirely historically accurate, the most mesmerising creature. It inspired me to begin reading about her life and background, even inspiring a fruitless treasure hunt around London’s National Portrait Gallery, in search of her most famous portrait. I could write all evening about the colourful life of the daughter of the Earl of Wiltshire and eventual Queen consort, but instead I’ll leave you with some pictures from The Tudors and the answer I received upon taking the Which wife of Henry VIII would you have been? quiz on Facebook. I think it sums her up well.

You use your wit and wiles to raise yourself from commoner to queen. When you have set your sights on a goal there is no turning back. You are wickedly smart and seductive and you are not going to let a little thing like the Holy Roman Empire sway you from your desires. You will live in infamy for wrapping a King around your finger and changing the course of history in England. Henry practically had to declare himself God to have you as wife. Unfortunately, the people of England despise you for replacing their beloved queen and the dangerous business of manipulating a man with a god-complex backfires. He has you convicted of witchcraft, adultery, incest and treason and you are beheaded after only 3 years of marriage. Well, you deal in high stakes. Perhaps it is some consolation that your daughter by Henry inherits your willful determination and becomes one of England's greatest Monarchs..

Original beauty

2009-06-20T22:44:00.001+01:00

Boots now have a whole range of beauty products based on their original recipes and encased in the most adorable vintage inspired pastel packaging. I wanted to buy everything just so I could line up the boxes and bottles on my bedroom drawers, but beauty products this cute come at a slightly higher than average price, so I had to settle for some much needed cuticle oil. It smells like pure Turkish delight.

Ebay jewellery finds

2009-06-15T20:46:00.001+01:00

I went mad last weekend and bought a few Art Deco pieces on Ebay. I was looking for a new locket because I'm scared to death of losing the one my mother gave me and never wear it out, but somewhere along the way I ended up purchasing a couple of other pieces too.

Art Deco mesh bracelet

2009-06-07T21:01:00.002+01:00

In an attempt to avoid the never-ending weekend rain, I've spent the past two days searching Ebay for vintage trinkets. It was almost too much excitement when I came across this Art Deco mesh bow bracelet at Ellis Antiques. I would have snapped it up immediately if it hadn't been so expensive. Perhaps it's best I didn't, I have the smallest wrists in existence, far too small for a bracelet like this. It deserves to be shown off, not kept in a box and admired every few weeks.

In my garden

2009-06-02T12:40:00.004+01:00

I've been using the sunny days to take care of my garden. After several months and endless seedlings, I'm starting to see tiny veggies emerging from inside beautiful flowers. I love the tiny green veins of pea flowers and the pink shadows on broad bean petals. This year my vegetable patch has to be bigger than ever to cope with the growing competition. After all, gardening is the newest black and the whole country has gone "grow your own" mad, even my friend Nicola is getting her finger nails dirty in her small city-centre garden (butternut squash competition?). Over the next few months I'll be harvesting fruit and vegetables too numerous to mention, but I'm currently most excited about tomatos, cucumber, peas and strawberries. It's a full-time job. Even with a helper.

Eating in London

2009-05-25T22:36:00.000+01:00

Irina!

2009-05-14T22:20:00.005+01:00

"Irina has a great rock'n'roll vibe. It's all about the hair and her flatness. I love that she has no boobs." Says Michelle McCool of Cosmopolitan magazine. Previously famous for being engaged to Pete Doherty (twice) and being friends with Kate Moss, Irina Lazareanu is now an icon in her own right. I love her vague expression, dark smokey eyes and vintage style. And like McCool, I also love that she has no boobs. Her vintage wardrobe is immense. White/cream dresses and t-bar shoes are two of my current favourites.

New start

2009-05-04T18:24:00.003+01:00

The last few months have been busy, busy with finishing University, but I’m back with a vengeance now and I’m going to try to make this blog a bit more interesting. Previously I’ve only really blogged about my journalism, but that’s only such a small part of my life. We all prefer our hobbies to our professions, I guess. Inspired by some of the blogs I regularly read, I’m going to start blogging about everything else I am, like and do. I hope everyone will keep coming back.

Firstly...

An edited version of this interview appeared in Notes Zine. Thank you to Amber for being the best interviewee ever.

How did you first become interested in zines?

I have vague memories of reading about zines in old interviews with Nirvana, Hole and Bikini Kill. When I was thirteen or so, there were a few girls around town distributing a zine called !Hey! although I don’t think I called it a zine at the time, as it was the first one I ever saw. I probably called it a pamphlet or something. I can’t even remember what they wrote about anymore, but I remember that they had crosswords and featured poetry by local teens. They were distributed at high schools and various local businesses. Anyone could contribute, though I was much too shy. I totally wanted to make my own though. A few years later, I starting posting on Hole.com and got into zines hardcore through the girls on there. Maranda (my sister) and I started making zines together and trading with our new friends. I think the first zines I received were Tantrum, Broken Hymen, Pink Collar Ghetto and other riot grrrl type zines.

What motivates you to create zines?

Without zines, I don’t know where I’d be. They’re my main focus in life, it seems. I’ve learned a lot from various zines, and I’ve made an incredible amount of friends that I never would have known of otherwise. I’m almost always motivated to make zines, especially when I’ve just had a fun day of riding my bike or whatever, or when I’ve just finished reading a really great zine. I am constantly writing zines in my head, even imagining the layout and such. I’m inspired by my zinester friends and I’m inspired by my anger and I’m inspired by love.

What inspired you to start Culture Slut?

Maranda and I had been making a series together for about a year or so, some of it was about feminism, and a lot of it was just silliness. We were doing print runs of only twenty or so. We were seventeen, and just felt like we needed our own creative outlet, so we decided to start up our own zines. I started writing Culture Slut and she started writing Telegram Ma’am. I’m actually flipping through some old issues right now, reminding myself of what I wrote about, what inspired me… I wrote about various experiences of sexism in my life, how much I hated working at 7-Eleven (although I did make some good friends with a few customers there, and managed to scam quite a few free copies), my first trip to England, my love of Oscar Wilde and mixtapes… I think I just felt like I had a lot to say and no one to say it to. Zines were a good way to make new friends and connect with people that shared similar interests. I’m a bit embarrassed by the naivete of earlier issues now, but who isn’t?

How did Fight Boredom begin?

Small town boredom, mostly. I was tired of people constantly complaining that there was nothing to do and blaming it on being in a small town. I don’t think being in a small town really limits anyone’s possibilities too much, you just gotta be creative about it. I’m one of those annoying people who always says, “Only boring people get bored.” I thought that maybe if I could make a zine that was inspiring and specifically pertained to the kids in Lindsay (and small towns everywhere, really), then maybe I could change the world a teeny-tiny bit. Also, I wanted to get people in my hometown into zines, but didn’t necessarily want to share Culture Slut with them, since it often gets quite personal. I just wanted to do something fun. I see now that that’s what the girls at !Hey! must’ve been going for, too. I wonder what ever happened to them… People all over the world have been buying Fight Boredom and I’ve gotten a lot of positive feedback from it. Now my goal is pretty much to round up all of my favourite zinesters and have them write about their favourite ways of fighting boredom, and the things in life that inspire them.

Tell me about what you’re planning for the next issue?

Issue #3 was Fight Boredom With Feminism, and I’m currently working on #4; Fight Boredom With Action! Hopefully it’ll be done early in the summertime. I moved to Montréal recently (the polar opposite of my small hometown), but I’m visiting Lindsay soon and I want to have a stack of zines to sell at local shows. There are three zinesters that I know of in Lindsay right now, which is more than ever, haha. I gotta keep the momentum going!

As for Culture Slut, I’ve actually been working on a few issues at once. I’m writing a lot about IBS, which I was diagnosed with last year, and I’m writing about sex, queer identity, alcoholism and other heavy subjects that have been on my mind lately.

I know your sister also makes zines. Is there some friendly rivalry or is it purely inspirational?

No rivalry here, she’s my best friend. I’d say we inspire each other to some extent. We just wrote our second split zine together a few months ago, all about being twins. I just find it to be a really fascinating subject. We sometimes write to each other for zine advice, for proofreading and stuff. Also, I’m working on something of a queer zine right now, and the idea of spilling all of my secrets is a bit nerve-wracking, so I definitely wrote to her for some encouragement. I think our zines are completely different from each other though. Sometimes people will order my zine, then they’ll realize I have a sister so they’ll order hers too (or vice versa), but I hope they can see that we are two very different people. I hope that people can appreciate our writing, and that they aren’t just collecting our zines as some sort of novelty. It can be difficult to establish one’s own identity when people only want to see you as someone else’s twin sister.

What are your favourite zines?

Ah, where to begin? Doris by Cindy Crabb will always be one of my favourites. I bought the anthology a few years ago when I needed some decent reading material for a road trip, and have since acquired every issue. I love Brainscan by Alex Wrekk. She manages to write really important and personal things in this conversational tone that makes you feel like you’ve been friends with her for years. Nothing Rhymes by Chelsea Gunn is a sweet and happy zine that always cheers me up. Motor City Kitty, Your Pretty Face Is Going Straight To Hell, Queer HOH, High On Burning Photographs, Truckface, Not Sorry, Dirty Love, Kiss Off, List, The Empire Is Falling (a zine by another girl in Lindsay!), Echo! Echo!, Glossolalia, Honey Tunnel, everything ever by Niku Arbabi and Katie Haegele. I really could go on forever here, but these are the ones that I can read over and over again.

Who are your heroes?

The authors of the zines listed above, people who exchange long letters with me, my mom and my sister, Oscar Wilde, Jack Kerouac, Sylvia Plath, Inga Muscio, Gloria Steinem, Kathleen Hanna, George Carlin, Jessica Valenti, Betsey Johnson, Karen O, Joan Jett, Cyndi Lauper… Feminists everywhere and people who are doing cool stuff in small towns.

helloamber.etsy.com

And yes, this does mean uni is over and I’m back…

Mirror/Dash

2009-02-20T12:54:00.001+01:00

When I was a teenager clothes by Sonic Youth bassist Kim Gordon's label X-Girl were what I saved my pocket money for. You could only buy them in Shop, a small boutique on Soho's Brewer Street and every couple of months my Mother would take me there and double the money I'd saved to spend. Like Gordon, the X-Girl's have now grown up. With the X-Girl label now exclusively available in Japan, Mirror/Dash has been launched as a more mature alternative. This collection is available only at Urban Outfitters and continues X-Girl's feminine/tom-boy tradition. Here are my favourite pieces.

Snow

2009-02-02T20:58:00.001+01:00

Death Cab at Rock City 15/11 Part Two

2008-11-29T16:11:00.005+01:00

When Death Cab for Cutie toured the UK this summer it was easy to see how teen soap endorsement and major label success had engulfed a band with once such indie sensibilities. Lost on a stage at Manchester Apollo was a band that, however gifted, could have been as far away as Orange County.

Tonight, Nottingham’s Rock City, with its dark cave-like walls, a venue usually more Kerrang! than Under the Radar, presents the perfect setting for a more intimate return trip. There’s an eerie silence as the lights go down and the smoke thickens. A fight almost breaks out in the audience, but as Death Cab take to the stage, all is forgotten.

Seemingly more at home on a smaller stage, the band begins the set with a selection of old songs, proving that this time, they’re here to please rather than to promote. The Employment Pages is followed by the beautiful Your Heart is an Empty Room and Transatlanticism opener, The New Year.

Six songs in and Narrow Stairs finally gets its moment. The catchy No Sunlight brings guitarist Chris Walla to the microphone and what seems like a million enthusiastic camera phones are launched into the air.

During Grapevine Fires the crowd sing word for word to a song now widely appreciated as one of the best the band have written, a touching narrative from a band famous for putting as much emphasis on story as melody. As the song reaches its climax the crowd take over and vocalist Ben Gibbard smiles approvingly.

I Will Follow You Into the Dark, a haunting song of death and devotion is followed by the first single from Narrow Stairs, I Will Possess Your Heart, a beautiful yet disturbing tale which builds with almost five minutes of instrumentalism to the opening line: “How I wish you could see the potential/the potential of you and me…”

This time around there’s a much more eclectic setlist. Sure, Narrow Stairs and its breakthrough predecessor Plans get much of the attention, but songs from Transatlanticism, the band’s final release for Barsuk, feature alongside older songs, Company Calls, Technicolor Girls and Why You’d Want to Live Here.

The crowd anticipate an encore but the band keep them waiting until the stamping, clapping and chanting reaches a peak and the venue’s floor vibrates alarmingly. Death Cab reappear, bemused at the crowd’s reaction, and reward them with another four songs.

Fan favourite Expo ’86 becomes, for many of the audience, the evening’s highlight, before the show closes with the slow-burning Transatlanticism. The crowd stand in awe as Gibbard alternates between guitar and keyboard, slowly building to the songs climatic conclusion: “I need you so much closer.”

On a freezing Saturday evening, Death Cab for Cutie stand before me the band I always knew they were. From ten feet away I can see the passion and dedication that has made them the most loved band of their generation. I can even see the shine on Chris Walla’s impeccably kept blonde hair.

All photos are by Lucy Bridger. Visit her blog here.

Death Cab at Rock City 15/11 Part One

2008-11-16T19:29:00.001+01:00

Last night Nicola and I saw Death Cab for Cutie for the second time in four months. It was a completely different experience to the rainy July day when we journeyed to Manchester Apollo. On a cold November evening, Rock City was more subtle, more intimate. Like two different bands with one singer.

Setlist

The Employment Pages
Your Heart Is an Empty Room
New Year
Why You’d Want to Live Here
Crooked Teeth
No Sunlight
Grapevine Fires
Summer Skin
Soul Meets Body
I Will Follow You Into the Dark
I Will Possess Your Heart
Cath…
We Looked Like Giants
Company Calls
Long Division
The Sound of Settling

Technicolor Girls
Title and Registration
Expo ‘86
Transatlanticism

World Vegan Month

2008-11-02T17:33:00.001+01:00

There was a time when being vegetarian was seen as unusual, but as November's World Vegan Month campaigners are pleased to boast - these days almost 10 per cent of us are following a vegetarian diet.

Ten years ago it was estimated that two million Britons were vegetarian, a number that has since doubled. And this may be down to the current wave of high profile vegetarians in the media.

A whole host of musicians, actors and designers are now proud to be following a meat-free diet.

Actors Gwyneth Paltrow, Pamela Anderson, Natalie Portman and Jude Law are all vegetarians. As well as Gwyneth’s husband Coldplay’s Chris Martin and fellow musicians Moby, Death Cab’s Chris Walla and Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes. Not to mention designers Stella McCartney and Sadie Frost.

Some stars have even decided to make a public stand against the meat industry. Pamela Anderson has developed her own animal friendly fashion range and Stella McCartney’s faux leather boots have been seen on Victoria Beckham.

Animal Rights charity Peta has caught on to this trend, using both Walla and Oberst to front ‘Go Veg’ campaigns through their youth website Peta2. Walla declared, “Factory farming is just disgusting. All you have to do is look at a couple photographs and it’s not that hard to figure out.”

While many people go vegetarian for ethical and compassionate reasons, it’s also becoming known as the healthy option.

The Vegetarian Society, the charity responsible for the logos you see on veggie food, classes a vegetarian as someone who does not eat any meat, poultry, game, fish, shellfish or crustacean, or slaughter by-products such as gelatine (which is made from animal bones) or animal fats.

The society argue that there is much scientific evidence to indicate vegetarians may be healthier than meat-eaters – saying a well balanced vegetarian diet can provide all the nutrients your body needs as well as being low in saturated fat and high in the protective minerals and vitamins found in fruit and vegetables.

It is also claimed that statistically vegetarians are thinner than carnivores and tend to lose weight more easily.

However, the Department of Health stress the importance of replacing the nutrients present in meat. A lack of zinc, iron and protein, essential for a healthy immune system, can cause anaemia - especially in women. Seeds, grains and pulses make an excellent alternative.

It is predicted that the number of vegetarians will continue to rise and could triple over the next decade.

As the production of vegetarian food brands increases and with the support of such famous advocates, it is not surprising more and more people are choosing nut roast over beef roast. No wonder Stella McCartney proudly admits, “Nobody cool eats meat anymore.”

Mystic Valley Band in Birmingham

2008-10-31T13:15:00.007+01:00

When Conor Oberst announced he was embarking on a solo project his fan base gasped at the prospect. For a man who was essentially already a solo artist under the moniker Bright Eyes, what could be the reason for shelving such an already successful project?

Leaving behind long time friend and collaborator Mike Mogis, Oberst assembled a new band of musicians and headed to Mexico for the two month recording session that would give birth to his debut solo effort, the eponymously titled Conor Oberst.

Just a few short weeks after the albums release Oberst and his ramshackle band of musicians, the Mystic Valley Band (named after the magical Mexican valley where the album was recorded) arrived in Birmingham for what would be the start of their first brief but successful trip to the UK.

Flanked by Bright Eyes instrumentalist Nate Walcott, Maria Taylor’s brother Macey and Taylor Hollingsworth on guitars, and Rilo Kiley’s Jason Boesel on drums, the newly created Mystic Valley Band looked like Oberst’s usual wonderful army of friends and musicians, but this new incarnation possess a greater air of maturity and sophistication

“At the bottom of everything…” pleads one desperate Bright Eyes fan from the crowd at the more intimate than usual Carling Academy 2. But from the moment Oberst steps onstage it’s clear that Bright Eyes is a project most definitely on hiatus and any requests, no matter how desperate, fall on deaf ears.

Album opener Sausalito kicks off the set, followed by Get Well Cards and Moab. Then the band strips it down for the records ballads, Lenders In The Temple and Eagle On A Pole. A uncomfortable silence overcomes the audience while Obersts voice quivers and trails off, a welcome sign that at least one aspect of Bright Eyes turned up for the gig.

No longer the skinny teenager hiding behind his famous fringe, Oberst stands up to the microphone with all the confidence ten years of success has brought him, and as a man no longer intimidated by his own talent. When Oberst announces Birmingham is Hollingsworth’s hometown the crowd cheer approvingly a cheeky smile rolls over the singer’s face. Unbeknown to his audience, Hollingsworth is actually from Birmingham, Alabama, and the once so serious boy from Nebraska has just got them good.

As the set comes to as close it’s clear that this now solo, solo artist has only grown with the experience. Tracks I Don’t Want To Die (In The Hospital) and the single Souled Out!! are performed with a previously unseen ferocity and provide the perfect end to the show. Oberst jumps on an amp and blows kisses into the audience before disappearing backstage, leaving his Mystic Valley Band to say goodnight. Bright Eyes has left the building.

Under Re-construction

2008-10-04T14:03:00.000+01:00

Back Soon!

Happy New Year

2008-01-04T13:25:00.003+01:00

Thank you to Lizzy from Marching Stars distro for sending me this review, featured in Toronto Zine Library's zine.

Haworth

2007-06-16T16:28:00.001+01:00

Last week I went on a family trip to Charlotte Bronte's house in Haworth, Yorkshire.

Edie!

2007-06-09T21:08:00.002+01:00

Inspired by the post below, Edie Sedgwick. Ever since I saw the movie my hemlines have been getting shorter and shorter.

Inspiration and Suffocation

2007-05-17T12:09:00.002+01:00

There's an almost constant pain just above my right eye. I have an overwhelming desire to be creative, almost to the point of where I want to start destroying things in the hope it will be vaguely artistic.

For months now I've been suffering from 'zine block'. This is much the same as writers block except I can still write, it's just that nothing seems to be coherent or inspiring enough to form something solid, printable. There's no zine, just pages and pages of words that bare no relation to those before or after. It's a literary case of pasta jewellery.

As I dotted the full stop on the final sentence of University (available at all good distros), I was opening the first sentence to the follow-up. In my head at least. Many ideas have swam solar-plexus-like around my head, in and out of my nose, mouth and ears for the past six months, almost relentlessly. Mostly these do not come to fruition. I've hit an idea I thought genius, researched it, created art with it, written a few pages - clicked it to the recycle bin. There's not enough scope for a sizable zine. I've often thought of turning all these useless ideas into a compilation zine of sorts. The thing is, I'm not a fan of this kind of zine. There hasn't been one I've read with the genius to move me. I like novels, I like a concept. I'm a Cursive fan for heavens sake. A concept makes something whole. A tiny package of feelings and hope with two staples piercing its soul.

Yesterday I photocopied what will quite possibly be the last batch of University. I've thought of a follow-up, a sequel of sorts. There's not much else I can write; I only dearly love those people and miss then to madness. I have many more tales and frantic journal entries but neither they nor I would want some of those stories priced at two bucks on zine symposium tables across the world. Not that they have any idea I've immortalised them on photocopied A4 sheets, currently on shelves from Tokyo to Toronto. I try not to imagine the confused looks of horror that would take over their faces.

Inspire me. I'm putting the kettle on.

Ciao, Manhattan

2007-04-16T12:32:00.002+01:00

You know you're back in Scotland when, after 5 minutes (okay, three days...) you spy with hungry eyes, Sir Bob of Fairfoull. Oddly however, it wasn't in Edinburgh but Glasgow where I bumped into my favourite Bob smoking outside Topshop on Buchanan Street. He discarded his cigarette and scurried inside where, looking so bored he might throw himself through the window, he followed an unimaginitive looking girl around the t-shirt section for what must have seemed like an eternity.

I haven't updated this blog in a while. I've been super busy (read: super lazy). Here are some things...

After two days of wandering around Edinburgh trying to find a cinema showing the film we wanted to see (because buying a paper would be far too easy!), I went to the 'movies' for the first time since Harry Potter and the (film based on a couple of pages from the novel) Goblet of Fire and saw the much (unneccessarily) hyped Factory Girl. Granted, I was slightly pre-occupied with eating my large tub of ice cream before it melted all over Becky's beloved Balenciaga, but I walked out of the cinema after two rather uneventful hours wondering why I didn't get the point, what the point was, or whether there was even a point at all. My out of date student card got me a 70p discount on a film I should never have paid to see.
I love Edie. As women go, she's at the top of my list for just about every redeeming feature posessed my human-kind. Plus the thigh-high hemlines, ecentric dangly earrings and overall wild insanity - three of my favourite things, all single-handedly invented by pixie-faced-loon Edith Minturn Sedgwick. So I went to the cinema full of expectation and left disappointed. The most obvious culprit? Sienna Miller. She was an actress in a film, I get it... but film is art and they say art imitates life, and Sienna isn't a convincing Edie. Painted eyebrows and brown contact lenses just could not turn the tanned, blue eyed, pointy nosed and freckled blonde Sienna into the pale, large brown eyed and button nosed, natural brunette Edie. Surely someone like Natalie Portman would have been a better choice. Even Winona.
Secondly, the plot. The sub-title The Idiots Guide to Edie Sedgwick would have been appropriate. I guess if you happened to be turning up to this film with no prior knowledge then hey, what a story... but if you've read any of the biographies of Edie published over the past 20 years (I like Jean Stein's Edie: American Girl) you'll notice the gaping holes and lack of explanation make Factory Girl some kind of deformed and incompleted jigsaw. Her story is so much more than nice, innocent girl moves to New York and befriends Andy Warhol, has been apparently sexually abused by her father, cuts off hair, shags Bob Dylan, falls out with Andy, becomes depraved drug addict, returns home to California, dies - I deplore you to discover it.
Still, it was nice to see Edie get some long-overdue credit and I enjoyed the music and cinematography. The ice cream was delicious too.

So, there you have it. - an on the spot and unfathomable review of Factory Girl. And now I've completely forgotten what else I had to write about.

Tea in the garden

2007-03-18T12:16:00.000+01:00

The First and Last Make-up Post

2007-03-06T21:06:00.003+01:00

I like music more than(almost) anything else, especially if it plays on old-fashioned formats. I also like make-up (yes, really) because it makes me look less like Wednesday Addams and more like the elfin-featured beauty I've always threatened to be- allegedly.
Two of my favourite cosmetics companies have, in their respective laboratories, that look I imagine like the house Hansel and Gretel found - all covered in candy and cake (minus the evil witch), concocted the above products.

Hard Candy's Mix-Tape compacts have three eye shadows and three lip glosses; and come in three different mixes - Workout, Break-up and Party. And in case you're like me and have no idea how to match make-up shades, the colours coordinate so there's no ending up looking like Boy George. Unfortunately, the lure of dressing up like a 80s pop star is all too much for me and I won't be buying one. Well, honestly, there's nothing I like more than dressing as Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan, but Hard Candy's claim that their compact is "a lot less effort" than making a real mix tape (effort? I ask you...) has me refusing to buy one on principle (not even to empty out the make-up and use to store mints.)

And with money still safely in my purse, there's no excuse not to invest in Benefit's Some Kind-a Gorgeous foundation which, rather excitingly for someone with vinyl-lust, has a record on the lid! It's slightly expensive to be buying just for the packaging, but does claim to be "perfection for your complexion". Whether this is true remains to be seen. I'll let you know.

"Soap"

2007-03-03T14:52:00.003+01:00

In a week that saw 15-year-old Amy give birth on the kitchen floor and sexually confused John-Paul and his dysfunctional family visit their first gay bar, Hollyoaks finally got a new opening sequence.
We've reluctantly said goodbye to the days when Kurt Benson charmed the women with his police-chase motorbike antics and the schoolboy Max Cunningham was played by an actor with an abnormally fat face. After 10 years, the blue filmstrip opening featuring many dead and/or date rapist characters has been replaced, and by what?
For perhaps the next decade our week-daily fix of Hollyoakes will begin with a remixed theme tune (quite possibly produced by Kermit the Frog) and selected shots of semi-naked cast members touching themselves provocatively in front of a wind machine. I felt dirty just watching it.
Yet another example of the declining morals of 21st century society.

Monday, Monday...

2007-02-26T13:43:00.003+01:00

A sunny everlasting Monday. I'm thinking I got up too early.

The sunshine has forced the daffodils from their leafy cases. The sight of their new yellow petals always gives me a 'first day of the rest of my life' feeling. The newness of spring can be quite inspiring if you're not too busy grumbling to notice it. I get the feeling changes are about to happen.

Monday is a day for thinking and I'm already on my third cup of tea. In keeping with the theme of re-birth, the thought for the day is Idlewild.

Next Monday (I believe) is new album day. I could just direct you here, but that would be cheating and my mind has changed significantly since the last record. It truly is a love/hate affair. Anyway, I haven't heard the album yet. The single, I heard it and I was surprised. Safe to say nothing like I expected but it made me want to twirl around in my very short dress and send the Royal Doulton crashing to the floor. Last time around I was obsessed with the days of 2000 when windows were broken and there were road trips to Orkney. Channel 4 filmed this and made me want to marry Woomble and grow neeps and sip whisky in front of a roaring fire. Now someone else is doing just that and I'm courting a life of spinsterhood. This time I'll be optimistic. He has his solo record to thank for that.

I look forward to hearing the album in its entirety. I might even go as far as ordering it from Amazon because I know I wont get a free copy - the only bands I ever seem to get for review are American groups I've never heard of (and one else ever should.) On a more romantic note, I have an eccentricity about holding the records of those I love in my hands and feeling the grain of the paper inlay on my fingertips. Ritual.

We'll see.

Liebe Nadiah

2007-02-19T12:15:00.001+01:00

Sometimes the postman can restore your faith in humanity. Or rather he gets to take the credit for gifts collected and mailed two seasons and thousands of miles away that restore your faith in humanity. We do little to appreciate our worldwide postal service.
I just wanted to say thank you for my mail, Miss Nadiah.

North West Zine Works

2007-02-12T11:14:00.001+01:00

University now has a review by the lovely Caroline Tigeress at North West Zine Works. Click here to read and vote till your hearts desire. (You can do this once every 24 hours!)

Distros

2007-02-08T22:28:00.001+01:00

University is now available at Parcell Press and Brass Buttons. Give them your money because both are run by beautiful, lovely, dedicated boys.

One hell of a week

2007-02-07T19:02:00.001+01:00

One week ago I was at a Propagandi gig in Derby. The building was somewhere I spent a considerable amount of time when I was younger. Around me were all the people I spent that time with. My heart still feels like it's encased in bubble wrap.

When I turned the laptop on this morning, there was nothing. No pictures, no documents, no iTunes and most importantly, no un-submitted yet finished 2006 review article. You know, the one I spent the last two weeks obsessing over. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to leap out of the nearest window. Instead I wandered to the train station and joined the Christmas shoppers on an expedition into the big city. Here I met my oldest friend Nicola for lunch. It's a bit like Sex and the City, I suppose. Except with a few minor alterations. Firstly, you would have to replace New York with a middle-English shit-city, then the trendy Manhattan eatery with our dingy local Starbucks and of course, the four stylish, successful thirty-something women with two unsuccessful twenty-somethings who look like they got dressed in the dark. So, not much like Sex and the City at all really... As for the laptop, a conversation with the man on the helpline two years ago and my obsession with notebooks proved quite useful once I managed to calm down.

New things

2007-01-20T12:21:00.002+01:00

Dark red tights from Topshop.

Grey and black top from UO worn as a dress because it's long and I'm short.

Collate, Fold, Staple...

2006-11-08T22:50:00.001+01:00

My best friend Nicola has an MA is photocopying! Because of this I have an immense amount of respect for her.

Since the conception of my very own publishing empire two weeks ago, I have almost had several emotional breakdowns, numerous apparently psychosomatic illnesses and symptoms of; and have been cut, stuck and very nearly electrocuted by the most unfriendly of my equipment. If I see another complicated contraption masquerading as a photocopier, it will be the final nail in the coffin of my mental health. My elderly stapler found the volume of paper it has had to bind together all too much and has had to take early retirement, leaving me with no choice but to buy a new one with funds I do not yet have (a whopping £1.73 being all I’ve earned so far!). The printer is spewing green ink, the scanner has had its cable tasted by a mischievous rabbit and if I fall over one more piece of the discarded stationary strewn across the floor, I’ll almost certainly find myself in A&E. And being as stubborn as usual, I will not be deterred. Oh no. I finally got the latest batch of zines folded and stapled today and the previous batch mailed out yesterday. My next zine is in pre-production, research is underway and when these blasted paper cuts heal I will lovingly grip my pen and attempt to bash out the same old rubbish (that everyone would really rather I didn’t.)

On a high note I will stop typing and get back to tidying and humming happily along to The Postal Service. Much in the same was as they say cheese gives you nightmares if you eat it before bed, The Postal Service make you wake up in the middle of the night surrounded by the most wonderful buzzing sound.

Fireworked

2006-11-06T21:34:00.002+01:00

I had a good post planned for tonight, but someone appears to have chewed through my scanner cable so my plans have quite literally gone up in smoke.

I’ve come to the rather hasty conclusion that fireworks should be banned. This would prevent them from falling into the hands of juvenile delinquents and most worryingly of all, suburban fathers. These men subsequently turn peaceful neighbourhoods into extremely dangerous areas, often resembling night fall in downtown Basra.

I was sitting peacefully in the darkened conservatory last night, barely half way through chapter one of Jane Eyre, when the world outside the window appeared to end in a blaze of green light emitted by a firework, semi-vertically launched over the hedge. My furry companion, previously grinding his teeth in contentment, leapt to his feet and promptly situated himself behind the sofa, stamping his abnormally large back paws frantically. Feeling slightly unnerved as the fireworks continued to zoom erratically past my window; I was more than once tempted to join him.

Seemingly normal men take leave of their senses come the beginning of November and retreat to their gardens with excitable families, before proceeding to wave around explosives as if they were a twirling baton. Fireworks are just as dangerous in the wrong hands as any other explosive material - its gunpowder not a sherbet dip. How hard is that to comprehend? Does little Bobby have to lose an eye or Grandma suffer second degree burns before anyone will realise that fireworks belong in the hands of the professional, certified pyromaniacs. Those who skilfully put on the end of festival fireworks displays and other such supervised events, not Mr Jones from number six who just accidentally hospitalised three members of his family.

We have sound

2006-10-28T14:36:00.002+01:00

University Zine

2006-10-25T15:46:00.001+01:00

In case you were wondering what the picture to the left with the 'buy now' button below it is, I am now going to explain.

University is my first perzine and centers around the first year I spent at university in Edinburgh. It covers everything from making friends, international relations, incidences of alarming stupidity and an adventure in a blizzard. Doesn't sound exciting? Well, it isn't really... but I have spent a lot of time on this so just humour me a little.

Nadiah and Jessica, you have complimentary zines on their way to you this week. Anyone else, you will have to buy a copy either directly from me or from as yet unidentified distros. (Being very, very nice to me might also get you a free copy. I rather like small trinkets and vegan cookies!)

56 pages, 1/2 size, 90g.

Cellar Door

2006-10-22T19:25:00.002+01:00

Today is the worst kind of autumn day. The grey sky leaks continual rain and the blowing wind turns the golden carpet of fallen leaves into a swirling swarm of wet, rotting foliage. We retired to the cosy fire side with warm tea and time travelled back to 1988, where Middlesex, Virginia was basking in the loveliest of autumnal sun shine.
The following is my once published and long forgotten review of the film.

“Destruction is a Form of Creation”

Donnie Darko is a film that defies the genres of modern filmmaking. Part science fiction, part thriller, an off-beat teen film about time travel, mental illness, childhood, paranoia, a giant bunny rabbit named Frank, and the impending apocalypse. But director Richard Kelly’s first film goes far beyond anything he or I could ever have expected.

It is fall 1988 in the middle-class suburban town of Middlesex, Virginia. The US Presidential election is in full swing and the inhabitants of whitewashed Middlesex are blissfully unaware that the world will end in less than one month.
Troubled teenager Donnie Darko (Jake Gyllenhaal), a highly intelligent but increasingly disturbed Schizophrenic is the only inhabitant aware of this frightening prophecy. Prone to sleepwalking and terrifying hallucinations, Donnie wakes one night to a mysterious voice calling him from outside the house. Standing on the Darko’s lawn, a 6ft rabbit known only as Frank (James Duval), informs him that the world will come to an end in exactly 28 days, five hours, 52 minutes and 12 seconds. The next morning Donnie returns home to find a jet engine – unidentified by the FAA - has crashed into the room he would have been sleeping in if he had not been seduced outside by Frank’s haunting voice. Did Frank save him from being killed?
Heavily medicated by his baffled psychiatrist, Dr. Thurman (Katharine Ross), distant from his loving but frustrated parents (Mary McDonnell, Holmes Osborne) and controlled by his new friend Frank, Donnie embarks on a quest for meaning in which he will encounter time travel, violence, isolation, love and ultimately death.

As the countdown to the apocalypse proceeds, Donnie’s behaviour becomes increasingly anti-social. Frank encourages him to carry out destructive and violent acts, beginning with the flooding of Donnie’s conservative, private high school and culminating with the burning down of the mansion owned by sleazy local inspirational speaker, Jim Cunningham (Patrick Swayze), whom Donnie publicly denounces as “the fucking anti-Christ”. The only allies to Donnie’s turmoil come in the form of innocent girlfriend Gretchen Ross (Jena Malone), reluctant science teacher Dr. Monnitoff (Noah Wyle), and mysterious local geriatric recluse and author, Grandma Death (Patience Cleveland).

Richard Kelly’s magnificent screenplay was bought to the screen with the help of actress and executive producer Drew Barrymore, who plays a small role in the film as Donnie’s ambitious yet inexperienced English teacher, Miss Pomeroy. Barrymore was responsible for hiring Jake Gyllenhaal whose portrayal of the title role is what makes the character of Donnie Darko so believable, while the haunting score composed by Michael Andrews adds beautifully to the eerie feel of the film - along with the carefully chosen 80’s soundtrack featuring Echo and the Bunnymen, Tears for Fears, Joy Division and Duran Duran.

Donnie Darko is a unique film. It is clever, surreal, funny, creepy and at times incredibly heartbreaking. Often indulgent, Kelly’s trick of switching topics from the sexual habits of Smurfs to the science of time travel is quite baffling, but shows the freedom of the independent filmmaker at its best. An ambitious debut bought to life by an all-star cast, Donnie Darko is a visually stunning and powerfully moving masterpiece.

Big Mouth Strikes Again

2006-10-16T20:34:00.002+01:00

For HND Journalism we had to write a profile of a celebrity.

Few icons manage to outlive the generation they’re born into let alone maintain a thriving fan-base two decades later. The road hasn’t always been easy, with lawsuits, fluctuating record sales, accusations of racism and all matter of controversy, but Steven Morrissey was never one to run with the crowd.

The roots of the Morrissey phenomenon lie in the Davyhulme suburb of Manchester where Steven Patrick Morrissey was born on 22nd May 1959. The second child of Irish Catholic parents, by the age of nine Steven was a problem child. His Father later admitted he thought his only son to be a “complete fruitcake”, but his Mother, a librarian, saw the artistic side of her young son and keenly introduced him to the works of Thomas Hardy and Oscar Wilde, the latter sparking an infatuation that persists to this day. Reserved and painfully shy, the young Morrissey was already a loner, a trait which would follow him into his teenage years and adulthood.

In the early 1970’s the barely teenage Morrissey had already discovered his interest in music, worshipping bands such as The New York Dolls and Sparks. His love was made public in June 1974 when NME published a letter from the 15-year-old Morrissey praising Sparks. Soon, he was bombarding the music press with early snippets of his piercing tongue and razor sharp opinions. In Manchester indie circles Morrissey was now a minor celebrity as fellow New York Dolls fan Phil Fletcher remembers, “I said, I’ve read letters by you in the press and seen you at the Free Trade Hall. He found it hilarious that somebody would notice him. I think he felt he was a star because somebody knew him.”

Conversations with other early Mancunian peers reveal that the young Morrissey had always wanted to be the star himself. What little money he earned from his first job as a clerical officer at the Inland Revenue was spent on records and attending gigs while he spent the majority of his time in his bedroom dreaming of stardom and penning scathing letters to the music press and his ever-growing collection of pen-pals. Morrissey was not prepared to go out and find stardom, it had to find him.

Now the early eighties, Morrissey had become what he later referred to as “something of a back bedroom casualty.” Spending long periods on the dole, he was what best friend and Ludus singer, Linder Sterling describes as “totally unemployable”. With very few social skills and intimidating eccentricity forming a band now seemed out of the question. He briefly changed direction and attempted to pursue a career as a music journalist, being taken on by the Record Mirror as a freelance local reviewer. A handful of record reviews and concert reports followed, but nothing more. In his early twenties Morrissey was already a has-been.

Eager to start a band, guitarist Johnny Marr approached local musician Rob Allman. Allman, a regular on the Manchester scene knew Morrissey and suggested they meet. Marr boarded the 263 bus to Stretford in search of the mythical Morrissey. By the end of the day, The Smiths was born. Marr called upon old friends Andy Rourke and Mike Joyce to complete the line-up and in a last attempt to consolidate himself as the next big thing, Steven Morrissey dropped his forename and became the Morrissey enigma. When asked about this Morrissey simply said, "I just felt this absolutely massive relief at not being called Steven anymore."

In the five years The Smiths were together they released five albums, toured relentlessly and became the band that epitomised the 1980’s. Morrissey’s eccentricities became a trademark and his decision to appear on Top of the Pops waving a bunch of daffodils and insistence on wearing a hearing aid even though there was nothing wrong with his hearing spurred the now legendary cult of Morrissey.

The demise of The Smiths in 1987 left Morrissey heartbroken. Despite admitting he always heard “great beauty in Marr’s rolling chords,” he was still driven by his ambition and wasted no time in releasing solo material. The cult of Morrissey was to leave The Smiths behind.

In the almost twenty years since the end of The Smiths, Morrissey has released six solo albums, toured the world, become a powerful animal rights campaigner, spoken his mind on everything from politics to British soap opera and in stark contrast to his previous Anglophilia, in 1998 set up home in Los Angeles, leaving England behind.

Worshipped by fans new and old and hailed as a genius by his peers, Morrissey is and always has been a true original and a bona-fide British icon. And as his nephew Sam attempts to shed some light on the real Steven Morrissey, the man himself is as elusive as he always has been. “At the end of the day, he lives in L.A., he drives a Jag, and he goes to the beach. I don’t think he’s living in a dark room dressed in black.”

Noise Floor!

2006-10-09T21:46:00.001+01:00

Noise Floor: rarities 1998-2005

Since the very beginning of my love for Bright Eyes, many of my favourite recordings have been the ones hardest to find. Those songs that were sessions or split singles with short lived bands; appeared on compilations for friendly labels and zines, or 7” vinyl released on some obscure label in an American town I’d never heard of and could barely pronounce - they were always the ones to cut deepest. I collected these recordings, whether on battered cassette tapes with sun melted corners or on vinyl encased in pretty pictures, now displayed lovingly upon my defunct 1960s record player. I treasure them as if they were worth all the gold in the world, but that doesn’t mean butterflies didn’t flutter inside when I read Saddle Creek were to release a compilation of rare and unreleased material, recorded 1998-2005.

Noise Floor and I have now spent three long and happy days together. There’s no polish or perfect production. There is the nostalgic rawness of those early songs, so thoughtfully put together on A Collection of Songs 1995-97. I no longer have to steal time with unfamiliar record players to listen to Motion Sickness or wind the tape back into the cassette with a broken pencil for the Trees Get Wheeled Away, and although I miss the crackle of a needle on vinyl and the chugging of an old cassette player, I am truly grateful.

With last years twin releases a fondly distant memory and the Conor backlash (I believe it was the ‘emo’ and the ‘hair’) somewhat subsided, this record is a perfect reminder of why my love for Bright Eyes began.

It’s the sound of the basement and the fragility in the voice, the foot tapping on the concrete floor.

Love/Hate

2006-10-02T13:37:00.001+01:00

I've been rather busy lately, hence the lack of updates here. While looking through some files on my old laptop, I found this wee article from a year or so ago. I thought it tied in nicely with the review further down this page.

I’ve been trying to avoid the return of Idlewild in much the same way as one would avoid a modern day outbreak of bubonic plague or a horrifically contagious, disfiguring illness. They have much in common when you think about it. Simple avoidance and blind denial worked at first, but it’s impossible to avoid contamination and Roddy Woomble now faces me from every direction, and I believe is currently crawling under my skin.

I can’t deny that I’ve heard the new record, I can’t deny that it was my own choice to listen to it, and I can’t deny that it did have some redeeming qualities. As a whole I can’t decide what I think of it, I just feel that it’s important to keep reminding myself that somewhere along the line, either Roderick Woomble or I appear to have suffered serious head injury.

Idlewild were one of the big loves of my life. I mean, who needs boys when you have bands, right? They were one of those bands that you could so easily let yourself fall totally and completely in love with. Many nights were spent alone on my bedroom floor listening to Hope is Important in the dark, staring at Roddy’s gap-toothed grin peering from the cover of Melody Maker and wishing I was the girlfriend looking through the dirty window on the cover of Captain. Everything about them was so furious and passionate, from Roddy falling around on stage wearing only one shoe to Bob’s constant sarcastic wit. I would’ve sold them my own soul. Hell, I would’ve given it to them for free.

I was in Virgin megastore on Princes Street when I heard Bob had left the band. Within days he was back in Edinburgh, stumbling along the street alone in a drunken stupor, can of Stella in hand. It’s when the reality sets in that you fall out of love the hardest.

My dearest Roddy, a few years ago I wanted to be your wife and darn your socks in our Highland croft, while you wrote songs about dreams to sing to lonely children. Then you changed and I found that I could no longer love you like I used to, so I left you to drown in your own arrogance. Please promote your album quietly. Love always, Elizabeth.

As far as Idlewild are concerned, I’m going to continue to put my fingers in my ears and yell “la la la la la”. You may notice me doing this at Rock City in April.

A kid carries his walkman on that long bus ride to Omaha

2006-09-20T20:51:00.003+01:00

I’ve always been somewhat old fashioned when it comes to portable music devices. Maybe you could call me technology-phobic, but mostly it’s just a distrust of this little gadget with too many buttons and functions, that turns something so simple into something so frustratingly difficult. It’s not an unfounded fear, after all, your portable music device is your own pocket sized best friend, and arguably the best friend you’ll ever have.

For my 10th birthday my parents bought me a black Sony Walkman. It was the best present I’d ever received and everyone knew it. From that day on I was unreachable to the outside world, constantly wearing headphones, and an obsessive hoarder of cassettes. Perhaps the seeds had already been sown, but that Walkman certainly helped me on the way to the unsociable act of replacing people with music. Wherever I went, Walkman went too. One day the belt clip broke and I had to be inventive; now pockets, bags and even underwear had to allow Walkman space.

At 14, a glowing school report bought me a celebratory Discman. It was a novelty that lasted longer than most. I no longer had to spend hours making tapes on the living room floor, I could just throw my favourite CD’s in my bag and still make it to school in time for registration. The fact that it refused to fit in any pocket, no matter how hard I tried didn’t seem to matter either, I went very few places without my tip-ex stained record bag anyway. My relationship with Discman was a happy one, perhaps the only happy relationship of the mid-teenage period, but like everything, even Discman must die, and eventually the CD skipping as I walked to and from the bus stop became constant… and irritating. Discman went to bottom drawer heaven and trusty old Walkman was my best friend again.

The new millennium dawned with the arrival of a little silver box. It was back to taping my favourite songs on the living room floor, but with Minidisc-man it seemed all the more sophisticated. Minidisc-man didn’t eat battery’s like Discman did, and with me travelling further for my college education and spending an increasing amount of time out of the house and in the company of hot young boys in bands, seemed like the perfect portable music playing companion. The problem came when Minidisc-man and I didn’t have any chemistry. Sure, he was shiny and silver, and could fit in almost any pocket… but there was just nothing endearing or terribly practical to win me over.

My true love began to make me mix tapes as a token of his undying affection and Walkman and I were inseparable again. He was now almost a decade old and had some problems with the occasional cassette. Sometimes he would make a chugging sound, but never gave up on me. We went out into the big, wide world together, and no matter how many mix tapes from significant insignificants and four and a half hour train journeys I presented my poor old Walkman with, he chugged along constantly and faithfully. Then one day, after almost 13 years of loyalty, Walkman just stopped. My Father was kind enough to loan me his cheap, modern Walkman, but it didn’t compare… and to be honest, I think I’ve wore the poor thing out(you could say, they don’t make them like they used to!) I returned his faithful friend to him before it died completely and tried to show some respect for my beloved 10th birthday present Walkman. Here my dilemma began.

These days, everyone and their dog have one of these fancy ipod thingies. I’ve never seen one close up, but from where I’m standing they look like jolly scary little buggers, with lots of buttons and things that make no sense when all I want to do is listen to something that will make my shitty day seem bearable. I unwillingly convinced myself that a mini ipod would be the answer to my predicament. They’re tiny enough to fit into the pocket of any particular garment enveloping my size six waist, come in pretty colours and can hold so many songs that I couldn’t get bored for at least a week, maybe longer.

Asking for advice it seems, leads me further into my dilemma. My good friend, miss bad-influence tells me no. Miss bad-influence tells me that a big white dentist surgery like ipod is far superior, and for only a few dollars extra holds a million more songs so I’ll never, ever get bored. Confused? Me too.

I wish my black Sony Walkman had some life left in him, but I understand that I should move forward like the rest of the world. I can use an ipod. I can love an ipod. I just need a little reassurance, and a little faith... but mostly lots and lots of reassurance. And quite possibly a bank loan.

Roddy's Record Review

2006-09-18T21:16:00.002+01:00

Once upon a time it was hard to believe Roddy Woomble could tie his own shoe laces or button his own shirt, let alone write and record his own solo record.

The highlight of his career had been lying on stage, screaming wildly into the microphone, one shoe on his foot, the other somewhere to the right of his head, while Rod Jones jumped limply over him. This was of course in the good old days of Idlewild.

So imagine my surprise when Roddy, believed to be on something of a hiatus after Idlewild's last album didn'’t quite live up to... well, whatever it was that the album before that didn't quite live up to, announced his solo project. Roddy it seems, had collected a bus load of Scottish musicians, including bandmate Rod Jones, Karine Polwart, Ailidh Lennon and David Gow of Sons and Daughters and Michael Angus of Foxface, amongst others, and headed for the Yorkshire countryside to begin working on what would become his debut solo release, My Secret is my Silence. Strangely, I now have visions of the film Withnail and I.

Produced by John McCusker, this rather quaint picture of a recording session has created a unique British folk album, somewhat reminiscent, perhaps not entirely coincidentally, of a bleak winters'’ night in front of a roaring fire, in the company of friends, glass of whisky in hand.

I have to admit that, Roddy, you have surprised me. You might now look, and quite possibly smell, like a young version of Last of the Summer Wine's Compo, but your first solo album isn't half bad.

Broken Records Zine Review

2006-09-10T11:27:00.001+01:00

Broken Records is a memoir of the years twenty-four-year-old Jessica spent working as a record store clerk. During this time she graduated high school and college, was almost arrested and single handedly prevented runaway truck carnage and an in-store blood bath. The Broken Records store was the backdrop.

The importance to her of the time spent working at Broken Records and the relationships formed with co-workers is obvious as she writes of the problem of CD trade-ins, memorable sales of pornography and a hilarious late night road trip with the life size cardboard version of the local Elvis impersonator.
The characters of her co-workers and regular customers also come under scrutiny. A roll-call of fellow employees (they all love Star Wars) are introduced alongside store regulars the Prog and Porn Guy and the Aging Hipster.

Jessica writes with a fury of wit and inspiring honesty about the everyday life of a record store clerk. Whether the daily task or the 'did that just happen?' ridiculous, her individual style makes this zine impossible to put down until the end.

Broken Records even comes with its own soundtrack. The 17 track CD compiled by Jessica herself features many of the bands/artists mentioned in the zine (disappointingly Barbara Streisand, Genesis and Chicago aren’t included!). The CD does include Throwing Muses, PJ Harvey, Sonic Youth, The Cure and The Clash. Each track comes with a short explanationto its importance.

By the end of this zine you may have learned that despite previous media representations, there are women out there who make damn good record store clerks, do own every Clash album on vinyl and happen to posses a far superior musical knowledge than their average male counterpart.

Broken Records is available at all good distros. For a full list visit the Broken Records MySpace page.

Because I am so sick of those Gok Wan programmes

2006-09-04T12:12:00.002+01:00

It only recently occurred to me that the media’s representation of the female form may be a little sizest. I haven’t been living under a rock for my whole life. This is just the start of the controversy.

We don’t all conform to the ideal size seen in magazines and on television. The curvy actresses and voluptuous footballers’ wives the media saturates us with present an image unachievable to many women. But unfortunately, I’m not talking about those who find themselves on the heavier side of the enviable figure.

Women who consider themselves overweight have endless resources designed specifically to help them lose those excess pounds. Celebrity endorsed diet plans and advice columns, television programmes that teach you to dress yourself thinner or extreme cosmetic surgery makeovers. All geared towards slimming you down to the socially acceptable average.

But what if you’re not over weight? What if you look at those glamorous footballers’ wives and long for a curvy body like theirs? Instead you look in the mirror at your non-existent curves and wonder why no one ever assumes you’d rather not have to. It might not be a problem of epic proportions, but there are some women out there who have just as much trouble gaining weight as others do losing it.

Often labelled as anorexic or frowned upon for their slender limbs, skinny women aren’t allowed to complain about their body shape. But long gone are the days when Twiggy was lusted after by men and women alike. Skinny is no longer fashionable and an alarming number of young women are going to great lengths to achieve a more rounded figure.

I am one of these ‘lucky’ skinny women. I can eat as much pizza and cake as I like and not put on a single pound. How easy my life must be, I hear you all say. However, the reality is much less perfect. Protruding collar and hip bones certainly aren’t sexy and the ability to fit through railings is a party trick best kept quiet. Many of my clothes have had to be altered accordingly. Despite the occasional identity crisis caused by the pages of glossy magazines, I’ve learned to live with my shape. I’m never going to have a curvy, womanly figure and this is something I’ve had to learn to accept, however grudgingly. I find myself reasoning, if Keira Knightley can work with it, so can I.

On Thursday 31st August, 2006, iconic supermodel Kate Moss appeared on page 3 of British gutter press, The Sun. The launch pad for every cheap glamour model since the late seventies, page 3 has become synonymous with the vulgar busty blonde topless shot, ogled by workmen in white vans across the nation. Kate’s appearance here, however out of place, was a landmark. Small breasted and slender, Kate’s poise and natural beauty proved that being a curves in all the right places shape was not the be all and end all of what it takes to be happy and sexy.

Trainspotting

2006-08-30T19:49:00.008+01:00

Written a couple of years ago and featured in University zine.

Trainspotting

“One bottle of valium, which I have already procured from my mother, who is, in her own domestic and socially acceptable way, also a drug addict” – Renton

Danny Boyle’s influential and darkly humorous 1994 film Trainspotting was an adaptation of Irvine Welsh’s novel following the bleak existence of a group of Edinburgh junkies and Ewan McGregor’s anti-hero Mark Renton. Released in 1995 under a wave of hype from the British music press and accompanied by a quintessentially Britpop soundtrack, featuring the likes of Sleeper, Elastica and Pulp. It was at the time to film what Britpop was to music, proof that Britain was artistically thriving again. It was the film of the year. The orange, white and black promotion poster appeared everywhere, making unlikely icons out of Renton, Sick Boy, Spud, Tommy, Begbie and Diane. Every Indie teenager and student bedroom wall had one, a Che Guevara for a new generation, mine in particular coming free with an issue of Melody Maker.

Being just 13 at the time of the films release, I was five years too young to see it.
“You’re too young”.
“I’m too young for what?”.
To me it seemed like Trainspotting was everywhere, and I wasn’t old enough, or even looking old enough to see it, at least until video release. My mother rented the film for me one Saturday night when she and my father were out. I’m not sure if she was aware to the films content or whether this was just another example of my parent’s liberal view of raising a teenager. I don’t think even I was aware of what it was I would see. It was stark and shocking with a bleak humour, more so to a 13 year old girl, even one who considered herself more of the world than the rest of her age group. I wasn’t shocked. My eyes were opened and I became aware of a way of life, a culture, a reality, a whole image, in film making and in society. Here was an image that complemented the music I listened too, the words I read and was more real to me than what was usually force-fed to people of my age. It set me above the others, my school friends, my peers, so I thought, the ones who I already had no respect for.

I knew that none of Trainspotting’s characters could be classed as role-models. Icons they indeed were, images for bedroom walls and for film history. Except maybe, for me there could be Diane. Kelly MacDonald was the Edinburgh school girl picked to play the part of Diane. Her character was not even on screen that often, but she was as prominent on that poster as they were but in my eyes much, much cooler. Diane standing by the bar in that silver dress, smoking, looking around with that air of superiority is, for me, the highlight of the film. Mark Renton had fallen in love and so had I. She was cool, coy, witty, sarcastic and as sharp as her cheekbones; a sexy, intelligent young woman by night and an innocent, childish school girl by day. I had that short brown bob tucked neatly behind my ears and I wanted that sparkly silver dress. Unlike most girls my age I had the chest to carry it off but not the occasion to wear it. I was no Diane, as much as I wanted to be.

Watching Trainspotting now, almost 10 years later, it strikes me how dated it’s become. It’s firmly placed in the mid-nineties by its Britpop soundtrack and its fashion. Edinburgh has changed, no longer so run down, the city had been rejuvenated in recent years and to me, having lived in Edinburgh recently, little in the film is recognisable. There being one exception as Renton and Spud flee from their shoplifting spree past Boots on Princes Street. This sequence is where my familiarity begins and ends, in a part of Edinburgh so easily recognisable to me that whenever I walked there I was instantly taken back to that scene and as long as that Boots sign remains the same, always will be.Trainspotting will remain the film of a generation who took back their British culture and made it cool again, in film, music and literature. While the bands of the time fade away, Trainspotting remains an influential cult film that documents the time in which it was made, the music that accompanied it and the faces that made its name, but most importantly, it encapsulates a generations youth.