It's not unusual for people to hate the nearest town to them - it's the cheap and easy staple of any comic to slander the next-door neighbour town whenever they're working at one venue and reverse it the next week whenever they're in the town that they've just slagged off.
Towns that I have slagged off onstage in my last ten gigs include:
Barnsley
Wakefield
Elgin
Welwyn Garden City
Marseilles
Chloride (It's in Arizona)
Montevideo
Fray Bentos
St Petersburg
Atlantis
I've honestly got no ill feelings towards these towns at all, but it's easy to slate the unknown. I've only visited three of these towns anyway - although I'll always be sad that I haven't visited Fray Bentos in Uruguay to see if they specifically farm incredibly gristle-bound cows.
Coventry is a horrible city. If you've never visited, don't. I can very quickly describe to you the main attractions to save you actually needing to ever take the trip up the M6.
THE CATHEDRAL - After the tragic events of World War 2, the Coventry cathedral (which was a beautiful Gothic structure) was rebuilt as some terrible angular nightmare, bearing resemblance to a comic book villain's lair.
THE TAPESTRY - There is a massive tapestry in Coventry. It's of the virgin Mary, I think. Who even bothers making tapestries?
THE TRANSPORT MUSEUM - Just to remind the people of Coventry that once upon a time they had a thriving industry.
That's it. Nothing else.
There is no real reason for me to despise Coventry so. There really isn't. It is completely unfathomable. I don't really dislike anybody. I'll take a gig anywhere and pretend that I am madly in love with any audience that makes even the slightest giggling noise in my direction. For I am a comedy whore. A joke-bearing slut. I'll take gigs in Coventry (and often have) but the only reason I dislike the city - despite it having a ring road shaped like a Scalextric - is merely down to the geographical proximity to the town I grew up in.
I don't mind the people. There seems to be a larger chav population than most towns but fuck it, I've been to Burnley. Just because the rustle of tracksuits against fake Ugg boots punctuates the darkest of nights with noise and vague sparks, it doesn't make it a bad place. The fact that it is one of very few cities to have an Ikea within the city centre doesn't irk me, neither does the platoon of idiots that shop there, treating cheap Swedish furniture like its the most amazing thing they've ever seen whilst dodging roaming gangs of townie scum who are trying to steal large stuffed snakes for little Tyreese or Chardonnay.
It's not the layout of the town really. Sure, the previously mentioned slot racing-esque road system is annoying, as is the way that you have to cut someone up (metaphorically, not literally, although it may help relieve tension) in order to enter any of their roads because no one has the manners to actually let you out. I don't think that it's the fact that they decided to build some of the ugliest buildings ever committed to concrete - I mean, who the fuck decided to make a structure shaped like an elephant? Seriously?
Football is a major driving factor in my likes and dislikes - the fact that I was once chased by a man with a iron bar in Portsmouth means that I'll never speak highly of the town. But football doesn't bother me that much, especially when the team in question doesn't really matter. What have Coventry ever done? Keith Houchen once scored a fantastic header in the FA Cup Final, but apart from that? Nothing, asides from the legacy of having a famous brown kit. That is literally the ONLY thing people remember them for. What else is there? Having a football ground with stands that are too high for people to even walk up?
It's not even the fact that it's bigger than Nuneaton but further away from me, closer than Birmingham but not as big or that it has a shopping centre with an outside escalator.
Can't even think of a reason why I hate it so. Silly geography.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Monday, 24 August 2009
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
20: Being the oldest person at music gigs
I recently went to see Kings of Leon with my Dad. I would class this gig as the biggest and most commercial that I reckon I've ever attended, with it being at the O2 Arena and all. You know what? It was very good indeed. Great support act (Glasvegas), great sound and great performance from a band that I tried for years and years to actively dislike. I just can't, because they're so talented and awesome and grrr. My Dad loves them so we attended together in a father-son type bonding way. Prior to the gig we ate Brazilian buffet food - which involves meat being brought to you on long knives by waiters. I made a dozen "pork sword" references in the first minute of our visit.
The good thing about attending gigs with my Dad is that I can guarantee that I'm not the oldest person at the show. Because I'm 31 and these things deeply bother me. The slight downfall of attending a gig at the O2 is that I have to sit down, pay a fortune for the right to attend and have to suffer the four types of fans that Kings of Leon seem to attract:
THE LOOKALIKEY - Late teen to Mid Twenties men who shop exclusively at All Saints and Top Man in their bid to look exactly like one of the Followills. All deep V necklines in charcoal with carefully coiffeured hair and a ton of necklaces. They only own the third and fourth albums. Own no trainers, only many pointed shoes.
THE GROUPIE - Women who fancy the Followills (usually Caleb). Dress in Top Shop's "I'm an Indie Whore" range - I saw one wearing an MC5 t-shirt with FUCKING GLADIATOR SANDALS and felt the need to ask her if she could name one MC5 song. Downloaded the singles "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody". Owns none of the band's albums.
THE SERIOUS MUSO - Wearing a band t-shirt - but crucially NOT Kings of Leon. Sonic Youth seemed popular. Lies and says he's there to watch Glasvegas only. Tuts when they play their biggest hits. Loudly requests an obscure B-Side to prove how much he knows about music. On the trip to the gig secretly listened mercilessly to the band's new album to ensure that he knew all the words.
THE CHAV - Heard "Sex on Fire" and liked it. Saw tickets on Ticketweb. Thought he'd go along in his tracksuit to see what all the fuss is about. Spends the first half of the gig pissed and screaming at the top of his lungs for Sex on Fire and (I genuinely saw this) Hey Jude.
Of course there were plenty of regular fans to balance out the above detritus, but you get the gist. I'm not one of those people however who decides to dislike a band merely because they become successful - after all, who on earth chooses to form a band to not sell records or fill arenas? They're living the dream, fair on them. It's just people that get my bile up. You might have noticed that.
Anyway, sometimes I'll go to gigs with friends and I'll clearly be the oldest person there. Due to the nature of much of the music I like, sometimes I'm not - Metal festivals are handy for me being able to blend into the crowd, as the bearded forty-something hordes come out to worship Thunder and Def Leppard. But more often than not, I'm the rogue old dude stood in the corner with people whispering about me. Ageism is rife in these parts.
You are probably thinking that the best way to deal with this is to throw myself headlong into gigs, whirling around the moshpit with my arms flailing and my face contorted into a grimace as the music takes over my very soul. I could do that, but I have my own solution.
To merely stand at the back of the gig, hands in my pockets, silently watching the music and the chaos pass me by.
Why?
Because then people see me and have to draw their own conclusions as to why I'm there. The youth of today are quick to judge and even speedier to leap to false conclusions. So I stand there and let them chatter amongst themselves, trying to work out why I'm there, like the proverbial rogue grey pube.
The best suggestions I've heard so far are as follows:
DRUG DEALER: It helps if you keep a coat on during the gig to pull this one off. Stare straight ahead at all times. Occasionally nod at a bouncer, so it looks like you've "paid them off". If anyone asks you for drugs, you have two options. You can either tell them that they won't be able to handle your "shit" with a sinister glare, sending them packing with a modicum of panic and dread; Or you can bring aspirin and paracetemol out with you and sell them at a vast profit margin.
UNDERCOVER COP: Every now and again just stop a youth and ask him what he's doing. Then let him carry on. Brilliant. Everyone will instantly believe you're undercover and you can then watch the gig undisturbed, with no circle pits of other childish shenanigans going on within a 50 foot radius of your location. Combine it with the Drug Dealer one too - start the first idea with some of the crowd, then the second part with some more of them and watch the panic spread.
MUSIC EXECUTIVE: Stand there watching the band and every now and then nudge the person next to you and say "I tell you, when they were recording this [INSERT LEAD SINGER'S CHRISTIAN NAME HERE] just couldn't get the harmony right, but listen to it now." Every now and again scowl as if you've heard a bum note or missed drumbeat. Ask people for their opinions of the band like you're conducting market research.
JOURNALIST: Take a notepad with you. A tiny one, like the ones you sometimes get in crackers. Every now and again take it out and write something down. Tut loudly from time to time. Allow yourself an ironic laugh or two as well.
THE MAN AT THE WRONG GIG BUT TOO SHY TO ADMIT IT: Every now and then nudge the person next to you and ask what the band onstage is called. Especially the headliners. Loudly wonder when The Communards Tribute Band is coming on. Keep looking at your watch and sighing.
BODYGUARD: Works if you attend the gig with others. Let them go off, but every now and then hold your hand to your ear, talk to yourself and then relay whispered messages to your friends. This is a bonus one, as your younger friends will have also entered the web of deceit. You win a pound from me every time you convince someone that you're trained in Jujitsu and your friends are all part of the Belgian Royal Family. And somehow are in Rock City Nottingham on a wet Tuesday.
You get the general idea. I'm glad I have this game, because I'm certainly not getting any younger. Neither can I bear the idea of stopping watching live music. But this occupies my time and keeps me from feeling too over exposed whilst bobbing my head to the music in a dreadfully out of rhythm fashion.
You could also argue that at 31 I should probably have retired from liking decent music by now and just become a Take That fan like every other poor fucking thirtysomething in the UK.
You could try that, but I'd ask you to grow up.
The good thing about attending gigs with my Dad is that I can guarantee that I'm not the oldest person at the show. Because I'm 31 and these things deeply bother me. The slight downfall of attending a gig at the O2 is that I have to sit down, pay a fortune for the right to attend and have to suffer the four types of fans that Kings of Leon seem to attract:
THE LOOKALIKEY - Late teen to Mid Twenties men who shop exclusively at All Saints and Top Man in their bid to look exactly like one of the Followills. All deep V necklines in charcoal with carefully coiffeured hair and a ton of necklaces. They only own the third and fourth albums. Own no trainers, only many pointed shoes.
THE GROUPIE - Women who fancy the Followills (usually Caleb). Dress in Top Shop's "I'm an Indie Whore" range - I saw one wearing an MC5 t-shirt with FUCKING GLADIATOR SANDALS and felt the need to ask her if she could name one MC5 song. Downloaded the singles "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody". Owns none of the band's albums.
THE SERIOUS MUSO - Wearing a band t-shirt - but crucially NOT Kings of Leon. Sonic Youth seemed popular. Lies and says he's there to watch Glasvegas only. Tuts when they play their biggest hits. Loudly requests an obscure B-Side to prove how much he knows about music. On the trip to the gig secretly listened mercilessly to the band's new album to ensure that he knew all the words.
THE CHAV - Heard "Sex on Fire" and liked it. Saw tickets on Ticketweb. Thought he'd go along in his tracksuit to see what all the fuss is about. Spends the first half of the gig pissed and screaming at the top of his lungs for Sex on Fire and (I genuinely saw this) Hey Jude.
Of course there were plenty of regular fans to balance out the above detritus, but you get the gist. I'm not one of those people however who decides to dislike a band merely because they become successful - after all, who on earth chooses to form a band to not sell records or fill arenas? They're living the dream, fair on them. It's just people that get my bile up. You might have noticed that.
Anyway, sometimes I'll go to gigs with friends and I'll clearly be the oldest person there. Due to the nature of much of the music I like, sometimes I'm not - Metal festivals are handy for me being able to blend into the crowd, as the bearded forty-something hordes come out to worship Thunder and Def Leppard. But more often than not, I'm the rogue old dude stood in the corner with people whispering about me. Ageism is rife in these parts.
You are probably thinking that the best way to deal with this is to throw myself headlong into gigs, whirling around the moshpit with my arms flailing and my face contorted into a grimace as the music takes over my very soul. I could do that, but I have my own solution.
To merely stand at the back of the gig, hands in my pockets, silently watching the music and the chaos pass me by.
Why?
Because then people see me and have to draw their own conclusions as to why I'm there. The youth of today are quick to judge and even speedier to leap to false conclusions. So I stand there and let them chatter amongst themselves, trying to work out why I'm there, like the proverbial rogue grey pube.
The best suggestions I've heard so far are as follows:
DRUG DEALER: It helps if you keep a coat on during the gig to pull this one off. Stare straight ahead at all times. Occasionally nod at a bouncer, so it looks like you've "paid them off". If anyone asks you for drugs, you have two options. You can either tell them that they won't be able to handle your "shit" with a sinister glare, sending them packing with a modicum of panic and dread; Or you can bring aspirin and paracetemol out with you and sell them at a vast profit margin.
UNDERCOVER COP: Every now and again just stop a youth and ask him what he's doing. Then let him carry on. Brilliant. Everyone will instantly believe you're undercover and you can then watch the gig undisturbed, with no circle pits of other childish shenanigans going on within a 50 foot radius of your location. Combine it with the Drug Dealer one too - start the first idea with some of the crowd, then the second part with some more of them and watch the panic spread.
MUSIC EXECUTIVE: Stand there watching the band and every now and then nudge the person next to you and say "I tell you, when they were recording this [INSERT LEAD SINGER'S CHRISTIAN NAME HERE] just couldn't get the harmony right, but listen to it now." Every now and again scowl as if you've heard a bum note or missed drumbeat. Ask people for their opinions of the band like you're conducting market research.
JOURNALIST: Take a notepad with you. A tiny one, like the ones you sometimes get in crackers. Every now and again take it out and write something down. Tut loudly from time to time. Allow yourself an ironic laugh or two as well.
THE MAN AT THE WRONG GIG BUT TOO SHY TO ADMIT IT: Every now and then nudge the person next to you and ask what the band onstage is called. Especially the headliners. Loudly wonder when The Communards Tribute Band is coming on. Keep looking at your watch and sighing.
BODYGUARD: Works if you attend the gig with others. Let them go off, but every now and then hold your hand to your ear, talk to yourself and then relay whispered messages to your friends. This is a bonus one, as your younger friends will have also entered the web of deceit. You win a pound from me every time you convince someone that you're trained in Jujitsu and your friends are all part of the Belgian Royal Family. And somehow are in Rock City Nottingham on a wet Tuesday.
You get the general idea. I'm glad I have this game, because I'm certainly not getting any younger. Neither can I bear the idea of stopping watching live music. But this occupies my time and keeps me from feeling too over exposed whilst bobbing my head to the music in a dreadfully out of rhythm fashion.
You could also argue that at 31 I should probably have retired from liking decent music by now and just become a Take That fan like every other poor fucking thirtysomething in the UK.
You could try that, but I'd ask you to grow up.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
19: Film Remakes
Let me ask you a theoretical question. Pick your favourite music album of all time. Got it? Hold that thought in your head. Think about what that album means to you, how much you love the lyrics, the orchestration, the production, its sentimental worth to you and so on.
I'll tell you what album I'm thinking about. Plucked at random, one of my favourite albums is "London Calling" by the Clash. It's a work of genius that still stands up to the test of time today.
Now then, for the sake of my argument, imagine that this brilliant slice of late 1970s British punk was merely re-recorded by the fucking Jonas Brothers. Contentious lyrics were edited out, simpler stuff was added in, production was bigger and boomier and so on.
That's madness, right? You don't take a musical work of art and attempt to remake it. A cover version is a one track tribute, but no-one is going to take your favourite album and Hollywood it up a bit to make it more palatable. No-one (well, Banksy maybe) wanders into art galleries and hangs up their kid's version of Dali's Persistence of Memory. It's insane.
If you look on Wikipedia you'll find that there are so many film remakes that they have to split the listings over several pages. There is no example of a remade film being better than the original. Why? Because the original film has the essence of the writer and directors vision, has the initial spark of creativity and above all else does not star Sarah Michelle Gellar.
To save you time I've decided to tell you the differences between original films and their remakes. No, no. Thank you.
ALFIE (1966) - Michael Caine stars as Alfie, a bit of a rogue who grows as a character during the film, passing a scathing commentary on promiscuous swinging London in the 1960s.
ALFIE (2004) - Jude Law is a cock. You watch the entire film praying that he catches a disease. Whilst Mr Caine talking to the camera in the original is cool, Law doing it is as toe curlingly annoying as when Lovejoy used to do it.
---
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (1976) - One of the greatest action films of the 1970s. A stark, stylish take on both western and zombie film themes made for a pittance - thus adding to its grimy charm.
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (2005) - They decide to change the enemies in the film to policemen (HA! GENIUS!) and Ethan Hawke is in it. And Ja Rule, who looks like Howard from the Halifax adverts. Watching it makes you feel like you're playing a terrible video game. It even has flash grenades in it. Do they even exist?
---
BEDAZZLED (1967) - Peter Cook stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to see this?
BEDAZZLED (2000) - Liz Hurley stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to rather set your face on fire than watch this film?
---
WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (1971) - The acid-drenched celebration of many a child's favourite book, represented in a way that is entertaining for both adults and kids. Gene Wilder is utterly convincing as the completely batshit loco Wonka.
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (2005) - Unimaginitive retread that is too dark and grimy to be fantastical, of course because it's directed by Tim Burton and he's not familiar with what light is. Johnny Depp tries to out-loon Gene Wilder and just ends up looking like a camp man in a top hat.
---
DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978) - The greatest horror film ever made. Over two hours long and the prototype for a billion other cheap and nasty zombie films, none of which could get it quite right. Atmospheric, thought provoking and genuinely has you on the edge of your seat.
DAWN OF THE DEAD (2004) - Hang on a second. JUST HOW LONG HAVE ZOMBIES BEEN ABLE TO FUCKING RUN?
---
GET CARTER (1971) - Stylish, gritty, dark crime drama set in bleak, industrial Newcastle. Another amazing turn from Michael Caine, a man who knew no bounds in the late sixties / early seventies. Received criticism at the time for its decisively unhappy ending, but is now beloved by us all because we're in essence all heartless bastards.
GET CARTER (2000) - Wannabe stylish crime drama set in upmarket Seattle. Sequel friendly ending tacked on to the end (Carter doesn't die, basically). Stars Michael Caine. No, don't be silly. Not as Carter. They hired - get this - SYLVESTER FUCKING STALLONE. Jesus.
---
THE ITALIAN JOB (1969) - The best caper film ever made, bar none. Loads of quotable lines, a plethora of fine actors in the cast (yes, even Benny Hill), a character called Camp Freddy, stylish costumes, amazing cars (from the Mini to the DB4 to the Miura) and the best car chases ever committed to film.
THE ITALIAN JOB (2003) - No cliffhanger ending. A completely different plot. Doesn't matter if Ed Norton and Donald Sutherland are in it, it stars Mark Fucking Wahlberg. The longest BMW commercial you'll ever see - it's two hours of a glorified ad for the all new fat-arsed Mini, which you can only sucessfully drive if you're a hairdresser or an estate agent.
---
SEVEN SAMURAI (1954) - Samurais are awesome.
THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN (1960) - Cowboys are shit.
---
THE OMEN (1976) - Beautifully shot horror film with a stellar cast and an awesome gothic soundtrack that makes the film a zillion times more sinister.
THE OMEN (2006) - Poorly shot horror film made on the cheap in the Czech Republic. Doesn't stray too far from the original plot, so feels like a pirate DVD of the original with the soundtrack missing.
---
[REC] (2007) - Wonderfully low budget Spanish zombie film, shot as if it's been filmed with hand held cameras. Features a truly loathsome female central character who you eventually start to feel sorry for, even despite her vanity.
QUARANTINE (2008) - Firstly, why change the title? It makes the film sound like a brightly lit room containing a couple of German Shepherds that someone tried to smuggle in from Bulgaria. Also, how the heck did it cost $12 Million to make? I could have made it. And I'm a better actor than Jennifer Carpenter.
---
RINGU (1998) - Stupendously frightening, atmospheric Japanese horror film that spawned the rebirth of an entire genre in the Orient. Through ingenious filmmaking contains some of the most frightening sequences ever committed to film.
THE RING (2002) - Scary premise ruined by having Americans in the film. Naomi Watts? Come on. Manages to remake many of the Ringu sequences with four years experience and additional knowledge and yet do them worse. Made more money in its opening weekend in Japan than Ringu because the whole of the nation was watching the film and laughing at it as a collective.
---
ROLLERBALL (1975) - The film that the Commodore Amiga classic game "Speedball" was based on. Violence, a frightening image of the future, comment on society and classical music for a soundtrack.
ROLLERBALL (2002) - Chris Klein. LL Cool J. Rebecca Romjin. Annoyed yet? Wait till you hear the soundtrack, featuring P.O.D and Hoobastank. Even better, everyone's favourite fat-faced pop star - Pink - has a cameo role. The joy.
---
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974) - Possibly the finest independent horror film ever made. Cost a mere $140,000 and remains one of the most influential films of all time, inventing the slasher film on its own. The cheapness of the film adds to the illusion of reality.
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (2003) - Hideous remake with too much noise, gore, overacting, violence etc and nothing approaching the tension of the original. More to the point, the central "heroes" are American College kids. As soon as you see them you WANT them to die. You end up wanting to give Leatherface cake to sustain him in his long day of slaying.
---
TAXI (1996) - Nuts French caper film. Great fun.
TAXI (2004) - What, you mean the film was FRENCH? Can't have that. No way. Subtitles? God no. How about we cast Queen Latifah in it? Somehow? Hello? Hello? I think they hung up...
---
WAR OF THE WORLDS (1953) - First truly great stab at making an apocalyptic sci-fi film, using one of the greatest stories HG Wells ever wrote.
WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005) - Lots of explosions and Tom Cruise running round with Dakota Fanning, hoping that pairing him with a child that is playing the role of being his daughter will make us think he's heterosexual. Come on Tom, just admit it now.
---
What we've learned here is that there is no such thing as a good remake. None at all. It's like me reinventing cheese. I could try and do it, but it would just be runny and taste bad.
OK, that's probably not the best analogy. But you get the point.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I'll tell you what album I'm thinking about. Plucked at random, one of my favourite albums is "London Calling" by the Clash. It's a work of genius that still stands up to the test of time today.
Now then, for the sake of my argument, imagine that this brilliant slice of late 1970s British punk was merely re-recorded by the fucking Jonas Brothers. Contentious lyrics were edited out, simpler stuff was added in, production was bigger and boomier and so on.
That's madness, right? You don't take a musical work of art and attempt to remake it. A cover version is a one track tribute, but no-one is going to take your favourite album and Hollywood it up a bit to make it more palatable. No-one (well, Banksy maybe) wanders into art galleries and hangs up their kid's version of Dali's Persistence of Memory. It's insane.
If you look on Wikipedia you'll find that there are so many film remakes that they have to split the listings over several pages. There is no example of a remade film being better than the original. Why? Because the original film has the essence of the writer and directors vision, has the initial spark of creativity and above all else does not star Sarah Michelle Gellar.
To save you time I've decided to tell you the differences between original films and their remakes. No, no. Thank you.
ALFIE (1966) - Michael Caine stars as Alfie, a bit of a rogue who grows as a character during the film, passing a scathing commentary on promiscuous swinging London in the 1960s.
ALFIE (2004) - Jude Law is a cock. You watch the entire film praying that he catches a disease. Whilst Mr Caine talking to the camera in the original is cool, Law doing it is as toe curlingly annoying as when Lovejoy used to do it.
---
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (1976) - One of the greatest action films of the 1970s. A stark, stylish take on both western and zombie film themes made for a pittance - thus adding to its grimy charm.
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (2005) - They decide to change the enemies in the film to policemen (HA! GENIUS!) and Ethan Hawke is in it. And Ja Rule, who looks like Howard from the Halifax adverts. Watching it makes you feel like you're playing a terrible video game. It even has flash grenades in it. Do they even exist?
---
BEDAZZLED (1967) - Peter Cook stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to see this?
BEDAZZLED (2000) - Liz Hurley stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to rather set your face on fire than watch this film?
---
WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (1971) - The acid-drenched celebration of many a child's favourite book, represented in a way that is entertaining for both adults and kids. Gene Wilder is utterly convincing as the completely batshit loco Wonka.
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (2005) - Unimaginitive retread that is too dark and grimy to be fantastical, of course because it's directed by Tim Burton and he's not familiar with what light is. Johnny Depp tries to out-loon Gene Wilder and just ends up looking like a camp man in a top hat.
---
DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978) - The greatest horror film ever made. Over two hours long and the prototype for a billion other cheap and nasty zombie films, none of which could get it quite right. Atmospheric, thought provoking and genuinely has you on the edge of your seat.
DAWN OF THE DEAD (2004) - Hang on a second. JUST HOW LONG HAVE ZOMBIES BEEN ABLE TO FUCKING RUN?
---
GET CARTER (1971) - Stylish, gritty, dark crime drama set in bleak, industrial Newcastle. Another amazing turn from Michael Caine, a man who knew no bounds in the late sixties / early seventies. Received criticism at the time for its decisively unhappy ending, but is now beloved by us all because we're in essence all heartless bastards.
GET CARTER (2000) - Wannabe stylish crime drama set in upmarket Seattle. Sequel friendly ending tacked on to the end (Carter doesn't die, basically). Stars Michael Caine. No, don't be silly. Not as Carter. They hired - get this - SYLVESTER FUCKING STALLONE. Jesus.
---
THE ITALIAN JOB (1969) - The best caper film ever made, bar none. Loads of quotable lines, a plethora of fine actors in the cast (yes, even Benny Hill), a character called Camp Freddy, stylish costumes, amazing cars (from the Mini to the DB4 to the Miura) and the best car chases ever committed to film.
THE ITALIAN JOB (2003) - No cliffhanger ending. A completely different plot. Doesn't matter if Ed Norton and Donald Sutherland are in it, it stars Mark Fucking Wahlberg. The longest BMW commercial you'll ever see - it's two hours of a glorified ad for the all new fat-arsed Mini, which you can only sucessfully drive if you're a hairdresser or an estate agent.
---
SEVEN SAMURAI (1954) - Samurais are awesome.
THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN (1960) - Cowboys are shit.
---
THE OMEN (1976) - Beautifully shot horror film with a stellar cast and an awesome gothic soundtrack that makes the film a zillion times more sinister.
THE OMEN (2006) - Poorly shot horror film made on the cheap in the Czech Republic. Doesn't stray too far from the original plot, so feels like a pirate DVD of the original with the soundtrack missing.
---
[REC] (2007) - Wonderfully low budget Spanish zombie film, shot as if it's been filmed with hand held cameras. Features a truly loathsome female central character who you eventually start to feel sorry for, even despite her vanity.
QUARANTINE (2008) - Firstly, why change the title? It makes the film sound like a brightly lit room containing a couple of German Shepherds that someone tried to smuggle in from Bulgaria. Also, how the heck did it cost $12 Million to make? I could have made it. And I'm a better actor than Jennifer Carpenter.
---
RINGU (1998) - Stupendously frightening, atmospheric Japanese horror film that spawned the rebirth of an entire genre in the Orient. Through ingenious filmmaking contains some of the most frightening sequences ever committed to film.
THE RING (2002) - Scary premise ruined by having Americans in the film. Naomi Watts? Come on. Manages to remake many of the Ringu sequences with four years experience and additional knowledge and yet do them worse. Made more money in its opening weekend in Japan than Ringu because the whole of the nation was watching the film and laughing at it as a collective.
---
ROLLERBALL (1975) - The film that the Commodore Amiga classic game "Speedball" was based on. Violence, a frightening image of the future, comment on society and classical music for a soundtrack.
ROLLERBALL (2002) - Chris Klein. LL Cool J. Rebecca Romjin. Annoyed yet? Wait till you hear the soundtrack, featuring P.O.D and Hoobastank. Even better, everyone's favourite fat-faced pop star - Pink - has a cameo role. The joy.
---
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974) - Possibly the finest independent horror film ever made. Cost a mere $140,000 and remains one of the most influential films of all time, inventing the slasher film on its own. The cheapness of the film adds to the illusion of reality.
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (2003) - Hideous remake with too much noise, gore, overacting, violence etc and nothing approaching the tension of the original. More to the point, the central "heroes" are American College kids. As soon as you see them you WANT them to die. You end up wanting to give Leatherface cake to sustain him in his long day of slaying.
---
TAXI (1996) - Nuts French caper film. Great fun.
TAXI (2004) - What, you mean the film was FRENCH? Can't have that. No way. Subtitles? God no. How about we cast Queen Latifah in it? Somehow? Hello? Hello? I think they hung up...
---
WAR OF THE WORLDS (1953) - First truly great stab at making an apocalyptic sci-fi film, using one of the greatest stories HG Wells ever wrote.
WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005) - Lots of explosions and Tom Cruise running round with Dakota Fanning, hoping that pairing him with a child that is playing the role of being his daughter will make us think he's heterosexual. Come on Tom, just admit it now.
---
What we've learned here is that there is no such thing as a good remake. None at all. It's like me reinventing cheese. I could try and do it, but it would just be runny and taste bad.
OK, that's probably not the best analogy. But you get the point.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
18: Strawberries
Ah, Wimbledon fortnight. When the entire country pretends to like tennis and we're treated to endless images of the middle classes and aristocracy munching on strawberries in their little enclave in south-west London.
I don't like strawberries. Saying this to most people causes them to stare at me like I've got a conjoined twin stuck to the side of my face, and said twin is spreading messages of hate with its little reedy voice. I imagine it wouldn't have a brilliantly developed voicebox. But I don't like them. I would go as far as saying that I despise them. I hate their taste, their texture and the fact that they look like obese raspberries.
For the record, I also hate raspberries.
My mother took around 25 years of my life to be able to accept that I don't like strawberries. In her very British way, me saying this is akin to me denouncing the joys of roast beef and yorkshire pudding or suggesting we join the Euro. Before she accepted the fact, I dare say that she would have been able to accept the news that I was - lets say, a transgendered serial killer - in a much more calm and orderly fashion than she did my refusal of strawberries.
Before you imagine that I'm ok with strawberry flavouring - in the same way that tomatoes are evil to eat on their own, but ketchup is a staple of my diet - I'm not. As a child I would be the only kid who would leave the pink part of the neopolitan ice cream to fester in the bottom drawer of the freezer, the only one to turn down trifle, the only one to eat the yellow and green Opal Fruits over the red. Fuck off, they're called Opal Fruits. Starburst sounds like a godawful 1970s nightclub in decadent New York.
Thing is, I like puddings. Love them. I sport an impressive set of man-breasts thanks to this lust, and have an ample beer-gut despite never really having drunk beer. This is the result of years of cake, pies, biscuits, sweets and ice cream. Why, just the other day I stopped on the way back from a gig for ice cream. At 1am, nothing entertains petrol station staff more than a heavily tattooed man trying to decide what frozen treat is easiest to eat whilst driving at 90mph.
It's a Maxibon, by the way.
At this time of the year though I have to hold back from the desserts because everyone serves up strawberries. If I was on Come Dine With Me this week (and lets be honest, a boy has to have dreams) I would inevitably be offered up strawberries, or summer fruit suprises, or strawberry pavlovas, or some other hideous concoction that makes a mockery of fruit and all of its joys.
There are only a few fruits that I approve of:
Bananas - The rolls royce of fruit. I could actually overdose on them. Not green ones though. If you like them anything other than slightly blackened then you're a freak.
Oranges - For which to make mandarin cheesecake and orange jelly. And to flavour calippos.
Lemons - For to flavour sprite.
Limes - For to also flavour sprite.
Apples - Mainly pink lady ones, because I'm classy.
All other fruits can go away. All berries can, to be frank, fuck off. Stupid sickly, tart little beasts with their horrible gritty seeds and disgusting texture. I don't care one jot if I can go to a godforsaken field in Somerset and pick my own, nor if they provide one of my five alleged portions of fruit and veg a day - a law in itself which was, like Valentines Day was invented by Hallmark, dreamed up by the Munch Bunch. Strawberries aren't healthy if you cover them in sugar and cream. Although you can tell how working class you are dependent on what topping you put on your strawberries. Use my sliding scale below:
POSH
Mascarpone and champagne
Double cream
Single cream
Squirty cream
UHT cream
Several creamers stolen from a coffee shop
Dream Topping
Fussell's Condensed Milk
SCUM
Another thing. Where to people get off putting a single strawberry on top of something as wonderful as a chocolate cheesecake (served in an individual glass ramekin) as some kind of obscene garnish? No thank you, sir or madam. It's like decorating a fine Fruits De Mer with a sea urchin, or a beautiful rabbit shaped blancmange with dead woodlouse.
Finally, if I ever find the person who invented strawberry jaffa cakes then I will thrash him until an inch of his life. Until his brain is revealed, like said cake's smashing orangey bit.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I don't like strawberries. Saying this to most people causes them to stare at me like I've got a conjoined twin stuck to the side of my face, and said twin is spreading messages of hate with its little reedy voice. I imagine it wouldn't have a brilliantly developed voicebox. But I don't like them. I would go as far as saying that I despise them. I hate their taste, their texture and the fact that they look like obese raspberries.
For the record, I also hate raspberries.
My mother took around 25 years of my life to be able to accept that I don't like strawberries. In her very British way, me saying this is akin to me denouncing the joys of roast beef and yorkshire pudding or suggesting we join the Euro. Before she accepted the fact, I dare say that she would have been able to accept the news that I was - lets say, a transgendered serial killer - in a much more calm and orderly fashion than she did my refusal of strawberries.
Before you imagine that I'm ok with strawberry flavouring - in the same way that tomatoes are evil to eat on their own, but ketchup is a staple of my diet - I'm not. As a child I would be the only kid who would leave the pink part of the neopolitan ice cream to fester in the bottom drawer of the freezer, the only one to turn down trifle, the only one to eat the yellow and green Opal Fruits over the red. Fuck off, they're called Opal Fruits. Starburst sounds like a godawful 1970s nightclub in decadent New York.
Thing is, I like puddings. Love them. I sport an impressive set of man-breasts thanks to this lust, and have an ample beer-gut despite never really having drunk beer. This is the result of years of cake, pies, biscuits, sweets and ice cream. Why, just the other day I stopped on the way back from a gig for ice cream. At 1am, nothing entertains petrol station staff more than a heavily tattooed man trying to decide what frozen treat is easiest to eat whilst driving at 90mph.
It's a Maxibon, by the way.
At this time of the year though I have to hold back from the desserts because everyone serves up strawberries. If I was on Come Dine With Me this week (and lets be honest, a boy has to have dreams) I would inevitably be offered up strawberries, or summer fruit suprises, or strawberry pavlovas, or some other hideous concoction that makes a mockery of fruit and all of its joys.
There are only a few fruits that I approve of:
Bananas - The rolls royce of fruit. I could actually overdose on them. Not green ones though. If you like them anything other than slightly blackened then you're a freak.
Oranges - For which to make mandarin cheesecake and orange jelly. And to flavour calippos.
Lemons - For to flavour sprite.
Limes - For to also flavour sprite.
Apples - Mainly pink lady ones, because I'm classy.
All other fruits can go away. All berries can, to be frank, fuck off. Stupid sickly, tart little beasts with their horrible gritty seeds and disgusting texture. I don't care one jot if I can go to a godforsaken field in Somerset and pick my own, nor if they provide one of my five alleged portions of fruit and veg a day - a law in itself which was, like Valentines Day was invented by Hallmark, dreamed up by the Munch Bunch. Strawberries aren't healthy if you cover them in sugar and cream. Although you can tell how working class you are dependent on what topping you put on your strawberries. Use my sliding scale below:
POSH
Mascarpone and champagne
Double cream
Single cream
Squirty cream
UHT cream
Several creamers stolen from a coffee shop
Dream Topping
Fussell's Condensed Milk
SCUM
Another thing. Where to people get off putting a single strawberry on top of something as wonderful as a chocolate cheesecake (served in an individual glass ramekin) as some kind of obscene garnish? No thank you, sir or madam. It's like decorating a fine Fruits De Mer with a sea urchin, or a beautiful rabbit shaped blancmange with dead woodlouse.
Finally, if I ever find the person who invented strawberry jaffa cakes then I will thrash him until an inch of his life. Until his brain is revealed, like said cake's smashing orangey bit.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
17: American TV Casting
Every now and then I'll go and audition for some TV work. I'm by no means an actor (many days I'm barely a comedian) but I always pop along, well prepared and all, and try my best to get the job and the sweet, sweet money that goes along with it. Because I want to buy a campervan.
As you may have noticed, dear reader, I've not been on TV yet. Which gives you an inkling of how these auditions have been going. In my head it's not just down to me narrowly missing out after putting in my best effort (if I'm having a positive day) or being beaten into last place by a plethora of infinitely more talented people (all other days). Oh no. It's also down to my advanced age.
I'm 31 years old and started doing stand-up when I was 27. I like to think that I have the comedy age urse, in that most comedians tend to look younger than their actual age. Problem is, I feel daft lying about my age. I guess that I could tell a slight fib-ette and claim to be 27 or 28, but I'm a rubbish liar at the best of times. I glow bright red and emit pheremones that may as well be a siren above my head screaming "AWOOOOOOOOOOOOGAH! THIS MAN IS A LIAR!".
But even if I could get away with telling a slight lie here and there, if you inspect me closer I'm clearly knocking on a bit. My hair is falling out, steadily. At the back, which is irritating in the extreme as I don't know how well I'm hiding my thinning pate on a daily basis. I can't grow a beard thanks to the skin medication I was on when I was a teenager (I can't sweat through my face either, which is bizarre) so that helps the youthful feel - if I grow a moustache I look like the token 14 year old you knew at school who had been wanked off by the sweaty fat girl who worked at the chippy, played truant and had an off-road motorbike. Every school had one of those chaps, I've checked. With their faint little grey top lip hair that would every now and then get scorched by a rogue spark from the cigarettes he'd nicked from his gran's welsh dresser.
The facial hair issue is however one mere peak in the variety of pitfalls that affect my face. If you look at my tired, sunken eyes then you'll see that I am a man that has not slept for around 17 years. And my forehead is as grooved and furrowed as a freshly ploughed field. All of this gives the impression that my face is some kind of cut-and-shut, with everything below the nose a healthy 19 years old, everything above the nose is around 62.
Of course, none of this would matter if I was American. Because lets be honest, I could get cast as a nine year old in pretty much any show in the states if I tried. The whole cast of Dawsons Creek? In their late twenties when playing teenagers. Beverley Hills 90210? Some of them were in their thirties. You know that kid in Two and a Half Men? He's actually a woman in her forties.
Actually, that could be Bart Simpson. I forget.
Then add in the fact that apparently no-one in the USA is fat or ugly, according to their TV shows. The cast of Friends, for example - all of them good looking thirtysomethings, somehow living in amazing digs in one of the most expensive places on earth despite the fact that none of them seem to have particularly decent jobs. Well, except Rachel who became a merchandiser by wandering into an office one day. Because that's how that shit goes down.
If Friends was an accurate reflection on American life then where is the ethnic diversity? More to the point, the size diversity? It should have been cast like this:
RACHEL - Raised in a trailer in Alabammy. Working as a waitress with occasional lapdancing duties as she wants to create a better life for her kids, especially since her babydaddy went away. The "Rachel Cut" would not be a greasy ponytail, slicked back as harshly as possible during the day, and a crude wig at night so people don't recognise her. Has eyes that could tell a thousand sordid stories if only she could actually motivate herself to do so.
PHOEBE - Has to live in a hostel because her holistic therapy business / handmade jewellery stall actually makes so little money that she's resorted to selling crystal meth to kids at new-age music festivals. A confirmed Wiccan, she only meets men through the Internet. Several have scammed her out of her savings, despite her protestations that they're the one. Current beau is a farmer from North Dakota who has made his own human skin costume from the carcasses of the women he's killed.
MONICA - Massive. So fat that she needs a mobility scooter to get around, and the merest glimpse of her thighs is enough to make you push your meal away, should you be eating anywhere near her at the time. Hasn't worked in years, shares a 15 by 15 foot room in Staten Island with Rachel and an infestation of cockroaches. And Rachel's kids when they're not in care. And bedsores.
ROSS - Monica's brother. Religious nut, he joined a cult a couple of years ago and is close to getting Monica to join. Rail thin, thanks to his parents ignoring him and spoiling his fatter sibling. Works at a Wal-Mart in New Jersey where he hopes to be assistant manager one day. 48 years old.
CHANDLER - Only friends with the others because he feels he has to be, he has a middle management office job where he sits and wonders where it all went wrong. Secretly gay, he has joined the Ku Klux Klan to try and purge his own confusion through violence towards others. Doesn't use sarcasm, because he's American and therefore doesn't really understand it. Has been married 6 times, the most recent of which was to a stripper he met. She left after two days, taking all of his posessions.
JOEY - Wanted to be an actor but is cripplingly untalented. So instead of blundering into jobs he's reduced to working as an escort and as he gets older and more desperate, into prostitution for anyone who comes along - all so he can afford to stay in NYC.
So yeah, that would be how I would have written friends. And I know it wouldn't have made it that funny, I'll admit that. But just a touch of realism is all I ask for. I love the USA and have spent a lot of time there, but the lack of humility and honesty that the Americans have bothers me. I'm proud to be British, but I'm also aware that I live in a country with a vast amount of problems and that nobody is perfect - least of all myself.
But the American TV people would love nothing more than to kid us that everyone lives in a vast house, has an amazing job, brilliant and interesting friends, a dynamic social life, they all weigh below the national average and everyone has a ton of free cash to throw around.
Probably for the best that I'm only too old for TV jobs in this country then. In the USA I'd fail on a zillion levels...
As you may have noticed, dear reader, I've not been on TV yet. Which gives you an inkling of how these auditions have been going. In my head it's not just down to me narrowly missing out after putting in my best effort (if I'm having a positive day) or being beaten into last place by a plethora of infinitely more talented people (all other days). Oh no. It's also down to my advanced age.
I'm 31 years old and started doing stand-up when I was 27. I like to think that I have the comedy age urse, in that most comedians tend to look younger than their actual age. Problem is, I feel daft lying about my age. I guess that I could tell a slight fib-ette and claim to be 27 or 28, but I'm a rubbish liar at the best of times. I glow bright red and emit pheremones that may as well be a siren above my head screaming "AWOOOOOOOOOOOOGAH! THIS MAN IS A LIAR!".
But even if I could get away with telling a slight lie here and there, if you inspect me closer I'm clearly knocking on a bit. My hair is falling out, steadily. At the back, which is irritating in the extreme as I don't know how well I'm hiding my thinning pate on a daily basis. I can't grow a beard thanks to the skin medication I was on when I was a teenager (I can't sweat through my face either, which is bizarre) so that helps the youthful feel - if I grow a moustache I look like the token 14 year old you knew at school who had been wanked off by the sweaty fat girl who worked at the chippy, played truant and had an off-road motorbike. Every school had one of those chaps, I've checked. With their faint little grey top lip hair that would every now and then get scorched by a rogue spark from the cigarettes he'd nicked from his gran's welsh dresser.
The facial hair issue is however one mere peak in the variety of pitfalls that affect my face. If you look at my tired, sunken eyes then you'll see that I am a man that has not slept for around 17 years. And my forehead is as grooved and furrowed as a freshly ploughed field. All of this gives the impression that my face is some kind of cut-and-shut, with everything below the nose a healthy 19 years old, everything above the nose is around 62.
Of course, none of this would matter if I was American. Because lets be honest, I could get cast as a nine year old in pretty much any show in the states if I tried. The whole cast of Dawsons Creek? In their late twenties when playing teenagers. Beverley Hills 90210? Some of them were in their thirties. You know that kid in Two and a Half Men? He's actually a woman in her forties.
Actually, that could be Bart Simpson. I forget.
Then add in the fact that apparently no-one in the USA is fat or ugly, according to their TV shows. The cast of Friends, for example - all of them good looking thirtysomethings, somehow living in amazing digs in one of the most expensive places on earth despite the fact that none of them seem to have particularly decent jobs. Well, except Rachel who became a merchandiser by wandering into an office one day. Because that's how that shit goes down.
If Friends was an accurate reflection on American life then where is the ethnic diversity? More to the point, the size diversity? It should have been cast like this:
RACHEL - Raised in a trailer in Alabammy. Working as a waitress with occasional lapdancing duties as she wants to create a better life for her kids, especially since her babydaddy went away. The "Rachel Cut" would not be a greasy ponytail, slicked back as harshly as possible during the day, and a crude wig at night so people don't recognise her. Has eyes that could tell a thousand sordid stories if only she could actually motivate herself to do so.
PHOEBE - Has to live in a hostel because her holistic therapy business / handmade jewellery stall actually makes so little money that she's resorted to selling crystal meth to kids at new-age music festivals. A confirmed Wiccan, she only meets men through the Internet. Several have scammed her out of her savings, despite her protestations that they're the one. Current beau is a farmer from North Dakota who has made his own human skin costume from the carcasses of the women he's killed.
MONICA - Massive. So fat that she needs a mobility scooter to get around, and the merest glimpse of her thighs is enough to make you push your meal away, should you be eating anywhere near her at the time. Hasn't worked in years, shares a 15 by 15 foot room in Staten Island with Rachel and an infestation of cockroaches. And Rachel's kids when they're not in care. And bedsores.
ROSS - Monica's brother. Religious nut, he joined a cult a couple of years ago and is close to getting Monica to join. Rail thin, thanks to his parents ignoring him and spoiling his fatter sibling. Works at a Wal-Mart in New Jersey where he hopes to be assistant manager one day. 48 years old.
CHANDLER - Only friends with the others because he feels he has to be, he has a middle management office job where he sits and wonders where it all went wrong. Secretly gay, he has joined the Ku Klux Klan to try and purge his own confusion through violence towards others. Doesn't use sarcasm, because he's American and therefore doesn't really understand it. Has been married 6 times, the most recent of which was to a stripper he met. She left after two days, taking all of his posessions.
JOEY - Wanted to be an actor but is cripplingly untalented. So instead of blundering into jobs he's reduced to working as an escort and as he gets older and more desperate, into prostitution for anyone who comes along - all so he can afford to stay in NYC.
So yeah, that would be how I would have written friends. And I know it wouldn't have made it that funny, I'll admit that. But just a touch of realism is all I ask for. I love the USA and have spent a lot of time there, but the lack of humility and honesty that the Americans have bothers me. I'm proud to be British, but I'm also aware that I live in a country with a vast amount of problems and that nobody is perfect - least of all myself.
But the American TV people would love nothing more than to kid us that everyone lives in a vast house, has an amazing job, brilliant and interesting friends, a dynamic social life, they all weigh below the national average and everyone has a ton of free cash to throw around.
Probably for the best that I'm only too old for TV jobs in this country then. In the USA I'd fail on a zillion levels...
Monday, 15 June 2009
16: Robbie Williams
Apparently, the Robbie Williams song "Angels" is one of the most popular choices in the UK for people to have played at both their funerals and as the first dance at their weddings. I can't think of anything worse. I have made a request in my will to be cremated as "Straight to Hell" by the Clash plays, as that is surely where I'd end up if there was such thing as a god and the afterlife.
Proof that there isn't a god can be shown through the constant success of Robbie Williams, an untalented wastrel from Stoke who has somehow sold hundreds of millions of albums despite no-one ever actively admitting that they like him. There are hundreds - if not thousands - of more talented singers and songwriters performing in pubs all around the UK this very evening, the only difference between them and Mr Williams is that he was in a boy band and parlayed himself into the position of "lovable joker" in said band by the means of doing a sub-par Vic Reeves impression on Live and Kicking a few times in the early nineties.
The worst thing about supporting my beloved Leicester City is not, believe it or not, the fact that we yo-yo up and down between divisions with a similar action to a harlots undergarments. Oh no. It's the fact that before every home game, at around ten to three, we choose to play "Let Me Entertain You" and every time I hear it I die a little inside. It's not a rousing rock anthem, it's a fat bloke in a Kiss costume pretending that he's a rockstar. Shall we see how many rock star credentials Robbie has?
MUSICAL SKILLS - How many instruments can Robbie play? That's right, none at all. Even I can play "Frerer Jacques" on a recorder.
SONGWRITING - For years he got Guy Chambers to write his songs. Then he fell out with him and his star fell. Coincidence? Of course not.
LOOKS - Simply do the McDonalds test with Robbie. For those not familiar with this - imagine that you're in a McDonalds and an unfamous Robbie Williams is serving you, without his stylist making him look presentable in the morning. Would he still be considered attractive by the fucking 3AM Girls? No, he wouldn't. (This idea works for girls too. See Von Teese, Dita)
COOLNESS - Iggy Pop can be in an insurance commercial and he's still cool. Lou Reed can have his best song (about heroin, for chrissakes) taken by the BBC and he's still cool. Iron Maiden are all 70 years old and still exude rockstar cool. You could put Robbie Williams in a solid cold Rolls Royce, flanked by Pharrell Williams and Snoop Dogg, dressed in finest chinchilla and sipping Cristal from a diamond encrusted pimp cup. He'd still be the same hairy fuck from Stoke with the charisma of a concussed Ostritch.
ECCENTRICITY - To be a true rockstar you need to be a little bit bonkers. The odd stint in rehab does not make you insane. Biting a head off a dove at a record company meeting ala Ozzy Osbourne gives you the legendary level of eccentricty that a true rockstar requires. Going UFO spotting with Peter Andre (the sliced white loaf of popstars) does not make you kooky in the slightest.
PERFORMANCE SKILLS - Ever heard Robbie sing live? It's like listening to a throat scraping on a sealion whilst it gargles a seawater and lemon juice cocktail. I may be exaggerating slightly here, but he's not a great singer. Nor showman. I'd rather watch Shane Ritchie on "Don't Forget the Lyrics". And I'd rather peel my own penis with a rusty ice cream scoop and feed the shavings to a rabid vole (whilst flagellating the bloody stump with a shoelace studded with drawing pins) than watch that. I'm just saying.
Now, I'm aware that Mr Williams does a lot of good things for charity. If I was wearing one, I would take my hat off to him for that. I personally bear him no ill will whatsoever. The bile and teeth-gnashing that comes from me because of him stems from me being a music fan and his "fat dancer from Take That" era of him hanging out with the Gallaghers summoning the end of Britpop and a return, for a few years at least, to godawful pop music in the charts and fluffy, insignificant pop singers claiming they had rock credentials. Oh yeah. I'm looking at YOU, Avril Lavigne. Kelly Clarkson. The Killers. Admittedly, they did things the other way round and went from decent band to godawful art-dance-wank-noise.
Apparently Robbie's next album is due out this year. He's worked with Mark Ronson and Trevor Horn. So it'll be vastly overproduced, full of horns, one no doubt "cheeky" cover version and will sell billions. And I'll cry myself to sleep at the state of this country.
My favourite Robbie story comes from his massive Knebworth gigs a few years back. He got The Darkness to support him and they blew everyone away. Now they've split up and Justin Hawkins is in rehab. Coincidence? Or has Robbie used his alien contacts to destroy anyone more talented than him...?
Of course, you could point out that I'm merely a jealous 31 year old comedian, who is penniless and non-famous. And that this hate-filled rant is merely my jealousy spilling out onto the page.
And you'd be right, dear reader.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Proof that there isn't a god can be shown through the constant success of Robbie Williams, an untalented wastrel from Stoke who has somehow sold hundreds of millions of albums despite no-one ever actively admitting that they like him. There are hundreds - if not thousands - of more talented singers and songwriters performing in pubs all around the UK this very evening, the only difference between them and Mr Williams is that he was in a boy band and parlayed himself into the position of "lovable joker" in said band by the means of doing a sub-par Vic Reeves impression on Live and Kicking a few times in the early nineties.
The worst thing about supporting my beloved Leicester City is not, believe it or not, the fact that we yo-yo up and down between divisions with a similar action to a harlots undergarments. Oh no. It's the fact that before every home game, at around ten to three, we choose to play "Let Me Entertain You" and every time I hear it I die a little inside. It's not a rousing rock anthem, it's a fat bloke in a Kiss costume pretending that he's a rockstar. Shall we see how many rock star credentials Robbie has?
MUSICAL SKILLS - How many instruments can Robbie play? That's right, none at all. Even I can play "Frerer Jacques" on a recorder.
SONGWRITING - For years he got Guy Chambers to write his songs. Then he fell out with him and his star fell. Coincidence? Of course not.
LOOKS - Simply do the McDonalds test with Robbie. For those not familiar with this - imagine that you're in a McDonalds and an unfamous Robbie Williams is serving you, without his stylist making him look presentable in the morning. Would he still be considered attractive by the fucking 3AM Girls? No, he wouldn't. (This idea works for girls too. See Von Teese, Dita)
COOLNESS - Iggy Pop can be in an insurance commercial and he's still cool. Lou Reed can have his best song (about heroin, for chrissakes) taken by the BBC and he's still cool. Iron Maiden are all 70 years old and still exude rockstar cool. You could put Robbie Williams in a solid cold Rolls Royce, flanked by Pharrell Williams and Snoop Dogg, dressed in finest chinchilla and sipping Cristal from a diamond encrusted pimp cup. He'd still be the same hairy fuck from Stoke with the charisma of a concussed Ostritch.
ECCENTRICITY - To be a true rockstar you need to be a little bit bonkers. The odd stint in rehab does not make you insane. Biting a head off a dove at a record company meeting ala Ozzy Osbourne gives you the legendary level of eccentricty that a true rockstar requires. Going UFO spotting with Peter Andre (the sliced white loaf of popstars) does not make you kooky in the slightest.
PERFORMANCE SKILLS - Ever heard Robbie sing live? It's like listening to a throat scraping on a sealion whilst it gargles a seawater and lemon juice cocktail. I may be exaggerating slightly here, but he's not a great singer. Nor showman. I'd rather watch Shane Ritchie on "Don't Forget the Lyrics". And I'd rather peel my own penis with a rusty ice cream scoop and feed the shavings to a rabid vole (whilst flagellating the bloody stump with a shoelace studded with drawing pins) than watch that. I'm just saying.
Now, I'm aware that Mr Williams does a lot of good things for charity. If I was wearing one, I would take my hat off to him for that. I personally bear him no ill will whatsoever. The bile and teeth-gnashing that comes from me because of him stems from me being a music fan and his "fat dancer from Take That" era of him hanging out with the Gallaghers summoning the end of Britpop and a return, for a few years at least, to godawful pop music in the charts and fluffy, insignificant pop singers claiming they had rock credentials. Oh yeah. I'm looking at YOU, Avril Lavigne. Kelly Clarkson. The Killers. Admittedly, they did things the other way round and went from decent band to godawful art-dance-wank-noise.
Apparently Robbie's next album is due out this year. He's worked with Mark Ronson and Trevor Horn. So it'll be vastly overproduced, full of horns, one no doubt "cheeky" cover version and will sell billions. And I'll cry myself to sleep at the state of this country.
My favourite Robbie story comes from his massive Knebworth gigs a few years back. He got The Darkness to support him and they blew everyone away. Now they've split up and Justin Hawkins is in rehab. Coincidence? Or has Robbie used his alien contacts to destroy anyone more talented than him...?
Of course, you could point out that I'm merely a jealous 31 year old comedian, who is penniless and non-famous. And that this hate-filled rant is merely my jealousy spilling out onto the page.
And you'd be right, dear reader.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
15: The Music Press
For many years it was all I wanted to become a music journalist. I wanted to be at the forefront of music news and opinion, the first to listen to the newest albums and impart my thoughts on them to the masses. Stood on the front row at not just the biggest and the best gigs, but also at the obscure, to shape the up-and-coming trends and sounds by relaying what they meant to me with the joyous power of words.
Then something happened to me. I realised that the music press existed merely to mock us all. The other day I picked up a copy of Kerrang at the train station and thought I would spend my journey to Bristol reading it. It took me 15 minutes to read pretty much every word in it and realise that it wasn't a bastion of hard-rock journalism, instead it was one step above a comic, full of teenage opinion and writers trying to dumb down their skills to appeal to 12 year old Paramore fans and people who only know who Led Zeppelin are because Fearne Fucking Cotton has a t-shirt with their name on.
I thought back to when I would religiously read the NME and Melody Maker, before they merged into one terrible, childish tome. I would read what was written and so many of my opinions on music were shaped by their editorial policies. I would like bands who were completely shit, purely because they were recommended to me by the NME writers. I would hate bands based on who they had chosen to slag off that month. I would get into entire genres of music, almost obsessively, because they had decided that particular style was "in". I dare say the bastards were partially responsible for the way I dressed.
A later rant will deal with Student Music Chauvanism, but the music press are to blame there too. The music press make plenty of twentysomethings and teenagers claim that they like much more obscure music than anyone else, purely because they're armed with a music rag or two under their arm. Bollocks. I thought that when I was a teenager and when I was a student. Let's examine the evidence:
Teenager - Favourite bands were The Clash, Green Day and Ash.
End of Uni - Favourite bands were still The Clash, DJ Shadow and Blur.
Not exactly tiny little artists, right? And the only reason I liked DJ Shadow was because the NME told me to. It took me to my mid twenties to realise I can like whatever the fuck I want, even if it's as disparate as Elton John, Girls Aloud and Gallows. But way back then, I thought I was better because I'd selected what was cool to enjoy. Not simply because I heard something and thought "wow".
Let us not forget, the NME have put Robbie Fucking Williams on their cover in the past merely to shift units. And they've come a long way from the serious publication that mockingly allowed a young Steven Morrissey to rant about the New York Dolls back in the mid 1970s.
I was thinking of bands that the NME tried to get us to swallow but no-one ever did. They do this from time to time, as if to test our resolve as listeners and to see if we're merely just following the herd because they tell us to. I can only think of a few past coverstars that they've failed to get the British public to actually like on a massive scale. I mean, bands like Oasis and Embrace (especially the latter) had massive press merely for being wankers, way before anyone ever heard their music. Don't even get me started on the NME's cool list each year, which seemingly thinks that smack is the key to coolness, rather than my innocent youth where it was merely wearing shades indoors.
So yeah, bands the NME failed to get us to like - off the top of my head.
Bis - how awful were they? Pinnacle of their career was recording the theme to the Powerpuff Girls.
S*M*A*S*H - Ah, the legendary "New Wave of New Wave" movement, loosely translated from journo into English as "we've ran out of wanky genre names".
Campag Velocet - Seriously, in the mid 1990s they never shut up about them. Name one song. I dare you.
Gay Dad - I remember hearing that several members of said band used to work for the NME. Really? Well, that's a massive surprise.
What I like is how you can follow the cycle of a bands career based on how the NME reports on them. Pick any remotely successful band from the past few years and all of them have the same 5 stages of their career as recorded by journalists.
1: THE BEGINNING
A band is doing quite well, well enough to be signed by an Indie label - so that makes them well and truly on the radar already. Nevertheless, the music press (and probably Jo Whiley) will claim them as their discovery, citing some reference two weeks prior where the band was mentioned in their gig listing page. A small pictorial will follow. If the press gets an inkling that this band is becoming popular, they'll then move to phase 2.
2: THE ASCENT
Said band is doing ok, with one minor chart hit. The album comes out. Even if it's awful, it will get at least 7 out of 10 as the magazine hedges its bets and decides to not piss off the band, just in case they become the next Oasis and hold a grudge. The band get pushed to high heaven. The lead singer ceases to have a first name, being pictured on the front cover and referred to by his first name only, like a Brazilian footballer. No-one can remember his surname, as no-one ever really knew it to start with.
3: THE PLATEAU
Band work on their difficult second album, which will be a massive letdown but still score higher in terms of reviews than their first, merely because thousands of extra pounds have been spent on the production of it. It will sell very well indeed, coupled with wispy pictorials of the band and fluffy interviews containing no substance whatsoever. Some letters will be printed in the letters page slagging off said band to test the water for stage 4.
4: THE DOWNFALL
Band release third album. Is actually their best yet, as they have matured musically - but press choose to slag them off mercilessly, making them the butt of "jokes" wherever possible and using their bandname to prefix the word -esque whenever they feel they need to make a negative point about another band, or compare another band at stage 1 or 2 in a favourable light. Band sell millions anyway, and don't give a fuck about the music press. Massive tour goes amazingly well. Move to stage 5.
5: THE PHOENIX
Band has been doing great anyway, but with album 4 about to come out the press try to bury the hatchet (caused by themselves) by doing endless features about how the band are now legendary, bigger than Jesus and so on. Massive tour exceeds all expectations. Editorial in magazine cliams responsibility for the bands success. Somewhere, a kitten dies.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Then something happened to me. I realised that the music press existed merely to mock us all. The other day I picked up a copy of Kerrang at the train station and thought I would spend my journey to Bristol reading it. It took me 15 minutes to read pretty much every word in it and realise that it wasn't a bastion of hard-rock journalism, instead it was one step above a comic, full of teenage opinion and writers trying to dumb down their skills to appeal to 12 year old Paramore fans and people who only know who Led Zeppelin are because Fearne Fucking Cotton has a t-shirt with their name on.
I thought back to when I would religiously read the NME and Melody Maker, before they merged into one terrible, childish tome. I would read what was written and so many of my opinions on music were shaped by their editorial policies. I would like bands who were completely shit, purely because they were recommended to me by the NME writers. I would hate bands based on who they had chosen to slag off that month. I would get into entire genres of music, almost obsessively, because they had decided that particular style was "in". I dare say the bastards were partially responsible for the way I dressed.
A later rant will deal with Student Music Chauvanism, but the music press are to blame there too. The music press make plenty of twentysomethings and teenagers claim that they like much more obscure music than anyone else, purely because they're armed with a music rag or two under their arm. Bollocks. I thought that when I was a teenager and when I was a student. Let's examine the evidence:
Teenager - Favourite bands were The Clash, Green Day and Ash.
End of Uni - Favourite bands were still The Clash, DJ Shadow and Blur.
Not exactly tiny little artists, right? And the only reason I liked DJ Shadow was because the NME told me to. It took me to my mid twenties to realise I can like whatever the fuck I want, even if it's as disparate as Elton John, Girls Aloud and Gallows. But way back then, I thought I was better because I'd selected what was cool to enjoy. Not simply because I heard something and thought "wow".
Let us not forget, the NME have put Robbie Fucking Williams on their cover in the past merely to shift units. And they've come a long way from the serious publication that mockingly allowed a young Steven Morrissey to rant about the New York Dolls back in the mid 1970s.
I was thinking of bands that the NME tried to get us to swallow but no-one ever did. They do this from time to time, as if to test our resolve as listeners and to see if we're merely just following the herd because they tell us to. I can only think of a few past coverstars that they've failed to get the British public to actually like on a massive scale. I mean, bands like Oasis and Embrace (especially the latter) had massive press merely for being wankers, way before anyone ever heard their music. Don't even get me started on the NME's cool list each year, which seemingly thinks that smack is the key to coolness, rather than my innocent youth where it was merely wearing shades indoors.
So yeah, bands the NME failed to get us to like - off the top of my head.
Bis - how awful were they? Pinnacle of their career was recording the theme to the Powerpuff Girls.
S*M*A*S*H - Ah, the legendary "New Wave of New Wave" movement, loosely translated from journo into English as "we've ran out of wanky genre names".
Campag Velocet - Seriously, in the mid 1990s they never shut up about them. Name one song. I dare you.
Gay Dad - I remember hearing that several members of said band used to work for the NME. Really? Well, that's a massive surprise.
What I like is how you can follow the cycle of a bands career based on how the NME reports on them. Pick any remotely successful band from the past few years and all of them have the same 5 stages of their career as recorded by journalists.
1: THE BEGINNING
A band is doing quite well, well enough to be signed by an Indie label - so that makes them well and truly on the radar already. Nevertheless, the music press (and probably Jo Whiley) will claim them as their discovery, citing some reference two weeks prior where the band was mentioned in their gig listing page. A small pictorial will follow. If the press gets an inkling that this band is becoming popular, they'll then move to phase 2.
2: THE ASCENT
Said band is doing ok, with one minor chart hit. The album comes out. Even if it's awful, it will get at least 7 out of 10 as the magazine hedges its bets and decides to not piss off the band, just in case they become the next Oasis and hold a grudge. The band get pushed to high heaven. The lead singer ceases to have a first name, being pictured on the front cover and referred to by his first name only, like a Brazilian footballer. No-one can remember his surname, as no-one ever really knew it to start with.
3: THE PLATEAU
Band work on their difficult second album, which will be a massive letdown but still score higher in terms of reviews than their first, merely because thousands of extra pounds have been spent on the production of it. It will sell very well indeed, coupled with wispy pictorials of the band and fluffy interviews containing no substance whatsoever. Some letters will be printed in the letters page slagging off said band to test the water for stage 4.
4: THE DOWNFALL
Band release third album. Is actually their best yet, as they have matured musically - but press choose to slag them off mercilessly, making them the butt of "jokes" wherever possible and using their bandname to prefix the word -esque whenever they feel they need to make a negative point about another band, or compare another band at stage 1 or 2 in a favourable light. Band sell millions anyway, and don't give a fuck about the music press. Massive tour goes amazingly well. Move to stage 5.
5: THE PHOENIX
Band has been doing great anyway, but with album 4 about to come out the press try to bury the hatchet (caused by themselves) by doing endless features about how the band are now legendary, bigger than Jesus and so on. Massive tour exceeds all expectations. Editorial in magazine cliams responsibility for the bands success. Somewhere, a kitten dies.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
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