Don’t be mistaken, this bond isn’t one forged by nights of spiralling sexual orientation and a proclivity for drug use whilst being free from the shackles of underwear, It’s more of an avuncular relationship, or what ever the feminine equivalent of that word is. The Ladies and the Dames aren’t going to be there on the front line with you when you’re troubleshooting suitable burial spots for the Taiwanese rent boy who’s enjoyment of asphixatian in the bedroom ‘would always be the death of him’ (his mother told him countless times!) Hoewever, these stoical bastions of the silver screen will defend your honour at every given opportunity, and assure the public that you have never been anything short of a fucking saint.

9. Kanye West hates you.

He claims to have walked with Jesus, which is probably why Jesus acquiesced so pithily when the boys in blue came to arrest him. Who suffered worse from their association with Kanye West: Jesus, or Autotune? A matter for another time perhaps.  Taylor Swift must’ve cursed her considerably inactive peripheral vision at the Video Music Awards as Kayne came walking (Minus Jesus- he was in the 16th row with his head in hands thinking ‘Why did I walk with that prick’) onto stage. Although it was at that moment Taylor knew in her heart she’d made it. Fin.

8. You record a song with Kanye West.

You don’t know it how it happened, but it did. You’re at the top of the charts pontificating to girls about the benefits of having a fat arse (for dancing, yo!) alongside the man who not weeks before was giving you a right dressing down. You stand beside him in front of a white backdrop in the video, ostentatiously performing an exaggerated nod to the beat of the track while he points angrily down the lens with his next victim already in mind, and your mind wanders to those happy days with your garage band when the world didn’t seem such a hellish circus of lost hope.

7. You’re barefoot often

The independant is doing a piece on your diverse acting roles. The piece is called ‘Behind The Masks: Finding the Constant of Lester Goulding.’ You meet in the lobby of the Parker Merridian Hotel. The young journalist is nervous so she’s there earlier. Fidgeting with her pen, she hears the unmistakable sound of flesh on marble, a noise she remarks silently, not unlike the sound of wet testicles against a shop window. You swan gracefully across the floor, your bare feet symbolic of your constant questioning of society’s conventions, evident in your magnificent body of work as well as your lack of footwear.

6. You develop facetious political views.

People ask your opinion on matters of grave magnitude, and you being vastly important offer up a gem like: “I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some people out there in our nation don’t have maps and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education like such as in, uh, South Africa and, uh, the Iraq and everywhere like such as, and I believe that they should, uh, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, should help South Africa and should help Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future for our children.”

5. You’re on Eastenders.FM!

The sound of mass desperation often manifests itself as perpetual cockney drone, eating at the soul until it’s rendered as vacuous as the wretched eyes that bobble in Dot Cotton’s weary sockets. The Eastender’s writers soon got wise to this existential hell and decided that an incongruous soundtrack would lift the spirits of the viewers. Careful not to lift them too much (suicidal contemplation are considered the most desirable emotion in the Eastenders viewer) they pepper smash pop hits throughout the cafe’s and bars via awful tinny radio speakers. If you find your music documenting domestic abuse, alcoholism, rape, murder, gang war and Phil Mitchell’s bizarrely prolific sex life, you know you’ve made it.

4. You press your fingers together during interviews.

This is the internationally recognized symbol of serene contemplation, which is only afforded to those who have honed there craft. Even Simon Amstell wouldn’t dare break the intense silence that accompanies this gesture if it were Al Pacino opposite him. Although it would be strange because Pacino would never appear on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, and even stranger because Amstell doesn’t present it anymore. I don’t know why but I can’t see John Cusack getting away with this gesture. Has he not made it?

3. You don’t bring a towel anywhere.

cloth or towel. Know the difference, it could save your life

…Because there’ll always be towels supplied for you. Fact.

2. People come to your gigs solely to get pished.

For this segment, I have included an extract from the (at the time of publication yet unreleased) autobiography of Liam Gallagher, an esteemed poet and philosopher of the mid 90′s:

The sky had draped a celestial canopy of reverential beauty that only increased in splendour as the desperate sun sunk to its repose beyond the horizon. I took this as an omen of good fortune and my mood was lifted somewhat by Nature’s wondrous temperament.  Noel, my elder sibling in both age and contentment, expressed a similar sentiment to my own – not physically, I hasten to add: there was something in his countenance that suggested to me a serene satisfaction with how the night would inevitably proceed. With our hearts content we made forth to the performance stage, were invariably our spirits would intertwine with those who had made their way to the arena, the intoxicating camaraderie of joviality and youth fuelling their already joyful energy. I endeavoured to the front of the stage to furtively view the state of our company, and as I did I caught a glance of something cascade through the crisp night air. A bird perhaps? Surely no creature of the avian world would brave the cacophony of a bold number of men in close proximity. I put it down to a trick of the senses, and waited with ardent fervour for our lights to bask the audience in their glorious power. When the lights eventually burst forth, I almost lost my footing, as what I can only describe as Hades appeared before my eyes – Demon’s of the underworld surely had woken from their terrible slumber, and infested their foul souls into these good men before me. A wrenching, pulsating heart of indignity, pugnaciously rippling back and forth manifested itself before me. I dropped to my knees and wept, for the futile thoughts of love, kinship and peace that I had exercised seemed like knotted threads in a tragic dream.

1. You’re hanging out with Elmo.

It’s a wonder the furry magnificent bastard hasn’t been photographed at the end of a powdery white line, his endearing orange nose dusted in coke so it resembles an over-salted sweet potato, for this is precisely the sort of behaviour a celebrity socialite of Elmo’s status should be partaking in. Elmo hangs with the elite, you gots to earn that privilege. Ricky Gervais cites meeting Elmo as the highlight of his career, and if you ever find yourself rubbing furry shoulders with him, know you’ve  nowhere to go from there, and you might as well die.

Guest artwork by Ian Shearer!

‘If you’ve got enough courage to make porno films go ahead and be creative about it. You’ve jumped the chasm here. “We’re gonna film people fuckin’ and suckin’.” Cool. Now go crazy, you already made the jump. You are within the dark lord’s terrain at this point. There’s no reason to get coy.’

Bill Hicks

Finally I feel like someone up there has been listening to my prayers. Actually a lot of my prayers are so lurid I very often hope there’s no one listening, but in this case I really feel like there might be a few other people in this lonely world who are actually singing from the same hymn sheet as me.

Horror movies took a strange turn somewhere along the way. There has always been a certain type of horror film maker whose only goal, it seemed, was to push the boundaries of violence and gore. For a long time, though, these guys were working on an almost underground level, churning out piss poor, straight to VHS (yeah, that long ago) movies that were always either about cannibals or zombies. Then some suit in Hollywood realised the box office potential of seeing a woman get her face blow-torched off, and guys like Eli Roth got their big break. Guys like Alexandre Aja, who directed Piranha 3D.

I have to admit it, I’ve ever been much of a gore-hound. I love horror movies, and I can buy the whole roller coaster analogy about enjoying the sensation of being frightened in what is essentially a safe, controlled environment. I also enjoyed the fact that horror movies shared my fascination with completely extraneous shower scenes, or indeed any sort of scene that involved titties. What I could never understand, though, was why anyone would enjoy watching bleak, explicit torture scenes for a couple of hours. Or indeed how that sort of violence came to pass for horror. Don’t bother with a scary story, or silly things like suspense, just give some hack with a history of unresolved bullying issues a pen and paper and let him come up with the sickest shit that will pass the censors. Sorry dude, no dice. I’ve got nothing against gore, but I like my horror movies with boobs-a-plenty, and a good dose of humour. You know, just as a counterpoint to all the guts. Just makes it all more enjoyable, if you ask me.

[Editor's Note: No one asked you.]

Alas, I had all but given up on ever seeing this particular brand of horror movie in the cinema ever again, and then BOOM, like a crumpled fiver in an old pair of jeans I came across Piranha 3D and it cheered me up more than it really should have.

I weighed in on the 3D fad a few months back in this article after being disappointed by Clash Of The Titans. This movie, folks, changes everything. This movie would have been awesome even in regular old 2D. It ticks all the boxes, and does so very self-consciously. Everybody involved knew they were making a low budget turd of a movie about killer piranhas turned loose on a bunch of snotty college kids on Spring Break. What they didn’t do, crucially, was dress the turd up in a little dress and blonde wig and try to pass it off as a fucking Barbie doll. No, they embraced the shittiness of it all. They turned the shittiness to their advantage, and made a terrifically shitty movie. It should come as no surprise that I am a fan of embracing the shittiness, since embracing poor quality, trashy writing is what This Is Not A Review is all about. What is interesting about this film, though, is that 3D has finally found its rightful home. Fuck Avatar, and fuck Sky 3D coming in Autumn. 3D is not the future of cinema. It’s a gimmick, and not even a very good one at that. EXCEPT in the case of Kelly Brook’s breasts.

3D technology was fucking MADE for titty-filled horror movies. It’s a crappy, pointless gimmick designed to hide the very obvious lack of quality in poor films. Horror movies hide their lack of quality behind walls of violence, hilarity and sleaze. Well, now there is a whole new dimension to the sleaze!

[Editor's Note: (face palm)]

And it couldn’t be more perfect for guys like me. Do you know the last time I saw a breast in more than two dimensions? It was two years ago at a life drawing class, which I got ejected from after insisting that I needed ‘a more intimate knowledge of my subject’, who was a 47 year old Russian woman named Greta. You get me? I’m fucking lonely. It gets hard, and not just in the mornings. I know it might not sound like much to you, but even just the illusion of a rack that I could – hypothetically – nuzzle like a tired puppy, is enough to keep me going.

Ah hell, who am I kidding? It’s not enough, but I can’t afford a hooker so for now 3D movies will have to suffice. Piranha 3D is super gory, ultra trashy fun – you will probably enjoy it – even if you aren’t as lonely as I am.

Artwork by Will McConnell.

Ian: I was so stumped this week I seriously considered using the Dave Channel technique…

Readers: Why Ian, whatever do you mean?

Ian: I mean rather than coming up with something new, just doing a re-run!

Readers: (laughter and applause).

Man I’m good…

I had to do some serious thinking about this piece, so I went to a coffee shop and sat, looking very serious, pondering many things about life, love, art and philosophy. After four cups of coffee, though, the only thing I had managed to create was a full bladder, so after a piss that could have bored a hole in a fence I gave up and went to the movies. Inspiration, I decided, would have to wait. Sometimes, though, inspiration comes from the strangest of sources, and this time it came from Tom Cruise’s mighty grin. I went to see Knight And Day, as you may have guessed. Not because I wanted to, but because I have seen the trailer every time I’ve been to the cinema for the past four months and by now, not seeing the film seemed like an impossibility. This might be the most cunning marketing technique ever conceived. Anyway, I came away from the film thinking about Tom Cruise’s big, Hollywood-gnasher filled smile, and how so many people just can’t stand it, or him. He’s like Noel Edmonds in many ways…

[Editor's Note: WHAT?]

…with his mane of impossible hair and that certain je ne sais quoi that just makes people want to throttle him. Well, I don’t mind Tom Cruise and even though it’s total, utter nonsense, I didn’t mind Knight And Day either. It has almost no redeeming qualities whatsoever, except for being rather good fun, and in my humble opinion, sometimes that is enough in this miserable world of ours. I can almost hear you asking, where am I going with this?

[Editor's Note: Actually that's me, telepathically insisting that you get to the point.]

Well, for some reason my mind made a connection between my enjoyment of these shallow blockbuster type movies, and a question someone asked me recently: ‘What are the most embarrassing albums in your CD collection?’ And there you have it – inspiration for this article. But far from apologising for my occasionally questionable taste in music, I am here to proclaim my love for some bands/artists that so many of you music snobs just can’t stand. Will is going to fucking fire me for this.

Nickelback

‘It’s hard to steer when you’re breathing in my ear

But I got both hands on the wheel while you got both hands on my gears

By now, no doubt that we were heading south

I guess nobody ever taught her not to speak with a full mouth’

I don’t want to spend too long on Nickelback because, frankly, I fucking hate them most of the time. I can’t bring myself to join the ranks of the Nickelback haters though, because sometimes I just can’t deny a good rock n roll song. It’s a difficult issue to reconcile because on one hand I can agree that Nickelback are, in fact, balls. On the other hand, songs like ‘Animals’ and ‘Burn It To The Ground’ are fucking kick ass rock songs. And since I care more about how a band sounds than how they look, or act, I have to admit it: sometimes I like Nickelback. And I’m sorry, but I won’t apologise for it.

Exhibit A: Nickelback – Burn It To The Ground

Kid Rock

‘I’m an American Bad Ass

Watch me kick

You can roll with Rock

Or you can suck my dick

I’m a porno flick, I’m like amazing grace

I’m gonna fuck some hoes after I rock this place’

Kid Rock is kinda like Mickey Rourke. Either you think he’s one of the most awesome people walking the planet, or you think he’s a complete douche. The problem is people just don’t seem to get it. Kid Rock loves hip hop but shit, he knows he can’t rap like Jay-Z. He loves country music, but he knows he’ll never be George Jones. He likes rock n roll, and blues and soul and all those things, and knows he’ll never master any of them. He’s not trying. He’s just Kid Rock, and if you don’t like him, fuck you. He likes money and bitches and fur coats and getting drunk, and if you don’t like it? Fuck you again. Say what you want about him, but the Kid is a real fucking rock star.

Exhibit B: Kid Rock – So Hott.

Bon Jovi

‘If the love that I’ve got for you’s gone

If the river I’ve cried ain’t that long

Then I’m wrong

Yeah I’m wrong

This ain’t a love song’

It seems that it is only acceptable to admit to liking Bon Jovi if you are a thirty-something female with a broken heart and all of the Twilight books. I personally think that men are threatened by Jon Bon Jovi because he is every woman’s dream: a total fucking hunk, in touch with his feelings with a great voice and even better hair. Me? I’m so far down the food chain I feel threatened by Kenneth Williams when I watch a Carry On film, so this feeling is fairly redundant to me. The point is, if you take music too seriously to rock out to Bon Jovi that’s cool with me. But I say this with utmost sincerity – without those rock n roll ballads that send most people scrambling for a sick bag, my wee world just wouldn’t be as much fun. And I will love them, aallwwwwaaaaaayyyyysss!

Exhibit C: Bon Jovi – Always

Garth Brooks

‘Operator won’t you put me on through

I gotta send my love down to Baton Rouge

Hurry up won’t you put her on the line

I gotta talk to the girl just one more time’

You think I’m taking the piss now, right? Surely not. Surely this is a sin too far. Ladies and gentlemen, I do not jest. I like Garth Brooks. I understand why people don’t, believe me. The stars n stripes shirt, the sissy little microphone headset, the penchant for flying around the stage as if he was livin’ on a prayer… I get it. But I don’t give a shit. If I tried to pretend I didn’t like him I wouldn’t just be lying to you, I’d be lying to myself. I’d be denying a part of my own soul, damn it! I’m a major country music fan, and of course Garth ain’t got shit on Waylon and Willie, or Johnny, Hank or Merle, but his special brand of all-American soppishness…

[Editor's Note: 'soppishness' is not a word, but it works so well here I’m going to leave it.]

…fills my lonesome heart with joy and makes my two left feet line-dance uncontrollably. God bless old Garth Brooks.

Exhibit D: [Video link deleted by Editor for 'unacceptable levels of soppishness']

Neil Diamond

‘Me and you are subject to

The blues now and then

But when you take the blues

And make a song

You sing ‘em out again

You sing ‘em out again’

Until now I have been a little defensive about my taste, but I’m not budging on this one. Neil Diamond is one of the greatest singer-songwriters of all time, and if you disagree you can fuck off. I pity you unenlightened fools who look upon his sequinned jackets and awesome hair with disdain, for you will never know what you are missing. Namely, some of the most rousing and powerful pop music ever recorded. I can’t even put my love for Neil Diamond into words, because he already has monopoly on verbal expressions of love, and I can’t play piano or guitar.

Exhibit E: Neil Diamond – I Am, I Said

Please use the comments section to admit your unguilty pleasures, or just to cruelly mock me. It won’t faze me – I’ll be playing air-piano and belting out my best version of ‘Hello Again’…

Johnny called me at work to ask if I was going to the Dirty DC gig in the Empire last week.  I told him of course fucking of course, I was going.  He then told me that my usual shtick about getting shitty drunk and rocking out is getting old, and I should at least try and make these things more relevant to the rest of the Bandwidth site.  I told him no problem – all I would need is a backstage press pass and an exclusive interview with the singer from Ajenda and by God I’d write the best piece of local music journalism since whatever Will did last.  He said he’d see what he could do, and put the phone down.  Content that my ingenious and devious plan was in action, I laughed my best ’haw, haw, haw’ sort of evil laugh, and went back to the dishes, since my boss was due back soon.
Before the end of my shift Johnny called back and okayed my idea. He had a date lined up for me, but told me if I wanted to do an interview I’d have to line it up myself.  I almost shat myself with excitement.
‘Hey boss lady,’ I shouted across the shop.
‘Yes Ian?’
‘You can stick your job,’ I said, ’I’m onto a piece that’s gonna break me into the big time!’  I threw my apron at her and stormed out, throwing up the horns at the queue of gob-smacked customers.  Unfortunately my badass exit was spoiled slightly when I had to duck back in again to get my Neil Diamond CD.

The night of the gig I pulled on my dancing boots, had a few crafty slugs of Jack and headed off into town.  When I got to The Empire I realised I had forgotten the list of questions I had prepared for the interview, so I ordered up a shot and a brew and tried to remember what they were.  Looking at them now I realise they wouldn’t have been much help anyway.  In an obvious drunken scrawl it reads COMPLIMENT HER (underlined so heavily in red that I actually scored through the paper), EXAGGERATE POSITION AT BANDWIDTH, and DON’T GET TOO DRUNK.  It then says something about hair, that even I can’t really make out.  My only guess is that it was a memo to myself to get a haircut.  Anyway as tends to happen, one shot and a brew became two, and then three, before I went upstairs to the music hall to get a good seat.  Somehow I always arrive at these things either too late to even get near the bar, or so early I have to sit for hours staring at an empty stage.  This night I was early and, unfortunately, that meant more drinking.  I seemed to be drinking alone for a long time before the hall really filled up, and with the support act way overdue I was itching to do some rocking.  I was already head banging half-assedly in my chair to Crazy Nights by Kiss and sneaking glances at a fucking knockout who was… well… propped up on the bar ordering a drink.  Then she caught me looking and gave me a puzzled look.  Bugger.  She got her beer and started walking towards me.  I almost shat myself with fear.  I necked the whiskey and before she could say a word blurted out,
‘Sorry I wasn’t staring at you.  It was the guy behind you.  Looked like he had something… growing out of his head.  It was just his hair.  Which technically is growing out of his head, I suppose, but what I mean was I wasn’t actually looking at your tits.  You, I mean.  Not that your tits aren’t worth looking at.  Just…’
And luckily she cut me off, ‘It’s okay, I don’t wear this top so people will notice my shoes.’  I was speechless, so I took a long pull at my beer.  She didn’t go away.  ‘And since I’m supposed to be here with you, I think it’s okay for you to check out my tits.’  No.  Fucking.  Way.
‘Johnny set you up with me?’ I asked.
‘Yep.’
‘I’m going to kiss that man.  Right on the mouth.’  That made her laugh, and when she giggled, they jiggled, and I almost wept.

When the band finally came on it wasn’t Ajenda at all, but Dirty DC themselves.  I can only guess that something came up, because there was no explanation as to why they didn’t play.  That’s not going to stop me mentioning them, though, because honestly I was as excited to see them as I was to see Dirty DC.  I first saw Ajenda last year at, incidentally, a Dirty DC gig in The Empire.  Since then I’ve been trying to make it to one of their own shows, but something always got in the way.  I really don’t think I have ever been as knocked out by a local band as I was by Ajenda.  Their sound is right up my street – hooky, guitar-driven rock with, crucially, dynamite vocals.  I like a fairly broad range of music but I will always have a soft spot for anything that makes me bop my head and involuntarily form a fist with my right hand.  Shit, I was at an AC/DC tribute gig, this much should be clear.  I was fucking disappointed that I didn’t get to see them again, but I’ll make it to a show some day.  Until then I have their EP, which is excellent, and which you can listen to on their MySpace page.  You can do that right after you finish reading this.  As for Dirty DC, well the best advertisement for them would have been a photo of me after the gig.  But since nobody should ever have to look at a photo of me – especially in that state – I’ll settle for letting you know I was drunk, sweaty, deaf and generally loving life.  As faithful as the band are to AC/DC’s sound, it’s really the energy of the original band that they mimic so well.  It’s no mean feat to match Angus Young for sheer balls out, blistering rocking, but this guy does, and does it well.  And a bunch of dudes having that much fun playing unashamedly simple, badass rock n roll is a joy to behold.  Since they’ve been here two years in a row I’m guessing Dirty DC should be a regular fixture at The Empire.  Next time they’re here, don’t waste your Saturday night in some godforsaken nightclub.  Go and have your balls rocked off.

It was a breath of fresh air, not having to steal covert glances at the chick’s cleavage.

[Editor’s Note: You don’t even know her name, do you?]

[Ian: Don’t interrupt me man, I’m wrapping this shit up.]

The band appeared to take full advantage of her generosity and spent a good amount of time staring themselves.  Angus even gave me a sly wink, acknowledging that he was impressed by my impeccable taste in women.  At the end of the gig the singer kissed her hand and the bassist gave her a pick, which delighted her.  When we parted ways she said we should meet up again some time, but in my drunken, breast-fixated state I didn’t even realise I didn’t have a name or a number.  I’m still waiting on Johnny to get back to me with her contact details.

[Johnny: No way.  Take a look at those rules you wrote for yourself - see what you did wrong.]

Damn it, you’re right.  I still need a haircut.

10. Jack Black – High Fidelity

Every so often, an actor is said to have been born to play a certain role. For a Mr. J Black of Hollywood (presumably, my depth of research is invariably linked to how bothered I am on the day) this role was Barry, the air guitar wielding prat from High Fidelity. This role was made for Black so much he inexorably portrayed it in everyone of his films to date. Ho ho, such wit. When I watch High Fidelity I romanticize the notion and believe being friends with Barry would be fun. The truth is it would probably be tiresome, as I imagine a friendship with Black would be. Again with the wit…

9. Steve Carrell – Anchorman

Quoted by everyone, everywhere. Even the Queen dropped one of Brick’s lines in her annual Christmas speech: “I am sure that we have all been affected by events in Afghanistan and saddened by the casualties suffered by our forces serving there. Our thoughts go out to their relations and friends who have shown immense dignity in the face of great personal loss. I ate a big red candle!”. Every character in the film has great lines, but Carrell’s comic timing and delivery – awkward and incongruous for the entire film allows him to take the mantle of Anchorman’s most memorable character.

8. Ralph Brown – Withnail and I

The curiously accented drug dealer Danny- perhaps the most endearing proprietor of hard drugs that’s ever been committed to film. In an unusual turn of intertextual writing, Mike Myers deployed Ralph Brown as a suspiciously similar character in Wayne’s World 2, the road-worn roadie Del Preston. He did a good job stealing the scenes in that film too – particularly when he regales a group of teens about having to beat a man to death with his own shoe so Ozzy could play on stage that night. A unique character and direct inspiration for the character in this next entry…

7. Matt King – (Super hans) Peep Show

Super Hans, the Danny/Del Preston of the Noughties. A proclivity for hard drugs in casual situations, in his head Super Hans is perpetually sticking it to the man. If it’s by smoking his crack pipe at a wedding or demanding his band are named ‘Free The Paedo’s', he is the last bastion of anarchy in a sea of the mundane. Hans, I salute ye.

6. Chloë Grace Moretz – (500) days of summer & Kick-Ass

So good she stoles it twice so she done- her turn as Tom’s little sister was hilarious and understated. Subversive relationships have been done a lot; sitcoms rely on the shtick so much so that it can feel tiresome and dated but Moretz’s stoical interactions with the melancholic Gordon-Levitt are natural and endearing. These scenes make a quirky film that bit more charming. Then she goes and drops the c-word as Hit-Girl in Kick-Ass. A natural, methinks.

5. Rhys Darby – Flight of the Conchords

In a show littered with bit part scene-stealer’s Darby’s portrayal of Murray Hewitt ‘of the New Zealand Consulate’ beats off tough competition from ‘Mel the Stalker’ or Dave ‘The Best Friend’ in Flight of the Conchords’ quirky world of prosaic nonsense. His minuscule knowledge of music, the music industry and indeed modern technology in general serves to project him as a millstone around the necks of Bret and Jemaine – the comedy arises from his lack of self awareness, and the belief that if the Conchords didn’t have him as a manager they’d be nobodies (which as it happens, they still are). Enjoy this improvised scene were Murray displays his limited knowledge of musical instruments.

4. Mark Wahlberg- The Departed

Staff Sergeant Sean Dignam – Wahlberg’s character is so obnoxious, unwilling and obstinate that it should be impossible to be excited when his character appears on screen, but his sporadic bursts of foul mouthed screen time act as comic relief (not in an overt or crass way) in a film that otherwise would begin feel weighted down with the outlandish plot. His delivery is so self-assured it makes me want to punch him, which I reckon was precisely the intended desire.

3. Jeff Goldblum- Jurassic Park

Dr Ian Malcolm- Tall, swarthy, nonchalant, chaos theorist and suffering from extreme excess of personality. How Jeff steals a film that has Dinosaurs losing the plot and generally being class is beyond me, but he does. Sam Neil is from Omagh, which is cool, but not as cool Goldblum’s charismatic scientist. His shirt’s open for most of the film, as was the style at the time.

2. Robert Carlyle – Trainspotting

Carlyle’s depiction of Begbie is terrifyingly unstable. It’s hard to choose a particular scene because he’s enthralling throughout – so much so that someone has uploaded ‘The best of Begbie’ moments on Youtube. Here’s a sample. Shit yourself at your leisure.

1. Alec Baldwin – Glengarry Glen Ross

For Alec Baldwin to occupy the best 7 minutes of a film that lists Kevin Spacey, Ed Harris, Al Pacino and Jack Lemmon among its ensemble cast is no small feat. His character Blake was created specifically for Baldwin and didn’t exist in David Mamet’s original stage production. Baldwin’s character measures virility through his capitalist successes and berates the rest of the cast for not having the balls (his words not mine) to close their prospective deals. His interaction with Ed Harris in this scene is a particular highlight.

Honourable mention: Christopher Walken, in everything.

The first track from a series of 3, will be a ‘Touch of Cold’ – and here, after the clip, is an exclusive sneaky peak of how it’ll sound. Check back in August for more..

http://www.myspace.com/silhouetteofficial

Watch a 30 sec clip:

Listen to all of “Silhouette – Touch Of Cold”

Download (Mp3, 7.3 MB)

Camera: Will McConnell
Sound Mix: Walter Thee Goon

10.  Archaic Computer Consoles

The first computer to feel love

Oh irony of ironies – the first thing on my list and i realise I have a genuine love for old computer consoles. So maybe I should stop being an elitist prick and accept maybe other people do to. Is it ironic that the first thing on this list isn’t ironic? I have gone crossed eyed.

9.  The Eighties

Things were so much better back then

The 80′s were truly a golden age of cultural iconography and significance. Even now the advancements made in the 80′s can still be felt today. It gave the world it’s first reality TV show (Knight Rider), brought the world together with a common disease (AIDS) and the eternally fashionable piano key neck tie. YET, those pesky ironists want to diminish those grandiose achievements by only appreciating them in an ironic fashion. Am I being ironic? I don’t know. My nose is bleeding.

8.  Children’s Toys

Inflamed testicle

There’s a space hopper in my house. I fucking hate myself. My only defense is it appeared after a party- I can only presume it was Nathan Barley’s chosen mode of transport the previous evening. Why was I hanging around with Nathan Barely you ask? I was being ironic. I am a dick.

7. Doing the MySpace Pose (ironically)

Turdspace.com

What better way to display your disdain for something than perpetuating it ironically? Ow, my head. This was the worst idea for a top ten. Too late to turn back now.

6. Dancing Awkward On Purpose, In An Attempt To Disguise Their Awkwardness

Abba

Not all of you are blessed with the groove that resides in my soul. I have been described as Ireland’s answer to Torville & Dean, somehow. Dancing awkwardly on purpose is definitely an improvement than just dancing awkwardly – take it from this cat, when I be splitting posture bombs on the dancefloor of the Copa Ramada (behind Spar) the last thing I want is for some funk-killing tile turkey handing out nega-vibes. You dig? Me neither.

5. Appreciating ‘Skins’ (but not understanding why)

Gritty teen drama

it’s as bad as appreciating irony but not understanding why, as demonstrated by this list.

4. Chuck Norris

Definitely Chuck Norris

Chuck Norris is so Adjective that when he Verbs, implausible conclusion asserting his toughness. Times fucking infinity. He also told Haley Joel Osmond he had aids in this touching scene:

3. David Hasselhoff

Look how terrified the dogs are

‘Don’t you wish your boyfriend was Hoff like me?’ mused the hilarious t-shirt’s abundant in campsite B of the Oxygen festival circa 2007. ‘Perhaps,’ was my retort, ‘If I was that way inclined – I would lke my boyfriend to be filmed devouring a burger by his long suffering daughter whilst simultaneously retaining the adoration of the German people. Who wouldn’t? Actually don’t answer that, you’re just a t-shirt.’

2. Using variants of ‘LOL’ in real conversations

A person saying 'lol'

Don’t be afraid to delight in the natural occurence of laughter, for it pleasing to hear across the fields and in the taverns of our great nation. No-one wants to hear the ROFL-copter coming in for landing after a particularly hilarious anecdote, or hear the abbreviation pronounced ‘Lawl’. Declare that it’s Lolz-o-clock at your peril, fiendish cur.

1. Top Ten Lists

Top Tizzle

How witty and clever are me?  This list was doomed from the start, yet such is my obstinance I carried on and ended it with ‘Top Ten Lists’- the sort pseudo-paradoxical irony nonsense that may end up tearing a the time space continuum a new one. So I’ll see you all in November 5th 1955. May God have mercy on us all.

Forgive the poor quality of this article…

[Editor’s Note: Every one of your articles should start like that.]

… but to be honest it almost didn’t get written at all.  Every time I tried putting pen to paper, for the past six days, the only thing that would come out was romantic poetry about Cara Cowan.  I say romantic poetry, I kind of just wrote out the lyrics to the soppiest Bon Jovi songs while slugging from a bottle of Jack.  But that wasn’t even the main reason.  I heard about this show in the morning of the day it was on, and immediately called Johnny.
‘Johnny I’m going to the gig at the Black Box tonight.  Ever since I saw Cara Cowan on In Stores Now I have wanted to see her live.  It’ll make a good This Is Not A Review, too, which is handy.’
‘That won’t be necessary Ian.’
‘What do you mean not necessary?’
‘I mean we’ve already got a Bandwidth representative covering that show,’ he said.
‘What?  Who?’
‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Well now I REALLY fucking want to know.’
He paused.  ‘It’s Nicola.’
It was my turn to pause.  ‘You’re fucking with me.’
‘Told you you didn’t want to know.  She’s just joined us and she’s got the gig.  I’m sure you’ll think of something else to write about.’  And he just hung up.  I reached for the bottle of whiskey and turned up the Bon Jovi.
Nicola.  The only woman I ever truly loved.  It was a love that was never to be though.  We met when I started working for the Belfast Telegraph, and I knew I loved her from the first time I ever laid eyes on her awesome tits.  Of course she was beautiful too, and seriously, seriously cool.

[Editor’s Note: Ah, that’s why it never worked out between you then…]

But she was with a senior editor at the paper, and I was just a lowly critic.  My angle was to critique entire establishments based on the quality of their toilet facilities.  We hung out a lot and despite the obvious chemistry, our dynamic never got past me telling her about toilets.  Recommending good ones, warning against the bad ones.

[Editor’s Note: How did you know what the ladies’ toilets were like?]

God, it hurts even to think about it now.  It was the happiest time in my life.  But like I said, we both knew it could never happen, and eventually the pain got too much for me and one day I just didn’t go back to work.  I never saw her again since then, and you know the rest.  I moved on to bigger, better things with Bandwidth and tried to forget about her.  And now of all the music sites in all the world, she had to start working for mine.

When I ran out of whiskey, I headed into town.  Most of what followed is just a haze but after getting kicked out of a bar for yammering loudly about how terrible the men’s toilet was, I spent my last couple of quid on a bottle of Bucky and lay down in the gutter to die.  In my dreams I was visited by an old man, whom I assumed to be a ghost from the future.  We had a long, drunken conversation about the situation that culminated in him telling me I had to get up, goddamnit, clean myself up and go to that gig.  It was my final chance for closure.  I came around and realised it was just some old tramp waking me up because I was in his favourite spot.  I handed him what was left of the booze and shambled off.

It was getting late, so I employed the age-old cinematic technique of montage to get home, wash up, shave, put on my finest threads and get to the Black Box on time for the gig, all in the running time of one Foreigner song.  Obviously nobody else there knew about the montage trick, because besides the bands, I was the first person there.

‘That’s five pounds please,’ said one of the women at the entrance.  I handed her a ten, the other one stamped my wrist, and they went back to their conversation.  I stood, awkwardly silent, until they looked up at me again.
‘I think that was a ten I gave you,’ I said.

‘Oh, so it was,’ she said, and gave me back a five.  Then I remembered it was a fundraiser gig and they probably assumed I was being charitable.  Asking for change from a charitable donation, what a classy start to the evening.  I hit the bar and, not wanting to take a table all to myself I stood there like an awkward twat, watching as people trickled in.  I was three drinks in when she swayed in and my heart swelled up so much my chest looked almost as big as hers.  She didn’t notice me, of course, and I stayed in the shadowed corner of the bar, hoping she never would.  Then she did, and came right on over to say hello.  Like nothing had ever happened!  I jabbered a pathetic hello-how-are-ya and almost fucking died when she suggested we sit together.  The music hadn’t started yet and the small talk was painful.

‘So what are the toilers like in here?’ she asked, with a big cheery grin.
‘Pretty good, actually,’ I said.
‘Wow, you usually have more to say about them than that.  How are you gonna fill a review?’
‘I’m not doing the toilet thing any more,’ I said.
‘Oh, what is it you’re doing now?’ I opened my mouth to speak, and the music started.  I looked over at the stage as Cara Cowan started into her first song, and all of a sudden I forgot all about Nicola.

The music scene in Belfast is a sham and a disgrace.  Sometimes, anyway.  People leave here in their droves to sit in a tent in some godforsaken field in Punchestown for the Oxegen festival.  They pay 24 Euro for a mangy burger and crap in port-a-loos for a few days.  They stand in a field full of muck and smelly people.  They do all that, just to see The Black Eyed Peas.  But put on a charity fundraiser with some of the best local bands we’ve got and you couldn’t fill a small room with fat people.  It was kind of a shame, and the room did fill up a bit more as the night went on, but for me it just made Cara’s performance all the more impressive.  I already knew she was original and innovative and has a great voice because I saw her on In Stores Now, so I’m going to assume you know all those things too and I’ll settle for saying hers was the best set of the night.  Which is high praise, because there was some stiff competition.  If you haven’t already heard her music and fallen in love with Cara Cowan, go do it now.  Your life will be better.

Next up was Uber Glitterati, an electropop band whom I really didn’t expect to like as much as I did.  I’m no techno fan.  In fact I know so little about it I don’t even know if techno and electro are the same thing.  Point is, I’m no fan of the genre but even I couldn’t deny the sheer catchiness of their weirdly wonderful sound.  They’re already making waves on the scene, and rightly so.  The following two acts are at a slight disadvantage because by this point in the night I was really, really hammered and don’t remember anything with too much clarity.  The upside is that I like to rock out when I’m pissed, and I remember that the music went down pretty damn well.  Lucky for you, you don’t have to take my word about Kitty And The Can Openers or Jackson Cage because they both have their own spot on In Stores Now too!  Check them both out here, and here.  Is Will’s finger on the pulse of the Belfast music scene or what?  Again, folk-indie bands with pretty female singers just aren’t my speciality, but Kitty And The Can Openers are fucking excellent, simple as that.  Last up was Jackson Cage and, frankly, everything Will said about them is bang on target – they’re just chock full of energy, have a sound very much their own and most important of all – they play the shit out of their songs and have a really great time doing it.  When they closed their set I was genuinely disappointed that the night was over, and not just because that meant the bar was closed.  It was a cool, low-key night with the kind of good vibes and great music you would expect.  It was also for a genuinely worthy cause, which you can help out with here.  As one of the singers very aptly put it on the night, what happened was a fucking shitty thing.  I can’t top that – ‘fucking shitty’ just sums it up – so help out, if you can.

If you can learn anything from this crap I write it is that Will McConnell is a fucking oracle – pay attention to what he says, for he will not steer you wrong – and don’t be a fucking cheapskate.  Pay some money and go see these bands live.  Buy their albums and E.P.s and remind them that what they’re doing is special and worthwhile.  And what about Nicola, I hear you ask?

‘So what about you?’ I asked her during a break between sets.  ‘How come you started working for Bandwidth?’
‘Oh I’m sleeping with Will now,’ she said.  After all the lovely stuff I said about him!  Oh well, I suppose some things never change, so I never did get my closure and I’ll probably just stay hopelessly in love.  In the absence of closure, though, childish satisfaction will do, and as you may have noticed, Will ran my article and not hers.  Either I’m a better writer, or she’s not a very good lay.  Whichever it is, it’s good enough for me.

10. Oppenheimer

Rest in Peace, sweet Princes

The aural equivalent of  of hokin’ a bag full of skittles into a bottle of coke and spraying the ensuing fizzy tsunami into a playground, the two-peice purveyors of pop are now sadly defunct. ‘Pop music, you know you’re gonna lose it soon‘ turned out to be a self fulfilling prophecy, as the duo have now gone their seperate ways. It was a messy break up, with Rocky snapped by the papparazzi getting out of a taxi in London with no knickers on; Shaun was last seen splayed across the centre pages of Nuts magazine.*

*Or so i’m told, in my head.

9. McFly

Squinty bastards

I was at a McFly concert once, and I found myself alone, the only stoical bastion of silent nobility in a sea of crazed, pepsi fuelled, screaming pre-teen girls. With a steely resolve I stuck the concert out, and found the event not displeasing to the ears. McFly are the band Busted could’ve been, and in the general context of modern Western society, that is a bold imposing statement. Try not to enjoy the brilliant ‘All About You’ sang by the pillow-tongued doughface and the Eoin Strathern lookalike.

8. Lily Allen

I would go through Keith to get to her

Mrs. Myspace is the gobby yet ultimatley endearing princess of twee-pop. Allen was also the first girl in the history of civilization to wear trainers with a dress, although she did steal the idea off that twat Nicky Wire. She’s so good she even comes with a bonus nipple that gets more air time than any of her contemporaries. In a survey I just made up, 78% of women believe she should be Prime Minister. You can’t argue with cold hard facts. They never listen.

7. Girls Aloud

One is from Derry, hi!

‘Here’s the idea‘ Pete Waterman said to barman of the Ivy Lodge. ‘We get five class lookin’ girls, right. They all have to be able to sing, have legs up to their arse and moves to go with it.’  The Barman is visibly interested as he tops up Waterman’s Baileys. ‘They’ll all look different, and have their own personalities.’ ‘Like the Power Rangers!’ the barman thought, but didn’t vocalize. ‘Yes.’ answered Pete, somehow. ‘It’ll never work.‘ thought the barman. And it never did.

6. Shakira

Shakira on her recent trip to Lough Neagh

She’s just too perfect. You’d never catch Shakira stumbling out of a London nightclub, legs like bambi and not a stitch of cloth between them, no no no. She’s too busy saving the lives of impoverished children, writing the most bizzare lyrics to the coolest pop tunes and smiling like a mad bitch. And she still has time to be fabulous, as they say in the business. They erected a statue of her in her hometown of Barranquilla, which is a small village near Carrickfergus. That’s our Shakira all right.

5. Sugababes

In the rare ould times, before it went tits up

The natural successors to All Saints’ ‘Edgy-yet-Mainstream-Groove-Pop-with-Sexually-Agressive-Females’ crown, Sugababes have managed to stay edgy and mainstream with a continuous revolving door policy were the members are concerned. They’ve managed to knock off a few good tunes, without ever feeling the need to deploy the definite article at the beginning of their name. And for that I salute them.

4. The Beatles

Podge, Saul, Bingo and Ron

You mightn’t have heard of these scouse scamps*, I know I hadn’t before I began my tedious and exact research for this article. Apparently they were big in the 1960′s, which was like a hundred years ago so their impact couldn’t possibly resonate today in every aspect of popular music digestable to the human ear. They gave Ed Sullivan his big break in America: it should be noted that their was no recorded crime anywere in the world when their performance on his show went out, and that alone makes them credible, nay, INCREDIBLE.

*They changed their name soon after to the Beatles

3. The Beach Boys

Band camp

Seen here posing for the pre-season West Bromich Albion team photograph (3 of them are regular starters for the Baggies), the Beach Boys made girls, surfing and driving fast cars cool. This is no small achievement, as these things were widely regarded as social kryptonite at the time.

2. Michael Jackson

:)

Pictured above minutes before his death, the King of Pop was snatched from our oily tentacles at the tender young age of 50. He made Neil Armstrong look like a floating twat with his dancing (Moonwalk my hole Neil), and he also starred in a subversive video game came in which he rescued young kids from predators – so take that Gavin Arvizo. It’s widely accepted in my head that he managed to maintain a zoo in his garden singlehandedly, so that makes him better than any of us.

1. The Kooky Plops

Kooky Plops

Fuck the Ting Tings, the Kooky Plops are music. Was it not Jon Landau who waxed lyrical ‘I have seen the future of pop and it’s name is the Kooky Plops‘? I believe it was, and their worldwide smash ‘This is a song I wrote’ justifies this hyperbolic madness. Alan Hansen got the album and he listed it’s attritubes on Match of the Day 2: ‘It has pace, power, accuracy and timing. An all round spectular performance from a real talent. They keep possession really well’.

Anyone who reads this shit on a regular basis…

[Editor’s Note: Ha!  That’s a list I’d like to see.]

… will have noticed that I haven’t been to a gig in a while.  To be honest I’ve been avoiding the Bandwidth building altogether.  Every time I’m in there it’s the same bloody thing from Will: ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got that money you owe me Ian?’  I mean talk about fucking rude.  Anyway I finally ran out of ideas for articles, and with no money to take myself to a gig, I gave in.  So, with my tail between my legs and my best attempt at a sincere expression on my face, I texted Johnny and told him I was resigning.  He must have been in Will’s office because within seconds I got an irate text from him, demanding he get his money back.  I tried to explain to him that that would not be possible, as the 28 day money back guarantee I got with the hot tub was voided when the filters became clogged with sodden Jaffa Cakes.  He didn’t seem to accept this as a valid excuse.
So with sorrow in my heart I went to the bar, ordered up my first shot and brew of the day and tried to zone out in front of the football.  By my third round I was close to broke and even closer to tears, and then I got a text.  It was from my friend Gill, which is strange because the only time she ever texts me is to ask about money I owe her.  This one was different.  ‘Want to go see Pearl Jam on Wed?’ is all it said.  You’re goddamn right I did.
‘You’re goddamn right I do,’ I replied.  Then I remembered she’s a Christian and I might have offended her.  ’Fuck, sorry about that,’ I added, and ordered up another drink.  This was my chance.  I’d write my way back into Bandwidth’s heart with the best This Is Not A Review article they’ve ever read!  Hell, Will might even forget all about that five hundred…

[Will: It’s six motherfucker!]

Wanting to make sure I had an exciting, eventful night so the article would be the best ever written, I decided to get good and loaded before the gig.  Having drank the last of my money in the bar celebrating my good fortune, though, I couldn’t afford any more booze.  I hunted through the house and all I found was half a bottle of peach schnapps and a bottle of Pimms.  Jesus, even I don’t sink that low.  So I went to visit my granddad and stole a bottle of his whiskey.  I laid into it with serious vigour – brought on by my deep-seated loathing of the Odyssey Arena.  The entire complex, in fact, can suck it.  It is without a doubt the most vomitous, scum sucking night spot in all of Belfast.  The only reason I went is that I was so desperate for something to write about, and I rationalised that on a Wednesday night, with a proper rock n roll crowd, it couldn’t be that bad.  The rationalising didn’t help much though, and I arrived with a heart full of hate and a belly full of whiskey.
I was instantly herded into an abattoir-esque queue so the security people could pat me down.  ‘Lucky I put my knife in my shoe,’ I joked to the girl next to me in line.  She looked at me stony-faced.
‘My best friend was stabbed to death,’ she said.  Anyone who knows of a suitable response to this is welcome to let me know in the comments section.  I’ll be fucked if I’m giving up my knife in the shoe joke – I use it all the time!  I just stared blankly at her and shuffled along.
‘Remove your shoes please sir,’ said the security guard.
‘You have got to be kidding me!’  To add insult to injury they took my whole ticket, instead of giving me back the stub, which infuriated me.  Tickets are designed to be ripped, so that each party can retain one half, and losers like me can collect all their tickets from every event they ever go to.  I digress…
Finally inside I located Gill, whom I’m sure is delighted to feature in this article.  I suspect, in fact, that it is the only reason she invited me, because she didn’t even try to act happy to see me.
‘You look drunk,’ was her greeting.
‘How would you know what I look like drunk?’
‘Because I have that picture on my phone of you wearing a nurse’s outfit and a cowboy hat.’  Touché.
‘Well anyway, how come you invited me?’ I asked.
‘Oh you were literally the last person left to ask,’ she said.  And she wasn’t even joking.  I thanked her for her honesty and told her I was off to find the bar.
‘Oh this round’s on me,’ she said.
‘No, I couldn’t possibly…’
‘It’s no problem.’
‘Okay then I’ll have four pints,’ I said.  And I wasn’t even joking.
The joke was on me, though, when she returned with four pints of Harp.  I could have mistaken it for piss but for the temperature, because as everyone knows – it’s not the quality of the beer, it’s how cold you can make it that counts.  I downed the first one and it was so bad I gave the other three away to a couple of hipster chicks, whom Gill informed me looked too young to be in the standing area, let alone be drinking.
‘Lucky the only thing I tried to give them was beer, huh?’ I said.  And that joke went down about as well as the knife in the shoe one.
Gill dragged me to the front, got herself a good space and let me wedge myself between two couples who were none too happy about my intrusion.  One of them was the chick from the queue and her boyfriend.  She gave me a dirty look and tried to move away but the crowd was too tightly packed for anyone other than small chicks with innocent smiles and a complete disregard for common courtesy.  Like Gill, who shouted ‘That’s Ben Harper.  I love him,’ and ducked under some guy’s arm, disappearing into the crowd.  And that was the last I saw of her that night.  She presumably spent the rest of the evening front and centre, gawking at Eddie Vedder.  Ben Harper was the support act, of course, and he was admittedly very good.  If you don’t believe me, check him out for yourself.  Gill’s space was quickly nabbed by the two hipster chicks with innocent smiles, a complete disregard for common courtesy, and three pints of Harp between them.  I considered asking for one of my pints back and couldn’t bring myself to, so I spent the rest of the gig trying to decide whether giving up my good view was worth an over-priced pint of shitty beer and never quite making my mind up.  So I stood there like a thirsty fool, watching the two underage boppers drinking my beer and wondering why the hell I ever bother leaving the house.
Pearl Jam took their time about coming on.  When they did, and Eddie Vedder said something about having a long set planned, I a have to admit my heart sank a bit.  I was already bored of standing, much too sober, and soaked with sweat – only some of which was my own.  It would have been a different matter altogether in a different venue with easy access to a proper bar, which is why I will never go to the Odyssey ever again.  That’s my complaining all done, though, because as for the actual show, I couldn’t fault it.  For some reason I was expecting something rather tame.  What I got was balls out rock n roll.  I obviously underestimated the band because despite the fact that they’ve been doing this for about as long as I’ve been alive, they haven’t lost any of their energy and stage presence.  Eddie wasn’t climbing the rafters, of course, but he still smashed around the stage swilling champagne and interacting with the crowd the way any good front man should.  I can’t help but smile when I see that sort of enthusiasm – obviously a band still enjoying what they’re doing.  The set list was indeed long and pleasantly varied – lots of songs I knew well and lots of ones I’ve never even heard before that were surprisingly badass.  They also dedicated a song to a couple in the audience who just gotten married, and got everyone in the arena to sing Happy Birthday to their producer Brendan O’Brien, which sounds like a bunch of soppy shit but was actually a lot of fun.  I admit it – even though I’ve liked Pearl Jam for years, I didn’t expect to enjoy the show quite as much as I did.  Our wee town isn’t exactly a high profile gig but they honestly put their heart and soul into putting on a damn fine show, and that’s all I ever really ask of a band.  That and strippers, but no band I’ve seen has ever come through with the strippers, so I tend not to hold it against them.
By the time they came back out for the encore I was dying of thirst.  The security guards had been handing out cups of water all night and I had failed to get my hands on one.  When they started floating around again I grabbed for one and, in my excitement, bumped into one of the drunken hipsters, knocking her camera out of her hand.  I necked the water, never having tasted anything so refreshing in my life, and quickly stooped down to pick up the camera.  ‘Look out, he’s got a knife!’ screamed the girl from the queue earlier, and went scrambling off through the crowd leaving her bewildered boyfriend behind.  Luckily Pearl Jam were still blasting away and no one took any notice of her.  I smiled a smug, vengeful smile, and handed the camera back to the hammered hipster honey (Huh? Huh?).

[Editor’s Note: (cringing) Oh my God…]

Almost tearful with gratitude she said ‘Awww, thank y…’ and puked beer all over me.  Amazingly, it was still kind of cold.

Daniel Robson is a British music journalist and events organiser based in Tokyo.
For info about Japanese bands playing in the UK and a free podcast, visit his site It Came From Japan.

Natccu photographed by Masako Miyazaki

It’s a volume thing. As we all know, the most oft-used phrase in the international dictionary of rock’n’roll is ‘turn it up’ – and music venues don’t come much louder than those here in Tokyo.

It’s not only the Budokan-sized mega-halls that are pushing air: even the venues on the toilet circuit are merciless ear-crushers. It’s a combination of the fact that these ‘live houses’ are usually underground and soundproofed to the teeth, that Japanese people are world-class obsessives for pro technology, and that bands have to pay to play there. The result is a glorious cacophony of visceral live bands – take grrrl-punk trio Bo-Peep, whose fierce show has battered stages not only around Japan but also the UK and US. Or Guitar Wolf, the chaotic garage band whose 1999 album ‘Jet Generation’ was touted by Matador Records as the loudest CD ever made.

It’s not only the punks who get to make a racket. Chart-friendly bands such as GO!GO!7188, whose albums of genre-hopping leftfield pop are recorded with painstaking restraint, leap several decibels when they take the stage. Meanwhile, velvet-voiced post-pop class act Natccu (pictured above) has honed such a sharp edge recently that she’s even coerced Stooges bassist Mike Watt to guest on her forthcoming album.

This is not to suggest that Japan is the most rock’n’roll country on earth. In daily life, conformity is king, and most Japanese conduct themselves with dignity, care and grace. Rules are everywhere, whether explicit or otherwise – don’t eat on the street, don’t litter, don’t use your phone on the train, don’t wear dowdy clothes, don’t disrespect your superiors or elders, don’t use your paid holidays, don’t leave the office before the boss. The music industry is tightly controlled, and the media bends to the will of the major management companies and talent agencies, which wield extraordinary power.

But to judge Japan’s music industry by the Western definition of rock’n’roll is of course as ludicrous and ignorant as comparing sushi with a Sunday roast. The culture is just too different. There’s virtually no crime or poverty here – great staples of rock’n’roll zeitgeist. There’s very little to worry about, and if everybody lives in comfort, why rebel? Why complain? So the vast majority of bands here play positive music untinged by the heavy cynicism that is so essential to us Brits. It’s actually quite refreshing, because it’s more honest. After all, it’s not like Arctic Monkeys or The Enemy are about to lead us into revolution.

Of course, life isn’t perfect here, and the best artists are those who buck convention and address society’s darker elements. Originally hailing from Osaka but now based in Tokyo, jazz-punk band Midori combine tight musicianship with an anti-conformist message and the most disturbing frontwoman you’ve ever seen. Soutaiseiriron, meanwhile, take a subtler route, with gorgeously crafted songs about Japan’s seedier side – schoolgirls seducing their teachers, spoiled princesses turning sour, weird cults and superficial relationships. The band make a further point about their distaste for celebrity society by refusing to ever do interviews and forbidding photography at their live shows.

Japan’s music scene is one of the most diverse and vibrant in the world (and also the only one that’s still making money). Genre boundaries are often less strict than in the West, and you’ll hear bands here that turn your ears to jelly. Sure, 90% of the music in the charts is shite – just like in the UK, or anywhere else. But do a little digging and you might just find something that steals your heart – and ruins your hearing.

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All tracks used with permission.
©2010 It Came From Japan

You can hear a track from A National Light on this week’s new music podcast.

Read more here: THERAGS.COM

10. ‘Please please me/Like I please you‘-  The Beatles

The implicit meaning of aformentioned lyric

on a superficial listen ‘Please Please Me’ boasts a nice little word play in the chorus; a catchy use of the semantic differences of the word ‘please’. On an uncalled for analytical level, the lyric becomes a depraved beg for the reciprocation of a certain sexual act that I will not sully the good nature of this website my mentioning. To be honest, I just wanted a lyric that I could use in context with the above picture, because it’s hilarious.

9. ‘Lucky that my breasts are small and humble/So you don’t confuse them with mountains’ – Shakira

Mountains, not to be confused with Sharkira's boobs

Have you ever sat in with the other half on a friday night; the curry half n’half and a bottle of Paul Mason have went down well, you and your partner both laugh at the wacky friend in the latest Sandra Bullock movie – and then it happens. Your eyes meet, you lock lips, things get passionate. Your hand slides up her poncho to get a grip of her… hard rocky terrain? ‘IT’S NOT MY LOVER’S BREAST’ you scream, ‘IT’S A MOUNTAIN!’  You open your eyes and you’re kissing a tuft of moss on the side of the Black Mountain. Happens all the time.

8. ‘Lucky I have strong legs like my mother/To run for cover when i need it‘ – Shakira, again.

Shakira and her ma, legs like lamb shanks.

This lyric is disconcerting to thine ear, no? It suggests to me that, like her mother, Shakira gravitates towards violent men. Which is a pity for us limp-wristed dandies, because she is a lovely. A big lovely.

7. ‘Someday you will find me/Caught beneath a landslide‘ – Oasis

Hilarious caption

Champagne Supernova boasts some of the best (worst?) psuedo-profound bollocks ever penned, yet the opening line of the chorus is often overlooked. It sounds like the threat of a man on a suicide mission. You can imagine Noel Gallagher shaking his fist Liamward and prodigously speaking this line. He’ll be found a few days later trapped under a few rocks on the side of the Black Mountain.*

*He was over visiting relatives in Belfast and went for a climb.

6. ‘I read in rap pages they refer to me as soft/Yeah, more like MicroSoft!’ – Will Smith

All the clues are there, you just gotta look for 'em...

Will Smith has been dropping us hints for the best part of his career. This portentous little ditty may seem just like means to an end on first listen; a capricious flight of fancy that wouldn’t alert the reader to the ominous danger that lurked in it’s meaning. That’s write, gentle reader, Will Smith is a robot. His lyrics are rendered by a word processing system made my Microsoft, which is probably why they are so rubbish. Oh and he blatantly admits to being a robot in the above poster. ‘I, Robot’. Aye, robot!

5. ‘Now we go steady to the pictures/I always get chocolate stains on my pants’ – Thin Lizzy

Definitely Phil Lynott

What does he be doing?  Think about it.

4. ‘Well, my heart went “boom,”/When I crossed that room,’ – The Beatles

The ominous effects of lusting after a 17 year old

There is two ways one can deconstruct this lyric. Either Paul McCartney is a young buck suffering an attack of Sudden Cardiac Arrest at the sight of a barely legal teenage girl, or he’s adopted a character narrative and is singing through the eyes of a more appropriatley aged elder man, who would be liable to such an attack. I can’t decide which is more terrifying. The next line of the song ‘and I held her hand in mine‘ conjures up images of the protagonist lying on the floor, clutching at his teenage love’s hand in his last moments. Or so I think anyway.

3. ‘Kids don’t behave like this‘ – A Plastic Rose

I asked for Tennants not Carlsberg, pathetic seed of mine

A bit of a local entry from young blow-in’s A Plastic Rose. The anthemic chorus has everybody in belfast wetting their frillies, and rightly so- it’s a great tune. However, the meaning of the chorus is lost on me so I conjured up my own, AS IS MY WONT. So here it is: Gerry Norman is a strict disciplinarian but remains unscrupulous with his deployment of diction. Thus, when berating his children, he retains a sense of unspecificity in his choice of noun – just to fuck with their heads. Are they being punished for what they have done specifically, or what kids the world over have done. Only A Plastic Rose truely know.

2. ‘Boom shake-shake-shake the room‘- Jazzy Jeff

Osama, or Jazzy Jeff? You decide

This feel good hit took over the world in the summer of 93. I was a but a young pup, but I remember the room being shaken, or shuck depending where you’re from, like it was yesterday. Alas, that was a more innocent life and now due to these terror stricken uncertain times we live in, the lyric has been hideously transformed into a feel good call to arms for generation T. For ‘terrorist’.

1. ‘Do Do Do Do Do/Do Do Do Do Do/Do Do Do Do Do/This is Insania‘ – Peter Andre

Spazzing out like a mad huer at the latest Andre-Fest

If you ever catch yourself singing along to this, take yourself to the side and have word with yourself. Would you mock a mentally unstable person, repeating what they said? Yes No you wouldn’t, so don’t do it to poor Pierre, even if he does qualify his chorus with the bizzarre ephiphany ‘this is insania’. The song is clearly the ramblings of a mentally unstable madman, the chorus’ serving as an incomprehensible crescendo to even stranger verses:

Take a look around
At what technology has found
Is it what we need?
Or are we killing the seed?
Dictated by the screen
No more following your dreams
The world’s become a difficult place to be

Cloning will diverse
Aging will reverse
Insanity is slowly, creeping into our lives, yeah
Where is yesterday? Cause people ain’t the same
Have we lost the faith? Or have we lost our minds

Terrifying.

With the recent release of the documentary American: The Bill Hicks Story I was tempted to write something about Bill for Bandwidth.  I was hesitant though, thinking I may not be worthy, and also concerned that there just might not be anything left to say about him.  Then Will went to see the movie too and, being a big fan himself, suggested I write something.  And who am I to argue with the boss?  At worst this will be a long winded movie recommended.  At best, I might introduce you to not only one of the funniest stand up comics ever, but one of the best thinkers of our time.

[Editor’s Note: Derisive scoff.]

[Bill Hicks’s spirit: Shut the fuck up!]

Stand up comedy requires some serious balls.  There’s just no place to hide.  No backing music, no second takes, no fellow performers to feed you lines.  Just a microphone, a spotlight, and a pair of balls bigger even than those of Officer Nigger-Hater from Bill’s Arizona Bay CD.  And that’s probably why so many stand up comedians suck.  From the pathetically offensive Jim Davidson to the offensively pathetic Patrick Kielty, a lot of these motherfuckers just aren’t funny.  Even the good ones – Peter Kay, Ricky Gervais and Michael McIntyre – are joke blowers at best.  Those guys are good at what they do, and what they do is make people laugh, but comparing modern stand up comedy to what Bill Hicks did is like comparing Joe Satriani to Jimmy Page.  Joe is a goddamn blistering guitarist, but he didn’t change rock n roll music like Jimmy did.  Like Bill Hicks changed comedy.  His act wasn’t just about making people laugh, it was about spreading truth, no matter how controversial that truth may be.  It was about saying what he wanted to say and not giving a shit what anyone thought about it.  In fact, Bill said it best, when he demanded of musicians: ‘PLAY IT FROM YOUR FUCKING HEART!’

This was not just entertainment.  Bill was not interested in letting you zone out or giving you a cheap chuckle.  In fact, he waged war against the sort of television that did just that.  Bill wanted you engaged, ready to re-evaluate some of your thoughts on life.  And Bill wanted to save our souls – from the government, from religion, from the media, and from ourselves.  But as well as being the thing that set him apart from so many other comedians, this is the very thing that critics of his work deride.  Some people dismissed his philosophy as leftist, acid-induced liberalism.  And some people just don’t like being told that their way of life is fucked.  These people are commonly known as ’Americans’.  Just kidding.  I know a few Americans and they’re all way smarter than I am.  But it’s true that, at least while he was alive, Bill never really found a mainstream audience in America.  He had much more success in the UK, where audiences were (perhaps understandably) more receptive to his America-bashing.  I think he was misunderstood though.  He sure as shit wasn’t a patriot – he made his thoughts on patriotism very clear – but he didn’t hate America.  He didn’t hate people, either, despite often coming across as a cynic and a misanthrope.  He was just disillusioned with how things were going and had his own brand of medicine for it called ‘the truth’.  The problem for most people is, his medicine didn’t come with a spoonful of sugar to help it go down.  It did come with a few dick jokes though.

You know who Socrates was, right?  Yeah, that Greek philosopher dude.  But do you know how Socrates spent most of his days?  Not in his study, staring at the clouds and writing down vague, abstract ideas.  He walked around the agora, talking to the public and asking them open ended questions like ‘What is justice?’  Not because he wanted an answer, but because he realised that most people just don’t think about this stuff.  We’re content to let others worry about that shit and tend to just buy whatever they tell us.  Socrates was having none of that shit.  He went out and challenged people; made them think.

[Readers: You’re not really going to compare Bill Hicks to Socrates, one of the most influential philosophers of all time, are you?]

You’re goddamn right I am.  Sure, Socrates probably didn’t have an alter ego called Goat Boy, who had a penchant for underage girls, but who knows?  The fact is rather than walking the streets talking to strangers, Bill was pacing around a dark little stage, chain-smoking and offering up some new perspectives on life.  He believed, like Socrates did, that people should lead an examined life.  Question things.  In Bill’s own words: ’evolve ideas’.  It might be a little rough and ready, but it’s pure philosophy, and the fact that he made everybody laugh shouldn’t diminish that.

When Hunter S. Thompson came along they coined a phrase.  Okay so they coined a lot of phrases for Hunter, but the one I’m referring to is ’outlaw journalism’.  Well if Hunter was an outlaw journalist, Bill Hicks was an outlaw comic.  He was an outlaw because he just was not afraid.  He wasn’t afraid to choose a life that meant scratching out a living travelling the county to do shows in tiny comedy clubs and bars.  And he wasn’t afraid to tell the truth.  Whether it be the truth about the Gulf war – when no other comedian would touch it – his under voiced opinion on drugs, or just his ‘sucking your own dick’ bit, never mind getting on stage and saying this stuff out loud, most of us would never get past ‘Jesus, what would my mum think?’

Bill’s mum didn’t really know what to think, but even she told him he wasn’t too far off being a preacher.  His answer, ‘I am a preacher.’  He preached his own gospel, and used language you’d never hear in church, but I agree – he was a preacher.  There’s a reason that every time someone mentions the best stand up comedians of all time the same names crop up: Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, George Carlin, and Bill Hicks.  It’s a brand of comedy that resonates with you long after the laughter dies down, because there’s a point to it.  An honesty to it.  Bill Hicks was a preacher, and he practiced what he preached.  He never sold out.  Never did an advertisement.  Never censored his own material to reach a wider audience.  This level of integrity is very rare, and that’s what makes him special.  Even if you don’t agree with everything he had to say – he wouldn’t ask you to – you can trust that Bill Hicks would never bullshit you.  And if he’s a little harsh with you, it’s for your own good.  American: The Bill Hicks Story wouldn’t be a bad place to start with Bill.  A sort of ’easing in’ approach.  Or you could do it like I did and jump in the deep end with his Rant In E-Minor.  Bill’s not with us any more – which is shame because something tells me 8 years of George W. would have brought about some good material – so it’s important to keep his word alive.  If you’ve never seen or heard one of Bill’s shows I urge you to do so.  You might find you don’t even need the mushrooms – your third eye will be quite cleanly squee-geed (Damn, I never thought I’d have to write that word) just listening to him.  But a warning for those easily offended, and those too mired in their own self-belief to even want to think differently – Bill’s a divisive guy – so some of you probably won’t like him.  Well, there’s always Lee Evans, right?

Of course I couldn’t do this thing justice, so I’ll let Bill close the show.

Suggested Listening: The Bill Hicks Discography
Dangerous (1990)
Relentless (1992)
Arizona Bay (1997)
Rant in E-Minor (1997)
Philosophy: The Best of Bill Hicks (2001)
Love, Laughter and Truth (2002)
Flying Saucer Tour Vol. 1 (2002)
Shock and Awe (2003)
Salvation (2005)

Bandwidth had a hand in a unique exhibition based in Belfast Oh Yeah Centre. The project was called True Confessions and the idea was to record the musical memories of Northern Ireland’s gig going population for future posterity. Steven Rainey was dutifully dispatched to share his own.

Illustration by Stephen Graham.
Photos by Liz Wade.

I was sitting in a shed, lit by candles. The walls were decorated with clippings from the music press from the last ten years or so. A curtain was pulled back, and a cardboard cut-out of Fergal Sharkey’s face appeared.

The former Undertone’s voice crackled through a tiny amplifier, and I was instructed to reveal my musical “guilty secret”, the one band that is indefensible in my musical collection.

Stumbling over my words, I cast my mind through the hundreds of records I’ve owned over the years, struggling to recall the most horrifically embarrassing choice. Images of Simple Minds’ Jim Kerr wearing a white trenchcoat with the sleeves rolled up, releasing a white dove of peace into the sky, flashed before my eyes. Paddy MacAloon, the bard of the bedsit, singing the lines, “Hot dog, jumping frog, Albuquerque”. Bob Dylan, struggling to cope with the stylistic changes of the 80s, wearing a grey suit jacket, looking lost, whilst mumbling, “Wiggle wiggle, like a can of soup.”

I’ve owned them all, and – in their own way – I love them.

Without thinking, I blurted out my answer:

“Yes!”

Instantly, I recoiled. How could I tarnish my beloved Yes? What compelled me to say that this band, which has given me so much pleasure, is musically indefensible? A guilty secret? Was I implying that Yes, perhaps the greatest band on the planet, were somehow terrible? And – even more damningly – that I was EMBARRASSED of them?

In many respects, it’s hard to be a Yes fan. Most people only recall the phenomenally popular 1983 hit, ‘Owner of a Lonely Heart’, but the “true” fans (ie. Me) aren’t interested in that one. We delve further back through the mists of time, sailing on the Topographic Ocean, going Closer to the Edge.

These were the glory days of progressive rock.

It’s the year 2010, and in the last three years, I’ve managed to write not one, but two articles on this most derided of musical genres. One of them had an affectionate, yet mocking tone, whilst the other was an interview with the legendary album cover artist Roger Dean, and afforded me the opportunity to be a little more serious and analytical, treating the music with a degree of the respect I felt it should be awarded.

But even still, I felt the need to hide behind a masque of irony, never revealing my true feelings. There’s just something so unbelievably naff about the very idea of prog, that admitting to liking it in any genuine way is akin to revealing that your favourite pastime is masturbating whilst wearing a woollen cardigan, looking at a picture of Dame Thora Hird. Ie. Something that you don’t share with people in public.

After making my confession to Rev. Sharkey, I felt saddened that I had betrayed my secret prog rock heritage, and perhaps inspired by the golden spirit of Wakeman, a newfound pride swelled within my breast…

“Actually,” I started, taking my first steps upon the Golden Path, “I take that back. I’m not ashamed of Yes. They were amazing. And ‘Gates of Delirium’, from their 1974 masterpiece Relayer, is AWESOME!”

Or words to that effect. I was caught up in a moment of evangelical fury, and couldn’t keep track of what I was saying.

When push comes to shove, some of this stuff is brilliant, a pure distillation of all that is good and great in rock music. It gets a rough ride for being overblown and pompous, but in the right context, this is precisely what makes it great. Punk was perhaps the most seismic shift in Western musical history (on both sides of the Atlantic), and in its wake lots of what went before was instantly declared extinct, off limits –VERBOTEN!

And this musical climate continues to exert its influence today, with certain things being so inherently uncool, that they just don’t feature in the world of pop music anymore. With the all conquering dominance of the internet, music has never been more accessible, and the boundaries between genres have never mattered less. Bands can draw upon a seemingly limitless spectrum of influences, and mix them all together in one giant contemporary pot.

But you’d be hard pressed to find that many people shouting from the rooftops about the strong influence of ELP in their music. Or how the lyrical concerns of Rush are relevant in today’s society (possibly beacasue they’re not….sorry, Neil Peart).

Sure, some bands do risk it from time to time, but even then, it’s slipped in under the radar, as some kind of post-ironic gesture, to confound and irritate. And even then, they are rarely that vocal about it, lest someone actually call them on it, and they have to reveal that the primary motivation to form this new, uber-hip band, was Camel’s Music Inspired by the Snow Goose.

(That scenario would never happen, by the way.)

However, during the Stalinist purges that happened in the post-punk years, many pre-punk prog rock fans simply kept their obsession private, hiding a worn out copy of The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (Genesis, 1974) underneath a brand spanking new copy of Joy Division’s Unknown Pleasures, and Meat is Murder by The Smiths. The Jam sang of “Going Underground”, but prog fans actually lived it.

Thus existed a culture of surface level futurism, with people obsessing over new musical movements, the lack of pretention that punk had ushered in, and the DIY “anyone can do this” spirit that allowed gleeful amateurs – such as myself – to have a go at music, and be allowed to attempt creativity, without having the technical expertise previously required.

And all the while, we were listening to lightning fast guitar solos, sounding like they’d blasted on to the earth from outer space, whilst Rick Wakeman used Moogs, Mellotrons, and other strange and alien devices, to let us hear the VERY SOUND OF CREATION ITSELF!

Yes, Rick Wakeman – the Lord of Prog.

With his golden locks, his propensity for playing as many simultaneous keyboard solos as humanly possible (ie. Two), and his well documented love of beer and curry, he was an icon to many, reviled in equal measure. Wakeman was the personification of “Flash”, and that’s ultimately what led to him being written out of history, with the post-punk shunning of materialism and flamboyance. But this is precisely what made him great, a larger than life ability to be LARGER THAN LIFE, and innate understanding that rock music should be stupid – gloriously so – and an incredible musical alchemy that allowed him to take Yes in new and uncharted directions. He is a celebration of the ridiculous, in the purest possible way, and was smart enough to know that the best rock music shouldn’t be scared to be silly.

On the other hand, there’s the studied cerebral intensity of Robert Fripp, the man behind King Crimson. They’ve not suffered as much as some of their other astral travellers (stand up: Rush), perhaps because they had the good grace to split up BEFORE punk, and were therefore spared the cull. But much of their music still stands up today as incredibly vital, a dark pulsating beast of pure evil. Just listen to the surges of guitar and bass on their ‘final’ album, 1974’s Red (They reformed in the 80s and release a series of impressive, if inessential art-rock albums. Kinda like a more ‘arty’ Talking Heads, if such a thing were possible. Which it is, clearly). This was music made by men who had glimpsed a darkness that we mere mortals could only dream of in our worst nightmares. More importantly, there’s nothing bloated or pretentious about this music, giving lie to the claim that all prog was this flabby indulgent beast. Turn the lights off, bolt the door, and let Fripp and co scare the shit out of you.

And all along the way, there’s many moments of pure, unbridled musical enjoyment. From Chris Squire’s impossibly versatile and funky bass sound in Yes, to the throbbing electronic pulse and sludgy guitar dirt of Hawkwind, there’s always moments that are worth waiting for. And given the pure intentions of the majority of the players involved – a genuinely exploratory approach to music, a desire to push things forward, and a conviction that the thuggish sexism of yore should be left behind (although there are exceptions to this, it must be said…) – it appears that prog has been given an unjustly rough ride in the last 30 years.

So perhaps it’s time to throw off the shackles of ‘style’ (and perhaps  even ‘taste’, if I’m being truly honest…) and re-assess progressive rock, giving it a second chance to peacefully exist in this supposedly ‘enlightened’ age? Its been many years since the Punk Wars, and perhaps it’s time to forgive? Looking out over the precipice of a new dawn, can we not just let the healing begin?

As for me, I’ll be leading the charge, flying above my armies using a gatefold edition of Tales From Topographic Oceans as a magic carpet, Wakeman-esque gold cape atop my shoulders.

Anyone care to join me?

True Confessions is currently showing 9am-5pm at the Oh Yeah Centre, admission is free

Coked off her tits, eyeing up the window of Travel Inn

 Thankfully this old staple has had it’s day. Due to the ever more slimline design of the present day picture-lantern, throwing a television set out of a window has lost some of it’s charm. It loses some of it’s spontaneity when you have to carry around a few tools just so you can dislodge it from it’s wall mount.  They are now so sleek that if you were so inclined to hoke it out the window of a premier travel inn it’d probably ride the sweet summer breeze and descend gently like a leaf onto the welcoming pavement below. Yer man from American Beauty will record the whole thing on his camera, proclaim it to be one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen and Mena Suvari will take off all her clothes. Rejoice.

9. Groupies

She'll only break your heart, on an internet forum

 The Holy Grail. A woman who, despite your greasy hair, questionable odour and the fact your amp weighs more than you , will still want to you to defile her simply because you’ve barely mastered the C – D – Eminor chord progression and penned a cult anthem ‘The Smell of Your Dreams’. THE WHORE IS NO MORE! At least not as we’ve come to know and lust anyway. The internet has created a paradigm shift within the realm of rock n’ roll – discussion forums have been specifically set up for the groupie, were they can boast of their sexual achievements to their brethren. The groupie/musician relationship has been subverted to the extent that the musician is now the trophy. Which can only be a good thing, monogamy is underrated you decadent heathens. There is a lot of post-match analysis on these boards (so I’m told, I swear), so if you plan on letting your testicles make some important decisions in the future, make sure you bring your best game.

8. What Goes On The Road, Stays On The Road

"I was so wasted on our tour"

 Bollocks. If what goes on the road stays on the road, why do we know so much about what goes on the road? Someone in administration needs to step back and question whether they are adhering to the business ethos. The only thing that stays on the road is the scrabble marathons, because apparently they don’t  make for good stories. ‘Oh man I was so wasted, I thought my hands were my feet and I woke up with my shoes on them. But I can’t tell you about it. What goes on the road stays on the road and all that. I’ve got that motto tattooed on my back, got it done when I was on the road in France, but I can’t talk about it, what goes on the road stays on the road’. Pfft!

7. Encores

The Ultimate Encore

 This is the rock n’ roll equivalent of refusing tea at a wake:

‘Ach no, I couldn’t possibly, sure I just had a glass of milk before I left the house. Ach sure maybe a wee one, where are the sandwiches? Oh never mind, here they are, left of the cadaver…’

This roughly* translates into the band’s flourish and stage exeunt followed by their inevitable return. This is a cliché I am willing to indulge though. It’s familiarity is comforting in these unsure times.**

*very roughly, so rough that it doesn’t at all.

**for further reading, see my views on monogamy in ‘Groupies’.

 

6. The Crazy Drummer

Mad as a bag of spiders

This slightly unhinged yet undeniably charming creature has been causing havoc for the best part of a century now, but as delineated in ‘10. Throwing the tv out of the window’, their natural habits have been found to be somewhat less indulged as of late. The precarious state of the music industry has rendered the former wildman a polite, straight 4/4 to the floor sort of fella. Hotel room cleaners the world over rejoice and in the end that’s what we want, don’t we? Because they are usually foreign, and if you don’t want them happy that makes you a xenophobe. So there.

5. The ‘Man’  

The Man

 STICK IT TO THE MAN! YEAH STICK IT! LOOK AT HIM THERE WITH HIS SUIT AND TIE HE PROBABLY EARNED THROUGH HARD WORK – CONFORMIST! Rage Against The Machine stuck it to the man once, inadvertently of course, being the shy types. They became the horse in which the internet cavalry trampled down the man (the man being affable Joe McElderry off thon X-Factor). The pleasant young chap was denied his Christmas number 1 by the RATM’s ‘Killing In The Name Off’. Take that, the man! GRRR.

4. Dying Aged 27 

Club 27 drinks are free...

‘Forever 27‘ or ‘The  27 club‘ makes it sound like an 18-30′s holiday rep drinking game, and in a way it is. Everyone ends up the same – in a pool covered in vomit and other fluidly unmentionables, just like that fondly remembered weekend in Ibiza. Notable patrons of the club left behind by the rep’s after a mad night hard trancin’ are: Robert Johnson, Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain. Richey Edwards of Manic Street Preachers is presumed dead 1st February 1995 which would make him forever 27, although according to one of the reps he was last seen wearing a lady’s dress and heading towards Amnesia completely wiped out. Could’ve been Nicky Wire though.

3. Defining A Generation

Hilarious caption

Webster’s dictionary defines a generation as ‘coevals: all the people living at the same time or of approximately the same age’. As simple as that, they didn’t even have to release the difficult second album, the mainstream friendly third and the cocaine fuelled fourth to define a generation either. I bet the Webster’s are still happily married too.

2. The Guitarist/Singer Relationship   

World's worst hen party

 As sexually ambiguous as an adrogynous man giving Desperate Houswives a lukewarm review, this relationship is often pivotal to the dynamic of the band. There ambivalence towards eachother is heightened more by the innate power struggle betwixt them. Keith is thinking- ‘Why does he get the attention of all the ladies? he looks like Leslie Ash.’ Mick is thinking- ‘I can’t help feel the phallic nature of Keith’s guitar is a double edged sword. It’s sexual imagery must certainly divert the attention from me. On the other hand, it’s distracted people from noticing the whole Leslie Ash thing.’ So as you can see, it is entirely essential.

  1.The Tortured Artist

You couldn't rely on him to fix your car

Because we just don’t see the world as clear they do. They know, man. THEY KNOW. as poet Alison Monet Megan Fox’s abdomen recently preached-  ‘Those who danced were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.’ Shine on you crazy diamonds and all that, but don’t fall into to the trap of thinking that it’s a necessity to be tortured to be an artist. Bruce Springsteen isn’t, and he is simply swell. He’s so in touch with the common man he’s probably washing your windows as you read this, recognizing the quiet yet noble heroism of such an everyday task. He is class, so he is.

I know what you’re all thinking.  ‘Ian, we realise you’re an expert on film and we appreciate your infallible opinion on all things movie-related.’  Well thank you.  ‘But we’d love to hear what you think about other stuff too, so stop being so modest and start throwing your opinion on random shit out there too!’  Well, okay.  It’s true, I am somewhat of a renaissance man.  Sure, I see a lot of movies, hold down a part-time job in a chocolate shop and write an entertaining and informative article once every two weeks for Bandwidth, but I also find time in my life to listen to music, eat food and drink coffee.  So to give you a more well-rounded picture of who the real Ian is, I thought I’d mention a few of the things currently rocking my world.  And to make it (just barely) relevant to this site, all these things are based in Belfast, so you can all enjoy them too.

1. Harlem Café.

Harlem Café doesn’t need a plug from me.  It is already full to capacity every lunch time.  It is, however, my favourite haunt outside of, well, any kind of bar.  They make a dynamite cup of coffee and the food is awesome.  The walls are adorned with cool vintage photos of cool people like Johnny Cash, David Bowie, and The Beatles, and they play Sinatra.  As if it weren’t enough that I can have a double espresso and listen to Frank, the staff are all exceptionally friendly, and unnervingly beautiful.  Either you have to pass some sort of attractiveness test before they give you a job or they just run these people off some production line somewhere – either way I’m not complaining.  It has also come to my attention that they are soon to begin staying open late to offer an evening menu, which, if the lunch menu is anything to go by, is sure to be fantastic.  They’re also getting an alcohol license.  When that happens, my life will resemble an episode of Cheers.  Every day.

2. Eilis Phillips.

I’m not usually a fan of female singers.  Not that I don’t like the female voice, I’m just a sexist pig and don’t like the idea of women doing anything outside the confines of the kitchen or bedroom.  Sometimes I have to overlook my beliefs though, and this was one such case.  Maybe I just had too much sun and beer, but on a recent toasty Sunday afternoon I cooked myself like a goddamn lobster at Botanic gardens before retiring to The Kitchen Bar to cool off, just in time to catch an acoustic set by Jackie Rainey and Ms. Phillips.  They’re both great singers, and since I’d had a few, I decided to be that guy.  You know the one who goes up to the band after the set and bothers them for a while?  Yeah, that one.  Anyway they were both very nice to me and Eilis told me she’s releasing an album soon.  Later that night I told Will about her, in a vain attempt to impress both him, and her, with my savvy.  Will told me to get the fuck out of his house, claiming that 3.30am was not a reasonable time to be dropping by.

I was honestly impressed by Eilis, even though it’s not usually my sort of music, I think she’s going places.  Check her out at: http://www.myspace.com/eilisphillips and you can see her play with Jackie on Sundays at The Kitchen Bar.  Play music, I mean.  Go to one of her gigs.  Support local music.  Tell her I sent you.  Inflate my already considerable ego.

3. Bangla Fusion.

This is a (relatively) new Indian restaurant just off Shaftesbury Square on Great Victoria St.  I went there with a group of people who assured me it was ‘the best Indian food they’ve had in Belfast’.  I admit it, I had my doubts.  Halfway through my meal I agreed with them all – best Indian food I’ve had in Belfast.  It’s a small place and blends into the street a little too well to be easily noticed, which is probably one reason for its seeming lack of business.  Granted, I’m going by one visit, but it was a Saturday evening and we were the only table seated, which seemed like a damn shame.  It would be an even worse shame if they closed due to lack of business, since I fully intend to eat there again.  Service was great, the prices very reasonable, and the food was fucking exceptional.  They don’t have a license, so bring your own beer, enjoy the complimentary poppadoms with dip, then forget that muck you slather on your chips and get yourself a real curry.  You won’t be disappointed.  And if you are, don’t blame me – what am I, some sort of fucking food critic?

4. Women in sexy nurse outfits.

I’m such a fan of the nurse outfit that I recently got very drunk at a friend’s house and put one on, adding a white cowboy hat to complete the look.  If you’re wondering why I thought that seemed like a good idea at the time, the answer is the same reason I thought it would be a good idea to drink red wine, whiskey, beer and Jager on the same night.  Also, since I have now mentioned women in nurse’s outfits, Will is entirely justified in using a photo of one in the illustration for this article.

So the plan is there’ll be one clip a week for the next few weeks featuring tracks from their new album A National Light, which is stonking.

Thanks again to the lads and to Colm Russell, and here’s the first clip:

Read more here: THERAGS.COM

10. Eyeball Paul

well mental

Everyone’s favourite “rinsing geezer” – Eyeball Paul epitomized the decadent lifestyle of a famous Ibiza DJ – Bog-clogger extraordinaire and ocular-imbibing enthusiast, his bare faced arrogance to his biggest fans is something that fictional musicians the world over can aspire to. “How’s your mummy ginger pubes?” – the voice of a generation.

9. Zack Attack

Wanker

‘Friends forever/ We’ll be friends forever’  - A timeless message that stands tall in the face of adversity, you must certainly agree. This fictional group of fictional friends from a fictional school in a fictional country  had it all – in the lead singer Zack’s head that is. Yes, this band were so fictional they didn’t even appear in the cohesive narrative of the Saved By the Bell storylines. They appeared in an episode which was set in the protagonist’s dreams, the mentalist. One wonders where the ‘friends forever’ ethos was when Dustin Diamond aka Screech was forced to make a porno just to make ends meet; although with a name like Dustin Diamond, it seemed like an obvious enough career path.

8. The Marvin Berry Four

Stoned to bits, trying to talk into his bloody hand

Thank your lucky stars that jive talkin’ Marv had the foresight to realise the potency of Marty’s ‘rock n’ roll riff in B  from the future’, otherwise Chuck Berry would just be another nobody with the best the name in the world.  He mightn’t have comprehended the complexities of the paradoxical head-melting phone call but he acted on his gut instinct, his thought process entirely uninhibited by the reefer he was seen smoking in the car with his bandmates earlier.

7. The Commitments

Deep seeded urban decay

‘They Had Absolutely Nothing. But They Were Willing To Risk It All’ - A tag-line that means nothing, but is willing to allude to it all. It should really have said ‘A bunch of knackers waste their time because a gobby knacker charmed them’. It’s strange though, The Commitments couldn’t get their act together in the fictional world so they broke through the fourth wall in spectacular fashion and engaged the audience by becoming a real, moderately successful soul band. Not a looker among ‘em though.

6. California Dreams

We’re from different backgrounds, but hey WHO CARES!? LOL

A band with no such problem in the aesthetics department were fresh faced west-coasters ‘California Dreams’. these surf dudes with attitudes were kinda groovy indeed. They had sky above and sand below, not to mention good vibrations – all of which were laid out in possibly the best theme song of any sitcom.
Another band that were an inspiration, their lack of ethnic discrimination was commendable: Season three had THREE  ethnic minorities, not to mention a punk from the wrong side of the tracks working for the money grabbing middle class white boy. I salute you, Sly Winkle.

5. Stillwater

The genital warts were thriving on that bus

You know you are a good rock n’ roll band when Led Zeppelin steal your riffs, your nonsensical song ideas (Fever Dog/Black Dog anyone?) and even steal the best thing you ever said at a party and use it as their own. Robert Plant has a lot to answer for! ‘Golden God’  indeed Bob, anyone who’s anyone knows that it was axeman Russel Hammond who pontificated that gem, prick.

4. Chris Gaines

I fuckin’ love Paramore

Just when you thought the portly guitar twanging Garth Brooks couldn’t get any more annoying, he went and hit puberty. Tired of singing out the side of his mouth to thousands of people he decided to grow a tuft of alt-fluff on his bottom lip and grow an oft maligned emo-fringe for an alter-ego album.  It must’ve been a case of the emperors new clothes within Brooks’/Gaines’ entourage, because no-one pointed out he was being an absolute idiot. Whoever let that ball bag into Croke Park needs to have a serious word with themself.

3. The Shitty Beatles

All you need is shit.

Tiny: Wanye! How you doin’?

Wayne Campbell: Hey Tiny, who’s playing today?
Tiny: Jolly Green Giants and the Shitty Beatles.
Wayne Campbell: Shitty Beatles? Are they any good?
Tiny: They suck!
Wayne Campbell: Then it’s not just a clever name.

I refuse to adhere to the notion that the Shitty Beatles were as bad as Tiny claims. I’m basing this on the fact that he claims ‘Crucial Taunt’ can ‘really wail’. Balls, they were all right at best, and wouldn’t have got half as far if they didn’t have smokin’ fox Cassandra giving it loads at the front.

2. Spinal Tap

its not fuckin barbershop

Purveyors of the redundant qualifier- (Tonight I’m Gonna Rock you Tonight), this little known rock n’ roll group made the cliche their own – so much so every band interview since the release of ‘Spinal Tap’ almost invariably mentions a ‘Spinal Tap’ moment in the career, a heightened moment of bathos which puts the ridiculous nature of the rock n’ roll lifestyle in stark perspective.  My own particular Spinal Tap moment was when I woke up in the middle of the night screaming, realising my dreams of becoming a musician were dying with every passing day. Oh how I laughed.

1. The Wonders

Five wankers blocking my path to Liv

A shock entry at number one this, but I’ll stick by it. What other band can you name that was managed by the most affable man in Hollywood (Not Bill Murray, Tom hanks – though they should really battle it out for that title) , and what other band can you name were not one, but two of the members have an ould grope at Liv Tyler. LIV TYLER! that’s what it’s all about – that’s the only reason anyone ever anywhere has ever joined a band, because it increases their possibility of getting closer to her. I know that’s why I did anyway. She looks like she’d smell class.

* I am aware that my grasp on fiction and reality in this article is somewhat blurred.

Artwork by Will McConnell

This was supposed to be a review of The Undertones gig at Mandela Hall last Saturday.  I even had a ticket.  I had such a bad hangover though (that’s right – at 8pm, the next day) I couldn’t face the loud music and crowds, so I just went to a cocktail party I had been invited to.  I figured a few nice strong cocktails would either kill me or straighten me right out, so I took a chance.  Turns out the very thing I needed was a Manhattan (my stupid title might make sense now, but from here on in there will be no references to dogs or Manhattan.  That’s just how I roll.)

So there I was, vowing with every sip to take it easy, and surrounded by beautiful women dressed in classy 50’s styling and it struck me that maybe my overindulgence the previous night had actually finished me off and I had found my way to heaven.  Of course I wasn’t in heaven, but if one day I do go, and it’s not exactly like that party, I don’t figure I’ll hang around very long.  The party started out the way all good cocktail parties do – fancy food, Bobby Darin playing, sophisticated conversation and, of course, delicious drinks.  It also ended the way all good cocktail parties end – at 4am with a few stragglers scavenging the empties for dregs, and some guy passed out on the stairs.  Somewhere along the way – my promises of abstinence drowned in bourbon – a couple of guys showed up already half smashed.  One had an acoustic guitar, the other had fifteen bottles of beer.  They had been out busking for charity and the results had been fairly poor, so they hit the pub and then headed back to the party.  I got talking to them both about the sorry state of busking on our streets and hey voila, our conversation inspired this article.

[Editor’s Note: No Ian, you getting totally fucked up and missing the gig is what inspired this article.]

Sometimes I hate walking through the streets in Belfast.  It can just be a depressing place to be.  People rushing from shop to shop, crossing the street any old time they please – dodging buses like it wasn’t potentially fucking lethal – and trampling anyone too slow-moving to keep up.  It’s no wonder I so often duck into a pub for a pint to calm my jangled nerves.  But I’m concentrating on the negatives here, as I so often do, and my conversation with the musicians highlighted this for me.

Think about it.  In a street bustling with ignorant shoppers, droning with the sound of traffic and smelling like one big recently-pissed-in alley, there are actually people who stand there just to play music.  Music!  Was there ever a more beautiful metaphor for the light in the darkness?  Just a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…his guitar, and enough balls to sing in front of everybody.   And was there ever a more apt metaphor for human apathy than the fact that nearly all of us just ignore these guys?  Like they’re standing in the street trying to sign you up for a credit card or something.  In a world of noise, a rare few go out and play something that sounds nice, and no one gives a shit.  Seems like a damn shame to me.  Seems like a fucking crime when the guy in question has a banner saying he’s collecting for charity.  I mean even if you’re as sick of hearing Wonderwall as I am, throw the guy 50p for a good cause.  Am I wrong?

Hell, I know I’m preaching to the choir.  You are reading this site because you like and support local music, so you’re probably also the people cool enough to have dropped some change into a guitar case once or twice.  And it’s not like I’m walking the streets of Belfast throwing money at every busker I pass.  But when you hear some guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

…and you’re impressed by their voice, or they’re playing a song you love that never gets played on the radio, or shit, even if it’s raining and they just look wet and lonely, throw in a couple of coins.  Trust me, they’ll appreciate it, because 99% of people just won’t bother, and it’s really a much tougher gig than most people think.

In a world where people can make six figure salaries hawking insurance, it only seems right that a guy…

[Editor’s Note: Or gal.]

[Ian: Shut the fuck up man!]

…should be able to make a few quid playing the musical equivalent of seeing a pretty girl in a summer dress.  It may only last a moment, but on these sad, grey streets, it’s still gotta be worth something.

Little known fact: my adventures are not written from memory.  I actually have a small team of reporters who follow me around and document the events of the night and I just embellish their notes with my winning prose.  This is so I don’t have to ruin my night by staying sober enough to recall specificities, and also to look after me in case something horrible happens.  They’re all trained in things like first aid, basic law, mixed martial arts, and advanced sandwich making, so that all of my basic needs can be taken care of at the drop of a hat.  Unfortunately, no one in my entourage knows Mark Lanegan and I couldn’t convince any of them to go to his gig in The Empire last week.  No problem, I thought, I’ll just call Johnny and have him arrange me a date.

‘Hey Johnny I need a date.  Wednesday.  8pm.  Mark Lanegan.  This one should be cool.’
‘Who the hell is Mark Lanegan?’
‘He’s a cool singer songwriter.  Used to be in Screaming Trees.  Real deep voice, like “uuurrrrggggghhhh….’

[Editor’s Note: I deleted four lines of ‘uurrrggghhh’.]

‘Jesus, enough.  Look I don’t think I’m gonna be able to set you up,’ said Johnny.
‘What?  Why not?’
‘Because your last date got trampled to death Ian.  Interest has kind of dropped off.’
‘Shit, yeah.  Michioku.  How was the funeral?’
‘It was a barrel of laughs Ian.  Singing, dancing, great food.  It was a fucking funeral, how do you think it was?’
‘No need to get snippy with my Johnny.’
‘Well you weren’t the one trying to fend off 23 Japanese schoolgirls, crying and asking “Why, why?”’
‘That sounds kinda hot actually.’
‘I’m hanging up Ian.’
‘Any of those schoolgirls still in town man?’  Dial tone.  Shit.

A couple of days later I went to see The Disappearance Of Alice Creed and I had a fucking great idea.  I should go home and look at nude pictures of Gemma Arterton online.  Three hours later I was spent, lying in bed with a cold beer, and I realised I still didn’t have anyone to go to the show with.  I decided fuck it, I would go alone.

I do this quite a lot, actually.  People think I’m weird, and they’re right, but my attitude is that if I want to see a show I’m gonna go regardless of whether or not anyone wants to come with me.  I don’t see why me having a good time should be dependent on other people, hence my oft-quoted catchphrase: ‘why compromise?’, which I hope someone inscribes on my grave stone.  Anyway, I go to the movies alone all the time and I quite often end up going to gigs alone too.  If you should ever be unfortunate enough to see me at a gig, standing off to one side with a surly look on my face, a beer in one hand and a whiskey in the other, come on over and say hello.  If you say something nice I promise I’ll buy you a drink.  Of course that’s an easy promise to make since probability-wise, this is very, very unlikely to happen.  I should also advise extreme caution – surly people who are drunk on whiskey are rarely friendly – I am the exception.

[Editor’s Note: Friendly?  Ha!]
[Ian: Shut the fuck up, Ed.  I’m the friendliest person I know.]

Anyway I know a lot of you expect certain formalities from these things, so I should really say something about the Mark Lanegan gig.

[Editor’s Note: Don’t let us put you to any trouble.]

Luckily it was just my little circle of friends and acquaintances who didn’t know Mark Lanegan and the Music Hall was totally sold out.  The first dude to come on was Duke Garwood, who was a cool character.  I couldn’t make out half of what he said but he kept referring to ‘death country’, which sounds like the greatest music genre of all time.  I liked his music – a sort of cut down, experimental sounding blues – and his songs often ended abruptly, without warning, which kept me alert despite the combined efforts of Stella and Jack.  Then Lanegan came on, launched right into the set list, and his voice blew a fucking Marshall stack deep down in my soul.  He must have the best voice I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing live – deep, deep grumbling tones but loud and almost impossibly strong – an all too uncommon combination.  I immediately regretted giving that busker a quid on my way to the show because all of a sudden, he just didn’t seem worthy.  Lanegan is a no nonsense kind of dude and he ploughed through the set list with a velocity I just couldn’t keep up with, drinks wise.  I guess either that’s just his style, or he had a hotel room, a bottle of whiskey and three groupies to get back to.  Either way, other than the occasional ‘thank you’ there wasn’t too much interaction with the audience, which would have been nice.  I like to savour a show, and my whiskey, which I couldn’t pour down fast enough.  It’s not a serious grievance though, and I was thoroughly enjoying the music, despite not knowing any of it.  He’s a great lyricist, as well as having a fucking awesome voice, and his dark, sparse brand of acoustic blues went down a treat, both with me and with everyone else in the place.  The applause after each song bled into the beginning of the next, and then everyone was quiet, listening very carefully and quietly, drinking in every word.  As Lanegan was taking the stage some crazed loon had screamed ‘Give us hell!’, and I feel fairly confident in saying that guy went home satisfied.  The show didn’t seem very long, but he got through a good number of songs and did a cool encore, and I guess what they say about how time flies is right, because when the lights went up I was still fairly sober, and didn’t even mind.  I went downstairs to continue my drinking thing, spurred on by Lanegan’s darkened croonings.

I decided to finish up the night in Annie’s, and I don’t remember much after getting there.  I remember that the barmaid was beautiful and I remember feeling like Tom Waits, sitting alone in a quiet bar at midnight, full on whiskey and the blues.  I can’t have been that drunk, though, because I also remember being painfully aware that I’m nothing like Tom Waits and I was probably creeping the barmaid out.  So, dear barmaid – I apologise if I was leering.  And dear readers, I apologise for boring the tits off you.  I didn’t quite do this thing justice.

Brian Wilson once sang, “I just wasn’t made for these times”, and increasingly I’m inclined to think he was singing about me. As culture continues to spiral further and further out of my grasp, I increasingly feel like an anachronism, left behind watching some glittering future that I can never be part of. And as the years go by, once seemingly unshakable institutions crumble and fall into dust.

REM are no longer in the hit parade. Three of the four Ramones are dead. Jar Jar Binks ruined Star Wars. There’s a new Captain Kirk. You can’t smoke in bars anymore.

And now…the new Doctor Who is younger than me.

Admittedly, Matt Smith is only slightly younger than me, but for a character who’s central defining character is his (almost) immortality and his amassed wisdom, it’s still strange that I’m older than him, and by extension have possibly seen more than he has. Call me egocentric, but this matters to me.

As a little kid, Peter Davidson’s floppy-haired Doctor ran about, battling Cybermen and the like, not so discreetly cashing in on the whole “Post-Star Wars, isn’t Luke Skywalker great!” thing. Then, as I started to discover that scary things were slightly cooler, Colin Baker took over as a deliciously deranged Doctor, prone to bouts of unpredictable anger and schizophrenic mood changes. After that, the clownish buffoon of Sylvester McCoy slowly evolved into a Machiavellian puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes.

Then there was the Americanised Paul McGann’s version of the character, which nobody was too fussed on, leading to Christopher Eccleston’s bloke-ish re-start in 2005. Then came David Tennant. Nobody could have predicted the impact he’d have on the series, capitalising on the unsuspecting success of Eccleston (lest we forget, there was only one episode of the series made in the 90s), and drawing an entirely new audience into the sphere of the show.

Time for truth – the only reason I’m able to write this at all is because of David Tennant. For whatever reason, it felt like everybody liked the guy. No longer was Doctor Who the territory of the stereotypical nebbish “anorak” types, but it was seemingly adopted as a national treasure, beloved by all, and setting new standards in family entertainment. If it hadn’t been for Tennant, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’d have admitted the knowledge of Doctor Who I’ve just displayed – it would be cultural suicide. Tenant made it cool to like Doctor Who, and that’s all there is to say about it.

But they were all older than me.

And now I am older than Doctor Who.

So, as I stood in the reception of the QFT cinema in Belfast, alongside dozens of school kids, all there to meet the new Doctor, I had mixed feelings as to what I was going to do. Would I wish him well? Give him a bit of advice for the journey? After all, I’d been going through this longer than he has, and there’s sure to be things I’m more experienced in dealing with. You know, Sontarans, and stuff.

Or would I attempt to attack him, causing him to re-generate again? Into someone older, hopefully.

But as the doors opened and he strode in with his new assistant, Scotland’s Karen Gillan, any thoughts of causing the Doctor to regenerate – before his first adventure, no less! – were immediately swept out of my head by the response which greeted the young time traveller.

A huge scream went up, and a palatable sense of excitement filled the room. Standing where I was, I couldn’t see anything so I was forced to draw my own conclusions as to what was taking place – judging from the hysteria evident in the room, he hadn’t bothered turning up, but had plucked the 1964-era Beatles up in the TARDIS and dropped them off in his place.

But then, he rounded the corner towards the main foyer, and I could see that it was this young Doctor who was provoking the shrieks, and not the smiling faces of Paul and Ringo, alongside the resurrected faces of John and George.

In a sense, I was both bewildered at the response – never having dared guess the kids would get that excited – and saddened, as I had briefly begun to entertain the notion that I would soon be shaking hands with the Fab Four. Signing autographs, the new Doctor Who – younger than me – was swamped by school kids, who seemed to think a titan walked amongst us, a genuine Time Lord, like Tom Baker or something, rather than some fella with indie-ish hair, and a scruffy coat.

But the kids lapped it up and continued screaming and screaming, with no evidence of them reaching their peak just yet. Looking round, I began to notice the haunted, worried looks on the faces of the adults present. Beads of sweat began forming on brows, eyes darted about, and teeth were ground – this is the passing of the torch…he is no longer ours.

Sitting in the empty cinema screen a few moments later, I steadied myself for the interview. I was assisting a colleague, and also hoped to grab a few words with the time travelling pair myself, if – ahem – time permitted. The doors swept open, and they were escorted in.

It was at this point the thought of attacking the – younger than me – Doctor completely evaporated from my mind. He seemed a likeable type, clearly aware of what an opportunity he’d been given, but intent on enjoying it as well. Any impression of him as some time travelling Johnny-Come-Lately was shattered, as he revealed himself to be a fairly regular guy, an actor, no less, who once had the opportunity to be a professional footballer, but had to give it up because of injury. There was no magic, no mystery, just a guy…round about the same ages as me, if I’m being charitable…enjoying the experience of a lifetime.

And anyway, it didn’t really matter to me as by this point, I’d begun discreetly flirting with the Doctor’s assistant, Amy Pond, aka the actress Karen Gillan. She’s from Inverness, I lived in “nearby” Aberdeen, and ultimately that was enough of a cosmic connection for me. Obviously I didn’t tempt her away from a life of exploring the expanse of the galaxy – and time itself – but it was an opportunity to flirt with a fictional character, and that’s something I’ve never been able to turn down.

And then it was all over. There wasn’t enough time for me to grab an interview, which I wasn’t too bothered about anyway, and I was handed two autographed postcards; a memento of the moment one of my great illusions was finally shattered.

For the past few months I have tried to keep my plans secret from the guys at the Bandwidth office.  It’s one thing to be sent on some horseshit assignment with a crazy broad, but quite another to have one foisted on you when all you really want to do is get drunk and have some fun.  Unfortunately I overdid it last Wednesday lunchtime and stumbled into the Bandwidth building to beg for a bus fare home.  I didn’t manage to get money off anyone, but I did manage to very loudly proclaim that I was going to see Airbourne the following week.  I did this, apparently, every time someone turned me down, so it went something like this:
‘Hey man is there any chance you could give me a tenner for the bus home?’
‘I don’t think so Ian.’
‘Well fuck you holmes!  I’m going to see Airbourne next week, so suck on that one.’  And that happened at least twenty times, so it’s really not surprising that the following day I got a phone call from Johnny.  I was sunning myself in my parent’s back garden and eating gummy bears, so you can imagine how angry I was at being interrupted.
‘Goddamnit Johnny I’m busy here!’
‘I’m looking at your Twitter page right now.  It says you’re sunbathing and eating gummy bears.’
‘That’s invasion of privacy! What do you want anyway?’
‘I hear you’re going to the Airbourne gig next Tuesday.’
‘Nope.’
‘Meet me at the office about an hour before the doors open – I’ve got a date lined up for you.  This one should make a good review.’
‘But it’s not a review.’  He hung up on me.  I updated my Twitter page again: ‘Johnny is an arse.’  Heh, that’ll show him.

On the day of the gig I woke up at the crack of dawn and set about preparing the spread for my mates… Okay so I got up at 11am, bought a big packet of nachos and made some burgers.  But the burgers had cheese INSIDE THEM.  Blew their fucking minds, I tell ya, biting into a burger expecting regular old beef and instead finding piping hot cheese, which oozed out and scalded their unsuspecting chins.  I’m thinking about taking that shit on Dragon’s Den.  Anyway I loaded up on Jack and Coke hoping the caffeine/sugar hit would keep me going through the night, and then we split up and I headed off to the Bandwidth building to meet my date.

The lobby was full of Japanese women dressed like schoolgirls.  As well as the obvious thoughts a scene like this might inspire in a twenty-two year old guy, I thought maybe Will had taken a new direction with his music videos and made a mental note to check the site for updates over the next couple of days.  They all started giggling and taking photos of me with their phones, which made me seriously paranoid, but after checking that I was all zipped up and there were no remnants of burger cheese on my face I decided it must be because I am fucking awesome.  I stepped into the lift thinking this must be how Mickey Rourke feels, all day, every day, so I threw up the peace sign and the doors closed in front of me.

I opened Johnny’s office door without knocking, hoping to stumble in on a compromising situation involving more Asian schoolgirls.  Alas, there was only one in there with him, and he was showing her his holiday photos, under the pretence of demonstrating how lovely Corfu is, but really because he was hoping for a comment on his tan.
‘Ah, Ian,’ he said, looking up, ‘this is Michioku.’  Oh fuck no.  It hadn’t even occurred to me.  I just stood there, speechless.  ‘Well say hello,’ he said.
‘Does she speak English?’ I asked him, and she laughed.
‘Yes I do,’ she said, ‘it’s really nice to meet you.  I’m a big fan.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Yes apparently you’re very big in Japan,’ said Johnny.
‘That’s because they’re all really short,’ I said, and luckily they both thought this was a very witty joke.
‘All those others downstairs applied too,’ said Johnny, ‘so we had to have a raffle to see who the lucky girl would be.’
‘Johnny I know this is some sort of joke, so yes, very funny, I get it.’  Michioku laughed.
‘It’s not a joke,’ she said, ‘look!’  She took off her backpack and turned it around for me to see.  It had a print of me on the front, taken from a photo of me saluting the camera with a bottle of beer.
‘Jesus!’ I said.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Johnny.
‘I brought you these,’ said Michioku, opening her Ian-print backpack for me to see.  It was full of miniature bottles of JD.
‘Jesus!’ I said again.  I grabbed one and downed it, still kind of enjoying how the tiny bottle makes you feel like a giant, despite the weird situation.
‘Well you two better get going,’ said Johnny.  I dipped my hand in Michioku’s bag and opened another mini JD.

So walking through the city centre with a Japanese schoolgirl I looked like a drunken pederast.  I also, however, looked taller than usual, so I decided to enjoy it while it lasted.  Then I suddenly realised something horrible.
‘Shit, Michioku, they’re not gonna let you into the gig!’
‘Why, because I only look fourteen?’ she asked.
‘Well, that could be problematic too.  But you’ve got a big bag full of whiskey!’
‘Oh shit, you’re right,’ she said.  Then, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got an idea.’  She opened her blazer and unbuttoned the first few buttons on her shirt.  At this point I entertained the very real possibility that I was sleeping, and about to have a nocturnal emission.  I decided to test it.
‘Michioku you have fabulous breasts.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with a smile, and started shovelling the miniature bottles of whiskey down her shirt.  Test number one failed.  I pinched myself.  Nothing.  I pinched harder.  Nothing.    Goddamnit.  When the bag was empty she started to button up again, stopped, and held her collar open.  ’Sorry, do you want one?’ she said.  Looking at her boobs with a few whiskey bottles nestled lovingly between them I almost started to cry.  The third and final test, sure to wake me up from even the deepest of beer sleeps: I grabbed my balls and squeezed as hard as I could. I didn’t wake up.  Praise the Lord!  I finally allowed myself to believe that what was happening was real and even on top of the pain managed a big smile.  I grabbed two whiskies from inside her shirt and had a wee sit down until the sick feeling passed and my balls stopped throbbing.

By the time we joined the queue I had drunk enough of the bottles that someone could have retraced our steps right back to the Bandwidth building by following the empties, and it just looked like she had really big boobs.  Which she did, in fact, they just looked a bit lumpier with the little bottles stuffed down there.  This also meant that I was righteously fucking hammered by the time we got inside, which was lucky because the son of a bitch security man wasn’t going to let her in without ID.  I very deftly ended the situation by loudly accusing him of racism, and of touching my willy during the pat-down he gave me.  He gave in and ushered us inside.

We quickly made our way to the front where my friends were already standing.  They were incredibly jealous, of course.  It was only natural, since none of them had a beautiful Asian schoolgirl with a bra-ful of whiskey as company, so I asked Michioku to give them all a miniature as a sign of good will.  Then she scampered off to the bar to get me a pint.  While she was gone I informed my friends of my intention to marry her, which they all agreed was a fantastic idea.  I also rocked out to Black Spiders, who were the support act.  There was another support, but I missed them.  Anyway Black Spiders did a damn good job of getting everyone’s rocking shoes on, so they deserve plenty of credit.  If anything they did too good a job, because by the time Airbourne went on the crowd had worked itself into a pit of madness, which was to be disastrous, in the end.

Michioku returned with my pint, rummaged around inside her shirt for a Jack and expertly mixed up a delicious boilermaker.  I thought about leaving with her right then, going to Vegas and making and honest woman out of her, but then Airbourne took to the stage and I decided to wait until after the show.  There is simply no other way to aptly describe Airbourne than ’balls out’.  Pretty much all of the songs are about drinking, women, having fun, being awesome, and drinking, so it’s unsurprising that I think they’re one of the best rock n roll bands in the world at the minute.  Sure, it sounds just like old school AC/DC, but how the hell can that be a bad thing?  If you want some limp-dick music go watch X-Factor.  If you want the music equivalent of banging a cheap hooker who knows her stuff, get yourself Airbourne’s new album.  And when you’re listening to it, trying to resist the urge to get up and strut around your living room, or headbang, or strut around your living room head banging, know this: it’s ten thousand times better live.  Shirtless, blistering around the stage throwing beers to the crowd and playing licks that sound like they were written by Satan himself,  this is a rock n roll show the way a rock n roll show should be.  A lot of the time I think they just don’t make ’em like they used to.  If ever there was an argument against this idea, it’s Airbourne.

Unfortunately, these sort of gigs can be a double edged sword.  I was right at the front of the stage, trying my hardest to protect Michioku from the constant barrage of ugly shirtless teenagers, drunk on their third beer and seemingly only there to launch themselves around like fucking retards.  Most of them were harmless, and admittedly it’s more my fault for not liking mosh-pits, but a select few really let the side down by just being too aggressive.  I did my best to push the fuckers away and keep my patience, but I was fighting a losing battle, and I didn’t pay my money to be fucking trampled.  Then, with my hand down Michioku’s shirt, rummaging for a whiskey, some fiend practically punched her to the ground in an attempt to force his way to the front.  I saw red and head butted the son of a bitch and he stumbled back, bleeding from the nose.  He would have killed me, I’m sure, but one of my friends who is much bigger and better at fighting than me got rid of him and the bouncers threw him out.  It was too late, though.  Poor Michioku had been thrown to the floor and trampled by the crowd, the remaining whiskey bottles in her shirt smashing and stabbing her to death.  I shoved some shirtless man out of the way and dropped to my knees to cradle her bloody corpse in my arms.  Then I let out an almighty howl and shook my fist at the heavens, but my grief was lost in the din, because everyone was shouting and pumping their fists in the air.

There are a few lessons here folks.  All you violent pigs who ruin everybody’s night because you’ve got no goddamn common courtesy, beware.  We’ve had enough of your shit, and even a puny fella like me might just fucking head butt you.  My lesson?  If you don’t like getting moshed on, stay out of the mosh pit, especially if your date is a petite Asian whiskey fairy.  And the lesson for us all – Airbourne are so fucking good, even seeing the love of your life trampled to death by a bunch of hairy rockers isn’t enough to ruin the gig.

BANDS!!

Do you have a new song or demo to share with the world?
Submit it to us in mp3 format, with artwork attached, and a way we can get in touch with you.

If we like what we hear, your music will be included on the Bandwidth New Music Podcast!

Just follow the link –
Send me your track
Or sendyourmp3s@bandwidthfilms.com

The Bandwidth New Music Podcast will be available free on itunes and the Bandwidth site – and it’s a new way to promote local music

Send your demos, singles, B-sides, session tracks and live tracks – all is welcome!

Much love, and looking forward to hearing what you got..
Will
Bandwidth

I recently had my first 3D experience.  It was in the back row of the cinema and I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing and it had been built up so much I guess it was bit of a disappointment.  The movie was Clash Of The Titans, in case you’re interested, and it got me thinking.  Why is it called Clash Of The Titans if there are no Titans in the film?  Just a thought I’d like to leave you with.

See ya.

[Editor’s Note: This really is what Ian submitted this week.  When we finally tracked him down he was hammered, trying to buy a kebab on credit from the takeaway featured in this In Stores Now video by repeatedly name-dropping Will.  Unsurprisingly, he never got that kebab.  This is just a quick apology - if the rest of this seems like it was drunkenly hashed together only hours before publication, that’s because it was.]

Okay so another thing that Clash Of The Titans got me thinking about was the whole 3D thing.  And High Definition, and Blu Ray DVDs and all that fancy technology that people keep creaming themselves over these days.  It made me wonder, does any of that stuff really make a difference?  Is a movie any more enjoyable if you see it in a higher quality?  Well going by my viewing of Clash Of The Titans, the answer is no.

See ya.

[Editor’s Note: Ian!]

Jesus, okay!  Seriously, I started to think about these things because after the movie I have to admit, I really wasn’t too impressed by the 3D effect.  It’s pretty obvious they rushed out a 3D print of Clash Of The Titans just to boost ticket sales, so maybe it wasn’t the best introduction to the technology.  Maybe James Cameron’s anal-retentive obsession with special effects produced a much more impressive 3D experience in Avatar, but I had my fill of that particular fish pie the first time round and I ain’t going back for more.  The point is, that was the first thing I saw in 3D so it was new to me, and it still didn’t have much effect.  I can boil it down to this: shit in the background looks a bit further away.  That’s about it.  There was an ad before the film for some 3D television, and in the ad a tennis ball popped right out of the screen and looked like it was suspended in the air right in front of my eyes.  That was a fairly cool effect.  On the other hand, NOTHING popped out of the screen during the movie, and considering the numerous opportunities involving spears, swords, Kraken-tentacles, boobs, and Liam Neeson’s beard, I’d say that was a major fucking disappointment.  Thing is, though, I still liked the movie.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s hammier than a pig’s arse and nowhere near violent enough, but it’s still good fun.  The same amount of fun, in fact, as it would have been in 2D.  So the 3D thing really had no bearing at all.

3D is more a novelty, though, right?  It’s not really a viable option for serious dramatic films, is it?  Shit, I suppose I shouldn’t be so sure.  The HD thing is much more applicable, though.  One day everything will be high definition, same as when colour came out, black and white pretty much died.  Unless you’re Jim Jarmusch.  Or a film student who really likes Jim Jarmusch movies.  And don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against it.  If the quality improves, cool.  But there is a serious point here, because it seems like HD is being used (just like 3D) to hawk movies more as fashionable technology than good old fashioned art.  I’ll be honest, I don’t know exactly what Blu-Ray is.  I’ll be honest again, I don’t give a rat’s ass.  I just know it’s ‘better quality’ than regular DVDs and it’s more expensive.  Well unlike with the 3D thing, I don’t even need to watch a Blu-Ray movie to know I wouldn’t enjoy it any more than I would watching it on DVD or even (dare I say it!?) fucking VHS.  A good movie does not become a great movie because there are more pixels on the screen, nor does a crappy one become watchable.  Your HD footie match might look a bit prettier than it does on my TV, but when you get down to brass tacks, you’re still just watching a bunch of dudes kicking a ball around.  And I’ve got news for you about the news in high def: it’s still just the fucking news.  The only difference is, you can see your news reader’s nasal hair, which if anything is an argument for reverting to the radio.

I work in a chocolate shop.  You probably knew that, since the only people who read this shit are people who know me personally, and they only do because they feel obligated since I get upset and huffy if I find out they haven’t.  Anyway I managed to survive the emotional ass-raping that was the Easter period mostly by drinking myself silly after every shift, and spending my time in work either idly pondering on some chocolate-related theme, or just loudly complaining that my feet hurt.  One of my ponderings, though, was brought about by a gigantic chocolate bunny rabbit that we were selling.  This thing was huge.  A truly unnecessary amount of chocolate, if you ask me.  But that wasn’t the issue I had with it.  The thing is, that big bastard drew a lot of attention.  People liked looking at him (and yes, it was a ‘him’ you soppy feminist.  And no, not because it had a chocolate bunny knob.  Its name was Warren.  Which is actually quite clever because rabbits live in warrens.  I only just made that connection) and I could never figure out why they thought he was so cool because essentially, he was just a big whack of chocolate.  Sure, he’s in the shape of a big ass bunny, but to eat him you’d have to break him apart and once you do that, he’s just broken up chocolate, same as the chocolate bars and eggs and lollipops we were selling.  He just looked a bit fancier.  But of course he was really expensive and of course some airhead bought him.  Just like people will buy Blu-Ray instead of DVD and Sky HD boxes for their HD ready T.V. so when they watch Deal Or No Deal, Noel’s floral shirt will be fucking vivid, man.   And now of course anyone who has an HD TV will be getting all uppity, thinking I am launching some sort of personal attack.  I assure you, I am not.

By all means, get the fancy stuff.  If it makes you happy, get it in ultra high definition and surround sound.  But don’t get blinded by the technology.  Remember that it’s the movie that counts, not the fucking resolution of the screen, and not the fact that shit in the background looks a bit further away than normal.  Remember that if the movie sucks, you won’t enjoy it any more on your HD flat screen than you would on my regular old CRT TV.  Remember that even though you bought a two-feet tall, fifty quid chocolate bunny, when you break his ear off and start munching on it, it’s just a piece of chocolate.  Trust me, it won’t taste any different.

I never credit these illustrations but I really should.  That saying about a picture being worth a thousand words?  Will always gets that picture.  I think you’ll all agree his artwork is the best fuckin’ thing about my posts.

We all wake up with the terrible shame now and again.  Not fully fledged regret over any particular occurrence, just a horrible sense of dread eating at your balls that says ‘you acted like a tit again last night’.  Yeah, I guess everyone knows it, but I think maybe I know it too well.  Maybe it’s because I should have been writing last night, except I didn’t have anything, so I went out drinking.  And after leaving the bar and heading back to a friend’s house for a final glass of wine I might have drunkenly encouraged her dog to hump my leg.  People wonder why it comes as such a shock to me that women aren’t interested in me.

But that’s bullshit.  It doesn’t come as a shock at all.  Sometimes even I don’t like being around me, and I’m not a beautiful woman.  Hell now I’m just stating obvious facts.  Maybe I should just keep doing that until I’ve got a couple of pages:
Grass is green.
Shit stinks.
Beer is delicious.
Kanye West is a twat.
No I really do have a point – I’m just going the long way around getting to it.  I’m not an attractive guy.  I don’t have much money.  I’m very often drunk.  And I still live with my parents.  Essentially, I’m not what is classically considered a ‘catch’.  HOWEVER.  I’m not evil.  I’m pretty good at cooking.  And I don’t listen to Kanye West.  So I’m not a total zero either.  I’m just kinda okay.  I suppose I should be content, but it’s not in my nature to settle for okay, which is why I am so often depressed and, incidentally, why I am so hard to please when it comes to movies.  See, the world is teeming with beautiful women, but I want Ava Gardner.  People who can sing are a dime a dozen.  I want Sinatra.  [Editor's Note: Jesus, there's a necro-three way I'd like to see.] And when I go to the movies, I don’t just want two hours of entertainment, I want that fucking thing to move me.  And as with my life situation, I am very often disappointed because, just like me most movies really aren’t amazing.  They’re just okay.  I usually see a couple of new movies a week so I hear the question all the time, ‘Is it any good?’  In fact the only question I hear more often is ‘Could you stop staring at my breasts please?’  Anyway I find it very telling that my default answer is ‘It’s pretty good.’  Here I am Mr. Hot Shot Film Graduate and the most insightful comment I can conjure up is ‘it’s pretty good.’  And usually that’s not lack of imagination on my part, it’s just the best way to describe most movies.

It’s like asking someone how their lunch was.  It’s lunch.  You eat it every day and usually it’s unremarkable, but when you’re hungry a sandwich still hits the spot so usually, lunch is ‘pretty good’ right?  Well I see a lot of movies and most of the time I enjoy them, but very few of them rock my world.  So you’ll ask me what I thought of it and I’ll say it’s pretty good and you will remain unenlightened until you go see it yourself and think ‘that was pretty good.’  This is not as depressing as it sounds, even for someone like me.  Movies can’t always be The Godfather.  Women can’t always be Ava Gardner.  Jackasses can’t always be Kanye West.  And that’s okay, because we need the pretty good stuff.  Just because a movie isn’t the best one I’ve ever seen doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it.  It just means when I see that movie all the other critics tell you is ‘mind-blowing’ or ‘unmissable’ or (my personal favourite) ‘the best [genre] movie in the last ten years’, I’ll probably just tell you it’s pretty good.  I’ll save the hyperbole for the movies that really deserve it.  But where the hell am I going with this?

Well, I’m trying to say you should go see the movies.  Even when I just tell you it’s pretty good and you forget about it because shit, if it was really worth seeing I would have grabbed you by the shoulders and screamed it in your face, you should go see it.  Because they all have something to offer, even if they aren’t the best movie you’ve ever seen, or even the best movie you’ve seen this week, they still have their place.  They’re still worthwhile.  I saw Green Zone yesterday, and you know what?  It was pretty good.  I won’t buy the DVD, but I’m glad I went to see it because it’s a good movie, and you should see it too, for the same reason.  Don’t wait around for the perfect movie with your favourite star – go see ‘em all, because even if it’s just pretty good, it’s worth your time.  Pretty good is what makes the world go around.  I have seriously high standards and even I understand this concept, because if pretty good was never good enough, those of us who don’t quite manage awesome – guys like me – would be fucked.  In the end life will kick you in the ass and if you’ve spent your life pissing on everything that didn’t quite measure up, that kick is gonna hurt like hell.  We’re not here long enough to have such high standards or to feel shame every time we get drunk, so go to see the pretty good movies and forgive yourself when you have one too many.  See the movie.  Have the beer.

Just don’t actively encourage a dog to hump your leg – you’ll look like a fool.

[Editor’s Note: This is just a thinly veiled apology for the fact that you had no material this week and as such turned in a sub-standard article!]

[Shearer’s Note: Shit.]

I was in Johnny’s office.  His new office, complete with new mini bar and couch.  If I was more like Roger Sterling I would have walked in without knocking, poured myself a drink, sat on the sofa, and stolen one of his cigarettes before he could say a word.  I’d then reply with something witty and vaguely offensive.  Unfortunately I’m nothing like Roger Sterling, so it went more like this: ‘Have a seat Ian.’
‘Haven’t seen you in a while,’ I said, and sat down.
‘I only come in to make token appearances at the office.  Do most of my work from home now.’
‘So you have an office you don’t use and I still have to use reception’s printer when they’re not looking?’
‘Don’t start Ian, you’re in no position.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means no one is reading your stuff any more.  It’s embarrassing.  You know how many people read your last article?  One.  Your editor.  And he read it by accident.’
‘What’s your point?’ I asked.
‘My point is this new format just isn’t working.  We’re going back to the original idea.’
‘Fuck no.’
‘Fuck yes.  Or you won’t be working here any more.  Look I know you’re all about integrity and originality and all that bullshit, but I’m concerned with one thing and one thing only.  Readers.  And you don’t have any, so we’re gonna make a change.’
‘Really?  So what should I write about?’
‘You’ll see,’ was all he said, and told me where to be and what time.  I didn’t argue, because to be honest I had no idea what I was going to write for this article.  As I was leaving he gave me one last cryptic clue.  ‘Look out for a pink hat,’ he said.  Yeah, pink hat, red flag.

I got to the bar at 6pm, dressed a lot nicer than I’m used to.  Which just means I didn’t wear my wallet chain and I buttoned my shirt all the way up.  Everyone else in the place had made much more effort.  I sat at the bar, ordered up a bourbon neat, and kept my eye out for a pink hat.
Seven drinks passed before I saw it.  Not one pink hat, but many.  Around fifteen, actually, perched atop fifteen dolled up dames all wearing little black dresses and shoes that matched the hats.  A fat one out front suddenly pointed at me and they all looked.  I nearly fell off my goddamn stool, but immediately they surrounded me and I had no room to move.
‘Are you Ian?’ shouted the fat one.
‘Unfortunately I am,’ I said, and this seemed to please them.  ‘Who are you?’ I asked.  The fat one said her name was Tanya, and she was one of the bridesmaids.  A fucking hen party.  God damn you Johnny.  Moments later the bride-to-be plonked a pink hat on my head, threw her arms around me and gave me a big kiss.
‘I’m Claire,’ she said, ‘I’m the hen.’  This is easily the most action I’ve had for about six months and I was already half toasted on whiskey so I just smiled.
‘Well baby I guess that makes me the rooster.’  She laughed, obviously impressed by my charm and humour.  Then she leaned in close to whisper in my ear.
‘I prefer cock.’  Lord in heaven I take it back – make sure you keep a spot up there for old Johnny!

They ordered up several jugs of some fiendish cocktail and we got a table.  I usually make a point of not drinking anything that’s pink, but it was free, and I already looked like the group’s gay friend, so I made an exception.

[Editor’s Note: And you were wearing a pink hat.]

I saw Claire trying to find a space to sit, and being the gent that I am I offered her my seat.
‘That’s okay, I’ll just sit on your knee,’ she said, and I wasn’t about to pass her up.
‘I haven’t got a seat either!’ exclaimed Tanya.  Jesus no.  She arsed her way past two of the others and fell back onto my other leg.  After a couple of minutes I said I had to go to the toilet and spent about five minutes in the men’s trying to shake some blood back into my foot.  I got a pint and headed back to the table to find that Tanya had stolen my seat and Claire was now sitting on her knee.  I gave serious thought to sitting on her other leg, but realised Don Draper would never do something like that, so I just stood and lingered near Claire.
‘So what’s the plan for tonight?’ I asked her.
‘Oh we’re gonna go see a movie and then we were supposed to go for dinner but we’re just gonna go straight to the bar to get drunk!’
‘Cool.  What movie are we going to see?’
‘That one with Colin Firth in it.  I love Colin Firth.’
She was talking about A Single Man, and though I really wanted to see it, I really did not want to see it with a hen party.

I’m not quite sure what any of them made of the movie.  I don’t even know why the hell they went to see it.  They were all shitfaced before we even got to the cinema, and although they talked all the way through it the only time they actually made reference to the film was when one of them yelled, ‘Get stuck into him big lad!’  They didn’t even take their goddamn hats off.  I tried to ignore their bad manners and incessant bathroom breaks, and despite it all, managed to enjoy the film.  In fact, it blew me away.  It seems like a cop-out to say it just worked, but that’s about the best I can do.  Sometimes when a movie sucks I know it sucks, but I find it hard to explain why.  In the same way that even though I don’t know shit about music, I know when a guitar is out of tune.  On the flip side sometimes I go to see a movie and just love it, and not only would I have a hard time elucidating why exactly, part of me isn’t even interested in the why.  It’s enough to say that it is fucking great and any sort of analysis is just besides the point.  Well this movie is fucking great.  This is not just some elevator music you hear to drown out the sound of your own boredom.  It is not a flashy, expensive music video from the latest star with as much depth as a piss stain on a lamp post.  This is Clapton on guitar, blowing your mind and all the while just standing there like he’s doing nothing at all.  Like any good movie it grabs you by the balls and doesn’t let go till the credits roll.  Maybe I’m just excited because my balls rarely get more than a light fondling at the movies…

[Editor’s Note: Ian stop talking about your balls.]

…but it does all this without the use of special effects or explosions or dick jokes.  That’s real filmmaking, and it’s becoming all too rare in mainstream movies.  See it while you still can.

After the movie we went to another bar and, starting as they meant to continue, they did a round of shots.  The first casualty of the night was a girl named Chloe, whom I didn’t speak to the whole night until she said to me, very politely, ‘I’m going to be sick.’  I took off my hat and handed it to her and she filled a good third.  She gave me back the sick-filled hat and a couple of her friends carted her off.  In my state I found it very interesting how well the hue of her vomit matched the hat but none of the dames seemed to want to hear about it.  Then Claire told me she didn’t want to get married.
‘Really?  How come?’ I asked.
‘Because you’re cute,’ she said.
‘Well I really don’t think that’s…’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ she said.  I nearly broke my goddamn fingers scrambling my phone out of my pocket.  No reception.  Fuck.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I said, and went outside to phone a taxi. On my way out I passed a fireman heading in to the bar, but since the place wasn’t burning down and I was in a rush, I paid him no heed.  With a taxi booked I dashed back into the bar, knocking pink-hatted women out of my path as I went and wondering why the hell they were playing You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi.  What I found stopped me dead.  Claire was sitting in a chair at the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by jeering women.  The fireman was now only identifiable by his hat and boots – stripped to his underpants – the rest of his clothing scattered on the floor, and he was grinding his impressive, leopard print crotch in Claire’s face.  She seemed to be rather enjoying herself.  The fireman’s arse was obscenely hairless.  I turned away, went to the bar and ordered a double.

I was well into my second when the performance ended and the fireman simply gathered up his clothes and left.  Don’t Stop Believing by Journey started playing and I knew the end was near, which was lucky because by now I was only standing with assistance from the bar.  Not near enough though.  The broads had been whipped into a frenzy – they were out for cock.  I guess this time they settled for rooster.  When they started chanting ’off, off, off,’ I turned to see what all the fuss was about and realised they were cheering at me.  I started to shake my head and back away but it was all in vain.  One of the bitches tackled me from behind, and when Tanya threw herself into the mix the game was over.  I was thrown to the ground and stripped to my bare arse, infinitely hairier than Fireman Sam’s.  I’m not sure that was what they found so disappointing though.  Fearing that my measurements may anger the mob I kicked my way to my feet, nabbed a pink hat to cover my modesty, and headed for the door.

Needless to say no taxis would pick me up.  The police found me a couple of hours later.  ‘You been drinking son?’ asked the abnormally tall policeman.
‘No I’ve been fucking gardening.  It’s a Saturday night and I’m naked in the street.  Of course I’ve been fucking drinking.’  This apparently wasn’t the smart thing to say, and they booked me.  Johnny ended up having to post my bail, which is only fair if you ask me.

Some people will tell you alcohol is no good.  They’ll say it’s bad for your health, it’s a waste of money, and nobody likes a drunk.  Those things may or may not be true, but I refuse to believe alcohol never does anything good.  Two nights ago I was standing at the bar in a way too crowded Spring And Airbrake waiting to see Hayseed Dixie.  I would have been waiting for quite some time, because I was in the wrong goddamn bar.  Turns out last minute they changed the venue to the Limelight, to accommodate The Maccabees, who had been shunted out of somewhere else.  I have a sneaking suspicion that had I been there to see The Maccabees, you would all be much more interested in reading this, but I have no idea who the fucking Maccabees are and I wanted to hear some bluegrass.  Anyway, how exactly did booze get me out of this predicament?  Well there I was at the (wrong) bar, mixing up a Jack and a Becks to form the most potent and delicious of boilermakers when some fella next to me exclaimed, ‘Jesus man what are you putting in your beer!?’
‘Whiskey,’ I told him.
‘Fuck,’ he said, ‘if you do that to all your beers you’re in for some night.  I suppose you don’t have work tomorrow?’
‘Actually I do,’ I said, ‘but fuck them – they can deal with me.’  Laughing, he asked me who I was there to see.  I told him I was there to see Hayseed Dixie, and he gave me a puzzled look.  I assume you can figure the rest of the story out for yourself.  And so you see – that goddamn boilermaker saved my night.  Who knows how long I would have stood in Spring and Air listening to some shitty indie music wondering when the hell Hayseed Dixie would go on?  Not only that, after I asked the barman if I was indeed at the wrong show, he told me yes I was, and that he would take me over to the Limelight to make sure I had no trouble getting in.  I told him that was cool, but I wanted to finish my drink.  So I hurried the bugger into me (a sure sign of the direction my night would take) and he took me over to the Limelight, whereupon he gave me another Becks and another Jack, completely gratis.  I fashioned my second boilermaker of the night, gave him an appreciative nod and made my way towards the stage, where the support band where finishing up.

Incidentally, this show was not an assignment for Bandwidth, but since I have been dubbed their ‘rock n roll correspondent’ I decided it would be wrong for me to miss it, and went on my own initiative.

[Editor’s Note: Ian dubbed himself our ‘rock n roll correspondent’.]

Hayseed Dixie formed, I believe, as a bluegrass/country tribute band to AC/DC, and grew from there to the band as they are now – playing a mixture of rock n roll cover songs and their own material.  Their sound is so alien to anything I’ve ever encountered that at first I found it hard to get my ears around it.  A few songs in though, and on to my third boilermaker, it would have been impossible to not be affected by the band’s energy and enthusiasm.  Standing four abreast across the stage (no drummer, ya see) like a police line-up in a chicken rustling case and playing everything from guitar and bass to banjo, mandolin and fiddle I guess this shit is either going to be right up your street, or right off your radar.  I love country music, and though I’m more inclined towards the outlaw stuff, any kind is cool with me – bluegrass included.  And as strange as it sounds, a bluegrass (or ‘rockgrass’) version of Ace Of Spades works.  Really.  And although it is cool to hear all the classic rock tracks they cover, I’d say I enjoyed their own stuff just as much.  On top of being balls out awesome musicians they also came across as seriously cool dudes, who were very surprised and gracious about the reception they have always received in Belfast.  When they finished their set a couple of the guys came down to sign stuff and have photos taken.  I decided to buy a CD and get it signed, and only realised then I was totally tapped, so I settled for shaking their hands and telling them the show was awesome.  I’m not sure if they were perplexed because I didn’t buy anything, or want a photo or a signature, or just amused by how hammered I was, but they didn’t seem to know what to make of me.  Then again, very few do.

I spent my last two quid on a beer in Katy’s and I guess I should be glad that my lack of funds broke the vicious cycle of boilermakers I had fallen in to.  Because I then marched off to a cash machine, lifted a twenty and went to Annie’s.  By this point I was functioning on instinct alone and I just sat very quietly at the end of the bar sipping a whiskey.  I don’t know how many boilermakers I had, but on top of all the straight whiskey I think even one more could have been disastrous.  I went to sleep that night and saw a strange light at the end of a tunnel, blinding at first.  When I managed to fully open my eyes I realised it was just sunlight coming through my window, threatening to set fire to my brain like the whiskey soaked rag that it was.  I felt like I hadn’t slept at all.

** Scene Missing **

Mere coffee and painkillers weren’t going to get me through work, so I broke out the big guns and had a smoothie.  It did the trick, but by the time I got home I just wanted bed.  So, just go to bed, right?  Wrong.  Not for a dedicated arts journalist like me.  My assignment: a performance of the play ‘Rhinoceros’ by the Queen’s drama department.  If you’re anything like Larry, you might be wondering what the fuck I’m doing going to see a play.
‘What the fuck are you doing going to see a play?’ asked Larry.  I don’t follow exactly what Larry is on at any given point – I merely distinguish between ‘up’ and ‘down’, and unlike our last outing, I’m not talking about his penis.  Anyway on Tuesday he was ‘up’, and he wanted to know why we were going to see a play, instead of partying.  I told him he was a filthy philistine and we were going to see a play because I damn well felt like seeing a play.  Except I didn’t.  I didn’t figure on having a wicked hangover, and all of a sudden the whole idea seemed like folly.  Larry told me he wasn’t going and I told him I didn’t give a shit.

[Editor’s Note: It was not Ian’s decision to see Rhinoceros.  Will was supposed to go, but couldn't due to unforeseen circumstances.  See postscript.]

When I got to QFT the first thing that struck me was how beautiful everyone was.  I mean that as literally as it sounds – I have never been surrounded by so many beautiful people in my life.  This was not as fortunate as it sounds, because I felt exactly how I looked – like an ugly refugee who, less than 24 hours earlier had been mixing whiskey and beer and singing along to a bluegrass version of Green Day’s ‘Holiday’.  An impostor with a hangover and no knowledge of theatre whatsoever.  A goddamn loser.  So I had a beer.  Fuck it.

When I was shown to my seat I had to walk along the front of the stage, in front of the audience.  It hit home just how ballsy those students must be to get up there, because for three seconds I felt as awkward and exposed as I’ve ever felt in my life, and I was just walking to my seat.  Anyone who says acting is easy can kiss my ass.  So when the lights went down, I was already in a position of awe, but still hung over and still not used to the format since I am, essentially, a film guy.  It only took about two minutes for me to forget all about that, though.  This play was absolutely fucking class.  The material is a classic, which helps, I guess, but the actors totally nailed it and judging by the audience reaction I wasn’t the only person who thought so.  It was genuinely funny, and not the kind of funny that makes you think ‘oh, that’s funny’ but the kind that makes you laugh from the gut before the thought that it’s funny can cross a synapse.  What, proper funny?  Yes Tommy, proper funny.  I would go into more detail about why the show was so good but I’m not a goddamn theatre critic and I’d probably just end up talking about the frequent cleavage shots I was treated to from my second row vantage.  And that would just be far too crass for a cultured theatre-goer like me.

Maybe the whole experience happened just the way it should have.  Hayseed Dixie came just long enough after the weekend that I was ready for more serious drinking, and I saw Rhinoceros with the subsequent hangover, which only further proved how fantastic it was, because when I go out in the pissing rain with a bitch of a hangover, and come home glad I did, whatever it was must have been pretty fucking good.

PS – You might have noticed this article doesn’t have an illustration.  It is actually Will who does my illustrations (yes, he has another fucking talent) but recently he has allowed his artistic vision to spiral out of control.  For this article he insisted he could get a photo of a real live rhinoceros wearing a trucker cap and a t-shirt with a confederate flag, and promptly took a plane to Africa. Tragically (but unsurprisingly) he was gored by one of the beasts and is not expected to recover.

Track listing
1 yes
2 ifwhiteamericatoldthetruthforonedayitsworldwouldfallapart
3 of walking abortion
4 she is suffering
5 archives of pain
6 revol
7 4st 7lb
8 mausoleum
9 faster
10 this is yesterday
11 die in the summertime
12 the intense humming of evil
13 pcp

A long, long time ago a Welsh band who had their glam rock leanings pulled their act together and released what many music fans may call one of the best albums ever written. Ironically many wont classify themselves as strict Manic Street Preacher fans partly due to the pish that followed The Holy Bible, namely This is My Truth Tell Me Yours, Lifeblood and Send Away the tigers. The change of style was so dramatic that many modern Manics fans may even look upon the Bible as one of those early albums where a band struggles to find their sound, which is fairly tragic to say the least.

Regardless, the story of The Holy Bible, released in the summer of 1994, will forever be entwined with that of the long since gone/lost/dead Richey James Edwards. Later revived with a posthumous crediting for Journal for Plague Lovers, which arguably rivals The Twilight Sad’s Forget The Night Ahead for the best British release of 2009, Edwards’ touch is all over the Bible. His tortured character has drawn many a comparison with Kurt Cobain’s throughout the years as both rose to heights neither envisaged nor probably ever wanted to achieve. Cobain can rightly be recognised as by far the better performer and all round musician (by all accounts Edwards couldn’t really play the guitar), yet the Manics at the time were seen very much in his image, his artistic creation almost. Nevertheless, the two could’ve both laid claim to the ultimate title of the tortured genius.

Stepping away from the more polished sounds of Gold Against the Soul, something that gives The Holy Bible a bit of an edge is the many sound bites throughout the album, strategically placed throughout to enhance the rawness. A running theme throughout the Bible is the rising danger of the increasingly powerful consumerist, totalitarian state and its twisted notion of freedom. From ‘ifwhiteamerica…’, to the ‘I think you are the devil itself’ soundbite and throttled bass intro of Archives of Pain, Bradfield, chief tune writer, manages to echo Richey’s thoughts into music from the very beginning. Meanings are turned on their head, inverted to give this morbid, nihilistic approach to life, such as the ‘all I preach is extinction’ line in Archives after ludicrously praising serial killers and war criminals.

The same rules apply to the hit single from the album, Faster. Complete with soundbite from an adaption of George Orwell 1984, Faster may be best remembered from an excellent performance at Top of The Pops, of all shows were they donned the stage clad in a mismatch of army and navy regalia. Along with Revol, almost Faster’s little brother, the two are the most standard rock tunes on the whole release.

There’s obviously a multitude of songs related to human suffering throughout history, a nod to Richey’s History degree he complete sometime earlier, such as Mausoleum, Archives of Pain and the almost terrifying The Intense Humming of Evil. Again the soundbite, played under thundering industrial drums, gives way to a truly horrible noise which can only be described as ‘flickering’, or ‘flitting’ – either way it would be easy to feel nauseous listening to it. Based around a concentration camp, Richey explores the naivety in some victims who couldn’t grasp how evil man can possible be, seen in the lines ‘you always mistook fists for flowers’ and ‘in block 5 we worship malaria’.

In contrast to the horror of these songs, This is Yesterday has to be one of the more beautiful songs on the album. A basic riff and drum beat runs throughout, with solo in the middle, the lyricist appears to be trying to deal with some of his own crushing depression. From the lines ‘someone somewhere soon will take care of you, I repent, everything is falling apart’, and ‘why do anything when you can forget anything’, it’s no surprise that Edwards wouldn’t make it to the American leg of the Bible’s tour.

It’s a shame The Holy Bible was never followed up with another one of equal standard. In later interviews James Dean Bradfield once said that, had Richey stuck around of course, the plan was for the next album to sound something like Pantera meets Nine Inch Nails meets Primal Scream – an unbelievable mix that, sadly, would never come to fruition. Instead Everything Must Go came out and the Manics, unfortunately driven by the hit machine Nicky Wire, picked up from where Gold Against the Soul left off and achieved a lot of commercial success. It’s almost as though The Holy Bible was a fleeting passerby, a one-off almost and one which ultimately proved to be a poisoned chalice for Richey Edwards.

It’s doubtful another lyricist like this will make it into a mainstream band, and so it’s doubtful that another album like this will ever be made again. Admittedly, the intensity of the album can be a tad daunting at first, perhaps owing to Edwards reading around 5 books a week at the time of writing, but once you get a feel for the album, there really is nothing else around like it. Some songs could literally bring you to tears. Maybe poetry’s the next closest thing, who knows. All that matters is that it was once here and now it’s gone.

There have been rumours of a Sopranos movie circulating for a while now.  Nothing substantiated, and I’m not in the business of spreading gossip, so if your only concern is whether or not the rumours are true you can piss off to some inane celebrity blog instead.  The rumours got me thinking, though.  And as usual, bitching.  I don’t want a Sopranos movie.  That probably makes a lot of you think I’m an idiot.
[Editor’s Note: Everyone already thinks that Ian.]
And people who know me are probably kind of confused, because I’m a big Sopranos fan.  I’ve seen every episode at least twice and I still insist it is the best TV show of all time.  I am assured that this will change when I finally delve into The Wire, and Mad Men is trying very hard to change my mind, but for now I’m still very much part of Tony’s crew.  So how come I don’t want to see a big screen adaptation then?  Simply put, because The Sopranos is not a fucking movie.

Things like The Sopranos don’t come along often.  Like a solar eclipse, it depends on a few different factors all working perfectly.  And as well as the writing and the acting and the set design and all that obvious stuff, the format has to be perfect.  If David Chase had written a novel instead of a pilot TV script it probably still would have been great, but it wouldn’t have been The Sopranos.  First of all it would have been impossible to explore so many different interconnected storylines.  That’s obvious.  But think about it – in a book, no James Gandolfini or Edie Falco or [insert Sopranos actor here].  No wacky dream sequences.  No kick ass soundtrack.  Jesus, no titty dancers!  It just wouldn’t be the same.  But now I guess you’re thinking, well you could do all that stuff in a movie, so what’s the problem?  Well I’ll tell you, because not only do I telepathically predict your arguments, I think up answers for them.

The Sopranos found its format.  That’s why it was so perfect.  And when they stopped making the show it was a creative decision rather than (as is more usual) a financial one.  The show hadn’t become stale.  They weren’t losing ratings.  They just realised that Tony’s story had found its natural point of completion and by God I was proud of the writers when they recognised that and stuck to it, rather than continuing on for (what would have been) assured success and monetary gain.  That’s integrity.  And that’s why The Sopranos is better than 99% of the shit you will see on TV.  But make a movie and they would just be forcing it.  I have no doubt that if they made it, it would be great, but it wouldn’t be honest.  If there was more to say, or more to explore, they would have made another series.  But they didn’t.  Making a movie now would be the same as if they had dragged out another series.  It wouldn’t be true to the story, and because of that, it wouldn’t be The Sopranos.  Just like The Simpsons movie was The Simpsons, but it wasn’t The Simpsons.
[Editor’s Note: What the fuck does that mean?]
I champion originality in cinema so I guess I just always want to see new ideas, rather than old ones just thrown into the microwave and nuked back to a soggy version of their previous lives.

All that being said, I have relaxed my opinions somewhat.  In the past I have done a lot of bitching about remakes and sequels, but I’m feeling very Zen these days and now I don’t mind so much.  What always pissed me off was the laziness of just leeching off the success of some other movie rather than coming up with something new.  But it struck me that this laziness doesn’t bother me so much if the remake / sequel in question is good, and also that this whole deal has been going on ever since people started telling stories.  I put up a blog about my excitement over the new Clash Of The Titans movie (badass and high camp in equal measure – gotta love it!) so I guess if I wanted to be really committed I’d have to complain not only about the fact that the film is a remake, but also about the rehashing of all the ancient myths that the film is steeped in.  And even I’m not that much of an arse.
[Editor’s Note: Really?  I’m not convinced.]
No, I’m rather looking forward to Clash Of The Titans.  And Ironman 2.  And I guess The Wolfman looks pretty good.  Hell, I even liked the most recent Star Trek movie.  So I suppose all of these remakes and sequels should be judged on their own merit.  The sad fact is, most of them are shameless cash-ins, but those that are will be obvious and phoney and no one will remember them anyway.  I’m holding fast on The Sopranos issue though.  A Sopranos movie would be like… A Godfather TV spin off.  Jesus, think of it!

OPEN IN: Annie’s.

So in their infinite wisdom, the Bandwidth management decided to assign me a babysitter for jobs like this one.  Apparently my tendency to overindulge can be a liability.  That’s how Larry explained it anyway, over his second Red Bull and after giving me the unabridged version of his road to sobriety.  Then he hit me with a surprise jab.  ‘Just pills now, man,’ he said, and as if to punctuate his statement, produced a small bag of pills and shovelled a handful of them into his mouth.  I realised at this point that Larry is a nutbar.  ‘Want one?’ he asked.
‘What are they?’
‘No idea man.  I half-inched them from my mate’s house the other day.  He always has good gear though.’
‘I’ll pass.  I don’t want to find out the hard way that I just took dog laxative.  And I’ve never encountered a situation old Jack didn’t have a good hold of.’  As if to punctuate my own sentence, I finished off my whiskey.
‘How’d you know he a had a dog?’ he asked.
‘Never mind.’  I realised at this point that Larry isn’t the sharpest mind I have ever encountered.  He seemed to have a good heart though, and as long as he didn’t start whining about my drinking I wasn’t too bothered to have him around.

CUT TO: The Empire.

The place was starting to fill up, so as soon as I got through the door I nabbed a spot right at the stage and marked my territory with a shot and a brew.  I would find out later that this was a logistical error, as the bouncers insisted I didn’t set my drinks on the stage, and I was standing right in front of the ladies toilets, leaving me at the mercy of every beer-bloated babe on route to the loo.  Larry seemed more concerned with chasing skirt than drinking or rocking and I left him to his own devices, since every time he did a lap of the bar be brought me back a beer.  I’m guessing this is his first time working as a sponsor.

The support act was Voodoo Vegas.  Voodoo Vegas’s guitarist is a chick with epic tits.  Every guy in the room was immediately transfixed, including my new companion who, during the relative quiet between songs, shouted ‘I’ve got such a boner!’ right in my ear.  The group of older dolls standing next to us promptly shifted away, which was good.  They were fairly attractive but I was starting to feel crowded, and let’s face it, I had more chance of taking to the stage for a duet on November Rain than I did of scoring.
‘Yeah, she’s hot,’ I agreed, realising I was much too sober.  All I really should have been saying at that point was ‘Fuckin A!’  On the other hand, I was enjoying Voodoo Vegas, and I mean on more than a just visual level.  Support acts have a pretty hard deal.  No one is there to see them.  No one is drunk yet.  And no one’s rocking engines have started, let alone warmed up.  It’s a mark of a good support that by the end of their set, all that had changed.  They rocked.  They rocked much harder than is ever really expected of a support act, impressing me so much I bought their CD.  You should check them out.

While they were setting up for the main act I felt something prodding me in the back.  I shuddered at the thought that it might be Larry’s aforementioned boner.  I was pleasantly surprised, though, to find that it was just some poor schlub getting shoved out of the way by a manic group of toilet-bound women.  Then I got a text from Larry.  It said simply: ‘In toilets.  Please help.’  There is no circumstance under which getting that text, from a relative stranger, could be anything other than fucked.  I considered ignoring it.  I didn’t want my night to be ruined by some fucking hippy pill-head, but goddamnit I was worried about the poor bugger.  I went to the toilets.

I was barely through the door when he yanked me into the first stall.  ‘What the fuck man?’ I inquired, as politely as possible.
‘Look at this!’ he yelled, pointing at his crotch.  He looked like he had just robbed a fruit shop.  Luckily I was on the loose side of sober, and I saw the funny side.
‘Man, you weren’t joking about that boner.’
‘It’s not funny dude.  It won’t go down.  Those fucking pills!’  This cracked me up, which only panicked him further.  ‘This is serious man.  I’ve whacked off 3 times already, it’s starting to hurt.’
‘What the fuck?’ said a voice from outside the stall.
‘You gotta do something man,’ he pleaded.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘I know just the thing.’

I headed to the bar, gave the cutest barmaid my nicest smile (which, admittedly, isn’t very nice.  Really it means I just stopped scowling for a couple of seconds).  ‘Four beers and four whiskies, please.’  I made a boilermaker of each one and took them to the toilets.  ‘Drink these,’ I told him, and had one myself.  He got through them quickly, and started complaining that it wasn’t working.  ‘You gotta give it time,’ I told him, ‘and don’t worry, when you see the hot pants Axl wears that thing will go away and never want to come back out.’  I dragged him back to our spot just in time to see the band taking the stage.  Deliberate whiskey dick… have you ever?

Hard as it is to believe, the UK Guns N’ Roses really do sound a lot like the real Guns N’ Roses.  And I’m not going to waste any time reviewing GNR, since I think their reputation is already pretty solid.  This is definitely a show worth catching.  They blister their way through all of the classics, with a few curve balls thrown in, and they really do look a lot like the original band too.  Right down to the lycra hot pants I warned Larry about.  And when I can enjoy a rock n roll show despite seeing a guy’s junk lolling around inside a pair of shorts so small they would qualify as underwear, I think it is testament to how good they are.  If you like Guns N’ Roses, you’ll like this show.  There is simply no debate about it.  Should you wish to heed my advice, they’ll be back at The Empire in June.

The show finished and the crowd dispersed, leaving only a few drunken stragglers who weren’t ready to give up on drunken dancing.  ‘We should pick up a couple of these dirty women,’ said Larry.
‘Did you ever read any of my articles man?’ I asked him.
‘Nope.’
‘Well if you had, you’d know pulling isn’t a strong point of mine.’  He wasn’t listening though.  He was already chatting to some dame who was giggly drunk and rock n roll horny.  I don’t know what the fuck he whispered in her ear, but the next thing I knew she was leading him out of the club.  He gave me a sly wink, popped a couple of those goddamn pills, and disappeared into the night with her.

I got myself another drink.

I’m 28 now, and in the modern age, I think that’s old enough to be past it. Upon hearing a statement such as this, people who are older than me will utter a belly laugh, chortle wildly, whilst uttering some kind of platitude such as, “My goodness! I wish I was still your age, tearing it up with wild abandon! Go forth, and wreak thy havoc upon the unsuspecting public! You are youth personified!”*



*Dialogue invented by the author.



But the truth is that culture is moving at such a vastly accelerated rate, that even someone who is arguably in the prime of their life can be completely left behind if they’re not careful. And in my case, I’ve not been careful. My pop culture references are alarmingly out of date (I recently made a reference to Lori Petty which was met with complete bewilderment) and I’m feeling increasingly alienated from my surroundings. Things that I think are ‘cool’ don’t seem to be ‘cool’ anymore. And I’m not sure if anyone thinks stuff is ‘cool’ anymore.



As an example of this, just before Christmas I dragged my weary bones out of my coffin to the Menagerie to see Mr Joe Lally, formerly the bass-mangler in Fugazi, the legendary post-hardcore band. Now to me, there is nothing cooler than seeing a member of Fugazi in a relatively small venue on a rotten Thursday night, a feeling akin to standing in the presence of Superman. Fugazi were one of the most important bands of the late 20th century, pioneering a new way of doing things, encouraging forward thinking and promoting a culture of self-reliance and positivity. They also made some incredible music which continues to blow my mind to this very day. They’ve been on “indefinite hiatus” since the start of the decade, seemingly never to return. But various band members have been active in new projects, continuing to preach their gospel of DIY activism.



In a nutshell – Fugazi were a band that actively encouraged you to give a shit about stuff.



The mighty Ian MacKaye played in Belfast in the church hall above Common Grounds café a few years ago with his new band, The Evens. There, he delivered a stirring set of raw punk rock, with folkish overtones, to a crowd of enthusiastic onlookers, including some very young kids, who were no doubt getting their very first taste of rock and roll. It was moving stuff, and Joe Lally is as crucial to the appeal of Fugazi as anything else, so I was expecting a similar reaction.



Well, the old saying goes that there was only 13 people at the Last Supper, but that didn’t stop it being a legendary event…which is about the same amount of people who were there for Joe Lally.

Not that he let that get in the way of things, delivering a strong set of exploratory rock music, which fused jazz and funk rhythms to the polemical style Fugazi are frequently associated with. At one point, Lally left the stage, and went to stand at the bar, creating a weird and disorientating displacement between crowd and performer, which helped remind us that performance can be a LIVING, BREATHING THING, rather than some kind of staid event which we attend just to stave off suicide for another hour or two. He then gave us an acapella song outlining some of his views on war which, if somewhat simplistic, were completely heartfelt.



It’s a shame that there weren’t more people there for him to connect with, but I guess it was refreshing to see a guy who genuinely cared about something enough to get up there and do something about it.



Is that ‘cool’, these days? I don’t know.



I’ll tell you what’s not cool, though: selling yourself out.



Your correspondent is ashamed to admit that he has engaged in an activity that will result in him sent directly to indie-hell, a complete and utter betrayal of everything he holds dear and everything that he stands for.



Yes, dear reader, your correspondent WILLINGLY went into a high street retailer, and purchased a pretend retro Star Trek t-shirt.



And as if this isn’t enough, your correspondent will confess that he has a GENUINE retro Star Trek t-shirt in his possession that he wouldn’t be caught dead in, for fear of being deemed ‘uncool’.



My brain is still struggling to calculate the mathematics on this one, so bear with me. In 1993, my teenage self went into a comic book store, spotted a garishly coloured t-shirt sporting a picture of the starship Enterprise flying through space, bearing the legend, “To Boldly Go Where No Man Has Gone Before…” I immediately dug out my pocket money, thinking this was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. There I was, an adolescent Star Trek fan, celebrating my love of Star Trek, buy wearing a Star Trek t-shirt. Cool, eh?



Not cool apparently. A flick through a diary from 1994 contains the following entry:



“Non-uniform day in school today. Wore my Star Trek t-shirt. NEVER WEAR STAR TREK T-SHIRT TO SCHOOL EVER AGAIN.”



It seems that back then, the cutthroat world of Grammar school was not prepared to tolerate the existence of a nerdish kid wearing a Star Trek t-shirt. Apparently, being into stuff wasn’t cool.

So how is it that I can go into a high street retailer and purchase a ‘retro’ Star Trek t-shirt with out any shame, and then wear it on a night out, thinking to myself, “Yeah…you’ve GOT IT GOIN’ ON”? How did my cultural bearings become so askew? We’re facing a situation where I’m wearing an ironic t-shirt, in a completely sincere way, but am too intimidated to wear a completely non-ironic t-shirt, for fear that I’ll be misinterpreted.



Or something…



WHAT!?!?!?

IRONY CIRCUTS OVERLOADING!?!?!?!?



CTRL + ALT + DEL


Anyway, it’s a pretty nifty t-shirt, and I think it’s cool.



And in a way, it’s possibly prompting a profound change of lifestyle. Perhaps if I was able to drop all this cultural baggage, I’d be able to just embrace my surroundings, and make the most of it? If I was true to myself, and were to acknowledge the inherent clichés in my being, then perhaps I’d be able to adapt myself to the modern age, rather than feeling like some kind of piece of cultural archaeology?



There are lessons to be learned. What Joe Lally is doing right now, is deeply, deeply unfashionable. His music is cerebral and intense – it’s certainly not party music. The sentiments he projects, and the sincerity with which he projects them, are deeply unfashionable. I mean, yeah – sure we all hate war, but like, do we have to totally go on about it, or some junk?



No, we don’t have to, but the point is that HE has to. And that’s what matters, whether we’re listening or not.



With this example, your correspondent has taken a look at himself, and acknowledged a few facts which will hopefully lead to better living through understanding.



Some points:



1. The undersigned is happy enough to wear his Star Trek t-shirt because- you know what? – he really likes Star Trek (only the original series, though). And the undersigned is also prepared to acknowledge the fact that he probably won’t wear his original retro t-shirt because it is over a decade old, and looks totally horrible, whereas his new one looks a bit stylish.



2. The undersigned is prepared to admit that he is a slightly hackneyed Pitchfork reader in his late 20s, who listens to a lot of indie-rock, but has never really felt the need to investigate hip-hop. And he’s ok with that.

3. The undersigned has come to the realisation that he doesn’t really like going out to clubs, etc, and never really saw the point in it. It’s not that he doesn’t like dancing, rather that the apparatus for him to do so does not currently exist.



4. The undersigned believes that by supporting local talent (musicians, writers, film-makers, photographers, etc) that he is making a difference. He believes you should do this too.



5. The undersigned is happy to celebrate the fact that he has many interests, and likes the fact that he can’t get interested in something without wanting to GET INVOLVED. Hence, releasing records, writing articles, doing his own comic, etc.



6. The undersigned has finally come to the realisation that he is more or less over breaking up with someone at the start of the year, but would still like to see them, just because he can’t remember the sound of their voice.




Yours, in hope,

Steven Rainey


And if that ain’t some kind of fully fledged cultural manifesto, then I don’t know what is!



Unfortunately, your correspondent attempted to put his newfound enlightenment into practice, by going out to Lavery’s on a Saturday night, and found that he didn’t really feel that cool – at all. All the hipsters and young people intimidated him, so he went home.



SO MUCH FOR THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING!

Artist: Deftones
Album: Around the Fur (1997)
Members: Chino Moreno, Stephen Carpenter, Abe Cunningham, Chi Cheng

Tracks:
My Own Summer (shove it)
Lhabia
Mascara
Around the Fur
Ricketts
Be Quiet and Drive (far away)
Lotion
Dai th Flu
Headup
MX
Damone (hidden track)

Opening with one of the most recognisable two drum hits of the time, My Own Summer remains one of the best, albeit long forgotten, summer tracks of all time. There was nothing like feeding the CD into the car player on a roasting hot day and starting your journey with this. Followed shortly by that riff crawling all over the song you could be instantly reminded of the video: guys on the metal platforms in the ocean doing their thing while the pig in the tiara eventually gets mauled by the shark. Shit cool. Shit-fucking cool.

It’s been argued that it was around this time that brought out the ‘nu-metal’ craze which, thankfully, looks like it’s since died out. In an era which also produced the likes of Korn’s second album ‘Life is Peachy’, System of a Down, Limp Bizkit’s ‘Three Dollar Bill Y’all$’, Tool’s ‘Aenima and even Spineshank’s ‘Strictly Diesel’, Deftones were already starting to lead the way as far as hard rock was concerned. While their closest competitor, Korn, (style wise) have since reached tremendous commercial heights and then fallen by the way side, Deftones have, though arguably, certainly gone from strength to strength.

Although nu-metal brought rock into the mainstream, Around the Fur, should it be labelled such, remains slightly haunting in places, perhaps giving an insight into the direction the next album, White Pony, would take. Looking at lyrics from the likes of Mascara for example, the ‘is there still blood in your hair’, line or ‘I hate your tattoos, you have weak wrists, but I’ll keep you’, there is definitely a similar theme running through the much later songs like Feiticeria – such as the dark overload of the ‘soon I’ll let you go’ line, or Pink Maggit ‘s ‘all you are is meat’.

Dark maybe, but there definitely remains something strangely playful with the album. In contrast to the darker themes come intros like the energetic title-track, Around the Fur, followed by the meaty beats of Abe’s drum and Chi’s bass in Ricketts. ‘My Own Summer’ aside, ‘Be Quiet and Drive’ fits the car/cd player analogy just as well. Its driving riff surrounding the chorus of ‘I don’t care where, just far’…jesus, sorta wish more bands around would take notes, you know?

Although not a single, Headup remains another standout track from the album. While the simple distorted guitar builds over and over, the song bursts with Chino unleashing some sort of scream/rap (scramp?), allowing the then ex-Sepultura Max Cavelera to take vocals on the chorus, screaming ‘soulfly, fly high, soulfly fly free’. No surprise then that months later, when asked about the name of his new project, he claimed “It’s Soulfly”.
Positioned between the much more metal driven ‘Adrenalin’ and the cleaner, more accomplished White Pony, Around the Fur was, on retrospect, such an obvious next step for the band to take. The sound, the very feel of the album is something that appears in glimpses throughout other later albums, especially the self-titled one. Heavy as fuck, bit with a strangely groovy twist with the purity of Chino’s voice over the top. Surely this is what any band aims for, having their own sound; being able to tell who the band is, who the guitarist is from a few bar chords. Being the case, Around the Fur captures this perfectly. A definitive album of the era from a truly definitive band.

I admit it, I only went to see Avatar so that when the time came to piss all over it, I’d have enough venom saved up to produce more than just a bitchy little piddle.  I’ve been sitting on this rant for a while now – letting it simmer down, if you will.  I think now that the film has won a best picture Golden Globe, it’s finally time to speak up.

Let’s say I’ve got some folks coming over for dinner and I decide to cook a big fish pie.  Luckily for me I have a lot of rich relatives who don’t mind pumping money into each and every cookery project that comes my way, because I have cooked lots of times before and most people agree, my cooking is awesome.  So with a fat wad of bills busting the seams of my pocket I go shopping for ingredients, and I decide to push the boat out.  Way out.  I buy lobsters so fat they look like they were raised by Homer Simpson.  I buy scallops by the kilo, and the finest turbot and sea bass I can lay my greedy little hands on, no expense spared.  I figure if it’s expensive it’s got to be good, right?  So then I fly in the world’s finest sea food chefs and I install them in a state-of-the-art kitchen.  I tell them I want this to be the fanciest fish pie of all time.  I also hire a couple of chefs to take care of the white sauce and mashed potato top, but I figure those things are easy so I don’t give it too much thought.  So the night of the meal arrives and it comes time to put the whole thing together.  The fish is exquisite.  It looks beautiful.  I grab the pot of white sauce to assemble the filling and that’s when I notice it – big horrible lumps.  I taste it and realise it’s all wrong.  Under-seasoned, and made with cheap margarine instead of butter.  The mash is even worse.  Boiled to a pulp and mashed to shit with skimmed milk instead of double cream and butter, it’s just a grey slop on top of my beautiful expensive fish.  As a final insult, I get so distracted talking to my guests about the fish I totally lose track of time and I overcook the pie by a good 45 minutes.  Anyone with their head outside of their own ass can see the pie is a disaster, but miraculously my guests don’t notice.  Likely because they’re a bunch of fucking airheads who don’t know shit about cooking.  They just keep raving about the quality of the fish.  Then they give me an award and tell me it’s the best fish pie they’ve had all year.  I can’t believe it.   I’m sure you can’t either.  Because it’s not fucking right.

Avatar is not the best movie of the year.  There, I said it.  No, don’t try to argue, because you’re wrong.  It’s not a matter of opinion.  It’s not to each his own.  It’s not horses for fucking courses.  I don’t care if you enjoyed Avatar.  Some people liked White Chicks.  So people like ball-stomping porn.  Some people still like Kanye fucking West.  We’re not talking about enjoyment here.  We’re talking about the fact that we live in a world in which a boring, trite, over-baked slushfest of a movie is named THE BEST OF THE YEAR.  Fuck that.

Most of the time I feel like I shouldn’t bother opening my mouth.  Or lifting my pen.  Or whatever.  But goddamnit someone has to say something, and as a lifelong fan of cinema I feel a certain sense of responsibility.  Now before I go on, let me just clarify: I’m not writing this just to shit all over Avatar.  In fact, as far as big budget action/adventure blockbusters go, I’ve seen a lot worse.  My issue is not with the film itself, but with the culture of effects-worship that has evolved around movies recently.  If all there was to movies was state of the art CGI and thrilling green screen action, we’d all be happy enough to sit at home and watch someone playing the Xbox.  But film is a collaborative art and there are lots of ingredients to think about.  See what I was getting at with the fish pie scenario?  ‘But what’s wrong with special effects epics?’  Well, there’s nothing inherently wrong with them, but strip those special effects away and what are you left with?  Nothing.  And I’m sorry, but a one trick pony should not be winning a fucking dressage competition.

So what’s my point?  My point is people are too easily blinded by pretty pictures these days.  Avatar is not badly made, it’s just quite obviously a vehicle for James Cameron to bring his little fairy-tale land vision to life.  Performance, writing, cinematography and every other aspect of the filmmaking process is sidelined in favour of the special effects and somehow, no one minds.  I have never heard anyone say ‘The movie wasn’t great, but the sound design was awesome,’ yet I’ve been told by several people ‘It’s alright, but the special effects are unbelievable.’  Well so what?  It’s just one ingredient.  It’s just expensive fish.  And it’s not enough.  For me, anyway.  And it shouldn’t be enough for you either.

I am a realist though, and as well as posting this article I might as well try pissing uphill.  In a world where a cover song by the latest X-Factor winner is guaranteed number 1… Wait a second, maybe there is hope.  You want to see a well-made, special effects laden sci-fi movie?  Watch District 9.  It didn’t cost $250 million to make, and is incidentally far more politically relevant than Avatar, despite what some dickhead hacks will tell you.*  It’s also fucking awesome.  Hollywood is full of assholes whose only goal is to make money – not to make a good movie – just like those fucks on TV who sell you cover songs with a rags to riches sob story.  Fuck them, don’t do what they tell you.

* A bunch of American marines going to a faraway land where people have different coloured skin, to mine for a precious resource?  If this is considered a political undertone, the Dr. Dre song Bitches Ain’t Shit must fall into the category  ‘faintly misogynistic’.

In the future online websites could be highly influential in promoting artists. The recently successful campaign by users of Facebook to put Rage Against the Machine’s hit, ‘Killing in the Name’ on the Christmas No. 1 spot is evidence of the power of word-of-mouth potential on social networking sites.

The campaign started by married couple Jon and Tracy Morter was in protest over X Factor’s continual Christmas chart success. The public have spoken and Rage’s victory could prove to be a small turning point in a greater change. X Factor’s enduring presence over the past decade of chart music can be attributed to the fact that it is well produced, promoted, advertised and good Saturday night television for many people. But is it reaching the end? The money spent on Joe McElderry’s Christmas No.1 campaign became insignificant compared with the no budget campaign by the Morter’s on Facebook. Simon Cowell even went as far as offering the pair jobs at his company in light of their success. I suspect that their success was made easier due to huge public animosity towards X Factor. But with the huge profits X Factor generates it is obvious that it is still hugely popular. The campaign should not be viewed as a witch-hunt against Simon Cowell as he or anyone is entitled to create such programmes and they will only continue to run as long as people tune in.

The industry currently lacks any major alternative artists like whose music defined the early 90’s. For every commercial band there was an indie group fighting in their corner for artistic integrity. These artists generated a lot of attention but rarely had a game plan to make huge profits, an alarming tactic for record execs. Since the music industry went digital, the piracy of music has made it very difficult for any artist to make money. With the massive fall in sales many have found other ways of making money through advertising or creating clothing labels for example but only big name artists get this opportunity. This means that most other artists fall by the wayside leaving the industry very one-sided with only a small amount of big names getting all the promoters time and clogging up our air-space.

So how can we counter the balance? Artists that endured over the years had to justify themselves musically which is in stark contrast to today’s stars. Most of the artists today are more concerned with how they look in photo shoots than they how they sound on stage and will be quickly forgotten as both we and the companies know too well. This is why record companies focus so heavily at the beginning of an artists career. However the continuous changes in how music is processed and sold means there are more opportunities for artists to carve careers than ever before. Artists just starting out have a greater access to music technology. Studio equipment is cheaper, and computer programmes for under a few hundred pounds are widely available meaning anyone can become skilled at digital recording. Digital distribution means that artists can sell or sample out their music to attract a wider fan base with little cost.

Smaller labels are being set up throughout the country as a result of job losses in the big companies. Artists should seek out these companies as they can give more time to their artist’s career development. Home recording and self marketing online may also prove a valuable way for new artists to promote themselves. Online sites such as MySpace and Facebook until now have not been hugely successful at finding raw talent; however many artists continue to use such sites to promote their music. A large reservoir of talent must have been building up over the years on these sites. If making music is to remain a viable business with any integrity then the alternative artists must be supported in difficult financial times. This means paying for your music, first to provide an incentive to record companies to invest in these bands and to ensure a wage for the artists.

The Morters made sure to emphasise that only paid for downloads are counted, so if you want to support your favourite artist in the charts then there is no option but to dig in your pockets. Their campaign has shown, despite its criticisms, that what people spend on music directly affects the charts. The public have a bigger voice than they perhaps realise and ultimately it is them who have the power to decide on an artist’s success.

Order FAKE plastic at www.csgraphi.com
Become a fan at www.facebook.com/FAKEplasticpublication

[Editor’s Note: Ian this makes no sense.  You’re just abusing our readers.]

That’s right – all you people out there – I hope you sleep well at night.  I hope you sleep well knowing that Will has taken up selling insurance door to door just to keep this site running.  I know because I bought car insurance off him the other day.  I don’t even own a fucking car, that’s how good a salesman he is.

[Editor’s Note: I don’t know why I even left this in, it’s just gibberish.]

Anyway, it’s a new year and I’m taking this thing in a new direction.  Bigger and better things, as they say.  First of all, the whole ‘date’ idea is gone.  It didn’t work on any level – artistically or for my personal life – as I am still a single, depressed, unpaid hack.  So from now on I work alone, and the concept will be freer and more organic, so my creative integrity is not stifled the way it has been in the past. [Editor’s Note: WTF!?]  I also won’t be posting as often, because I’m on a 4 hour/week contract in a shop, goddamnit, and when I get home after four hours of standing behind a till ogling underage girls and eating chocolate I need some goddamned R&R.

[Editor’s Note: Actually we have cut Ian’s posting rights after an in depth review of the site’s output.  We felt his material was becoming thin and overly vulgar (see: repeated usage of the term ‘goddamn’ in this article)]

So the format will be different from now on.  Maybe some weeks I will focus on a particular movie.  Others I might talk about a gig or event I have attended.  Or I might just go off on some wild tangent, who knows?  The hope is that with less deadline pressure and a wider scope I can concentrate on creating… [Editor’s Note: Something remotely worthwhile, or at least comprehensible?]  …Yeah pretty much what he said.

And hopefully I’ll give one or two of you a chuckle along the way.  Until the next time we talk, have fun folks, and keep reading Bandwidth.  Don’t tar the others with the brush used on me – the rest of them are talented, knowledgeable, and probably good-looking people with kind hearts and friendly souls.  Man, I fucking hate them.

The artist sits alone in his musty manse, contemplating those subjects that others fear to face. His suffering, monumental in it’s nature, dwarfs all other consideration. He pauses, hunched over a battered acoustic guitar, out of tune, but powered by pure soul, and the audience lay down their everyday concerns, content to basque (sic) in his greatness.



This, my friends, is the real pain.


I hate singer-songwriters, always have. There’s just something so nauseating about the concept of the lone troubadour pouring his thoughts and emotions into the song, coughing up pearls of wisdom for us mere mortals to cling to. It makes me barf.



Or it used to anyway. Over the last year or so, I’ve found myself mellowing on the subject, no quite so quick to call a jihad whenever someone picks up a guitar and begins strumming a few minor chords whilst looking thoughtful.



(Indeed, I’ve found myself mellowing on a number of subjects lately. No longer do I pour scorn on musicians who commit the crime of trying to make money from their music! Ian MacKaye – I have misinterpreted you for several years now. I apologise.)



Two singer-songwriters have elevated themselves out of the great pantheon of recorded music, and entered the hallowed halls of my heart. Both err towards the melancholic, miserable side of things, and both of them died young in tragic, not to mention mysterious circumstances. And sadly both of them attract a following which occasionally threatens to destroy and obscure the great legacy they have left behind.



Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, allow me to introduce Elliott Smith and Nick Drake.



For those that aren’t familiar with them, here’s the info. Elliott Smith, before his untimely demise on the business end of a carving knife, was a critically acclaimed songwriter, famed for his intimate and layered delivery. Dealing with dark and frequently depressing subject matter, Smith had a wonderful way with words, neatly avoiding the clichés inherent in the genre, whilst simultaneously celebrating them, and possessed a voice like silk which weaved its way through the Beatles-esque music he frequently used to frame his bar-room vignettes. He was found dead in 2003, having been stabbed twice in the chest. The wounds may or may not have been self-inflicted. He was 34 years old.



Nick Drake, before his untimely demise on the business end of some prescription medication, was a critically acclaimed songwriter, famed for his intimate and intricate delivery. Dealing with dark and frequently depressing subject matter, Drake had a wonderful way with words, neatly avoiding all the clichés inherent in the genre by creating a new lexicon with which to express oneself, and possessed a voice like velvet which weaved its way through the haunting and frequently stark* music he used to frame his bedroom vignettes. He was found dead in 1974, having overdosed on prescription medication. The overdose may or may not have been part of a suicide attempt. He was 26 years old.



(* I am particularly referring to his final album, Pink Moon. The first two are deceptively jolly in places.)

Both men have a slender legacy, which has expanded posthumously, and have largely been canonised since their death. Smith was nominated for an Oscar when one of his songs appeared in the 1998 film Good Will Hunting, which attracted him a considerable amount of attention, but his legacy has continued to grow in the aftermath of his death. Drake, on the other hand, was virtually unknown in his lifetime, and it has taken over twenty years for his music to slowly permeate into the popular consciousness, largely down to his music being played in a car commercial. Such is life, I guess.



As I said at the start, I hate singer-songwriters, and there’s a lot about Elliott Smith and Nick Drake that epitomises what I don’t like about the genre. Both of them exemplify the ‘troubled loner’ persona which has become such a cliché. Also, they have – inadvertently it has to be said – inspired legions of less talented songwriters to inflict their misery upon the world, whether we want them to or not. Anyone with a guitar and a bag full of emotions seems to think that they’ve got carte blanche to share said emotions with the rest of us, as if their insights have some kind of weight which lifts them outside of the normal world and makes them some kind of Supermen or Gods or something, and then expect us mere mortals to lap it up, like we have no way of articulating our emotions at all, AND I’M LOOKING AT YOU, DAMIEN RICE!!!



Sorry, I got a bit carried away there.



But hopefully you get the point.



Once I’ve got past the emotional baggage that others have brought to the show, I can settle down and just wrap this stuff around me. Whilst both songwriters deal with intensely personal visions, that we can occasionally struggle to comprehend, there is a universality at the core of their writing that we can all connect with. Unhurried and gentle, this is music that slowly sidles up beside you and embraces you. And, as with many things, my own personal connection is borne entirely out of love.



Both were introduced to me by lovers with whom I have seemingly outstayed my welcome, and as such, both songwriters remain an undying connection to a life I used to lead. Like a hotline straight to my heart, I can dial into this any time I want to, and be transported to a place which is both comforting and painful. I’m not in any way connected to the subjects either man wrote about (although they both have a fair few songs where I can strongly identify with the lyrical content), but rather I have imposed my own involvement with these songs. One listen to Elliott Smith, and I can feel pale skin against pale skin, a brush of hair on my face. As Nick Drake sings of the River Man, or the Pink Moon hanging in the sky, I can feel a tear on my cheek, sunlight on my bones, and hope in my heart. 



These days it’s the worst crime imaginable for a person in my position to commit, exposing one’s feelings and trying to rationalise them in the face of the increasing scepticism of my peers. Adolescent angst and suffering is easily mocked, and the laying bare of emotions is the domain of the emo, fringe straightened and dyed black. My fringe isn’t straightened, and it’s red instead of black, but I’m not ashamed of my compulsion to share my feelings. I ain’t saying my pain and sadness is more sad and painful than yours, rather I’m happy that my pain and sadness is mine, and I can share it with two very special songwriters.


This music makes me sad in the most comforting way imaginable, and for that reason I will never ever let go of it, or the connection it still holds to special people I have met. Nick Drake and Elliott Smith are long gone, as are the people I want to remain connected to, but the connection itself is just a drop of the needle away.



Next week: How the Ramones feel like a kick in the balls.

Welcome to 2010 – I hope you all had a wonderful and peaceful Christmas and New Year.

So things are already starting to err.. warm up (musically) – look out for great things from A Plastic Rose this year, as hinted by Gerry in an interview with Matthew Patton on his blog

As a reminder, here’s the first video for Kids recorded this time last year (how time flies):

Download for iPod (35.3MB)

I’m not going to lie to you folks, I quit Bandwidth.  I decided that I’m better than this… essentially prostituting myself for their gain.  So I called Johnny right up and I told him…

[Editor’s Note: I’m going to stop you right there - that is an excessive amount of bullshit even for you.  We fired you.  Now get back to the story, and tell it the way it really happened.]

Let’s not quibble… the point is for a while there my position at Bandwidth hung in the balance, until I got probably the most important phone call of my career.  Unfortunately I got the phone call in a nightclub, where I had ended up after a night of heavy drinking.

[Editor’s Note: Drowning your sorrows.  Because we fired you.]

Yes!  Alright, you fired me!  Get over yourselves.  Anyway Johnny called me, and over the thumping music I barely heard him say, ‘Listen Ian, we might have something for you.’
‘What!?’
‘We’ve got a job for you.  We’re sending you to see The Answer on Monday.’
‘What!?’
‘Now I want you to understand that the only reason for this is that we would like the publicity this article will bring us.’
‘What!?’
‘Paris Hilton’s people contacted us.  They want to do a joint a venture.’
‘Who!?’
‘Paris Hilton.’
‘Jesus how the hell did that happen?’
‘I don’t know… you’re both big on the internet.’
‘That’s true…’
‘Oh so now you can hear me?’
‘What!?’  He started to shout.
‘Never mind!  Just make sure you’re at the Ulster Hall at 8pm on Monday.’  And before I could respond he hung up.  I took the job for one reason and one reason only.  I am a gentleman.

‘Where the fuck is this broad!?’  I screamed at no one in particular as I stood outside the Ulster Hall.  My friends and I were already fairly drunk and considering how late we were, I was expecting her to be there already.  Then this fat broad approached me.
‘Hey,’ she said.  I gave her a drunken squint, trying to figure out why she might be talking to me.
‘Yes?’  I asked, playing it cool.
‘It’s me, Perez,’ she said.  Jesus.  She had really let herself go.
‘Oh…’ I stumbled, ‘I didn’t recognize you there.’  My friends started laughing wildly and to be honest I really couldn’t decide what my next move should be.  I stuck out my hand.  ‘I’m Ian,’ I said as we shook.  Hairy hands.  Big, hairy hands.  I remember thinking to myself that they can really do wonders with Photoshop these days.  ‘Well, we’re late,’ I said, ‘We better go in.’

Luckily there were two support acts, so we had time to go to the bar for a while.  ‘Well Paris what can I get you?’  I asked.
‘It’s Peh-rez,’ she said.
‘Oh sorry, Peh-rez,’ I mocked, ‘What would you like to drink your highness?’  Stuck up bitch.  I got her a vodka and diet coke and made her feel bad about how expensive it was, then  I made myself a boilermaker and started ignoring her.  She wasn’t even dressed like a rocker.
‘So how’s the blog?’ she asked, and I couldn’t help but think it was a leading question.
‘I’ve gotta piss,’ I said, and walked off.
‘Oh me too,’ she said, and followed.  My confusion morphed into outright suspicion.  When she started in to the men’s with me it got too much and I confronted her.
‘Look Paris, the ladies is down the hall.  I’ve put up with a lot of your celebrity shit tonight but I am not gonna let you watch me piss.’
‘It’s Perez.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about.  That fucking attitude.’
‘No.  I am not Paris Hilton.  I am Perez Hilton.’  I had had enough of her shit.
‘Look I’ve had enough of your shit lady.  I don’t know what sort of deal you worked out with Bandwidth but you can take it up with them.  I’m here to rock and you’re totally killing my buzz.  Now fuck off.’  I felt a little bit bad when I saw her tear up, but by this point I REALLY had to take a leak, and by the time I came out of the toilets she was gone and The Answer were taking the stage.  I still haven’t figured out what her goddamn problem was, but going by the severe weight gain I’m willing to be forgiving and put it down to hormones.

[Editor’s Note: Are you serious?]

[Ian’s Note: What do you mean?]

[Editor’s Note: I’m speechless.]

[Ian’s Note: Thank fuck for that, this is my column.]

Ok so I admit it: until Monday I wasn’t really that familiar with The Answer.  I checked out a few of their more popular songs online and came to the conclusion that they do in fact rock, but this is roughly the equivalent of seeing a picture of Vic Mackey (from The Shield) and coming to the conclusion that he is a fucking badass.  You would be right, but until you have seen him in action, you just have no idea.  This rule follows for just about every kick ass rock n roll band ever – they’re great – but they’re never as great as when played at a deafening level, and my proper introduction to The Answer came at just that.  These guys rock so hard I would suggest not wearing your favourite pair of socks when you go see them, lest they be rocked off.  These guys rock so hard they make me proud to be from Belfast.  These guys rock so hard I went to see them only a few weeks after seeing MOTORHEAD play THE SAME VENUE and I honestly couldn’t tell you which show I enjoyed more.  I’m not sure I can make this any clearer – The Answer fucking rock.  They have so much balls that towards the end of their set, GIANT BALLS fell from the sky with ‘The Answer’ printed on them.  These balls were punched skyward by the taller members of the mosh pit (and were therefore out of my reach) and the whole thing was just so rock n roll I found it hard to adequately express my appreciation, so I settled for pouring a full bottle of beer over my head and throwing myself around like a madman.  Aside from the unnecessary wasting of good beer, I was not alone.  I would go on, but I get the distinct feeling this gig was like one of those funny moments you can’t quite convey.  You just had to be there.

Had the night ended there the whole thing would have been a resounding success.  Like every other night, though, it ended with me sprinting through the city centre like a lunatic, soaked in beer and occasionally pausing to lie down in the street to catch my breath.  Even making a tit out of myself couldn’t ruin a night like this though.  Kind of like seeing a quick nip-slip when some hot chick spills out of her top, I truly believe I stumbled across something beautiful here.  Mark my words – you will hear more from The Answer – and you will like what you hear.

As anyone who hasn’t been hiding in an underground bunker will know, it is climate change week. The world, their wife and their team of advisors are descending upon Copenhagen for the World Climate Change conference, all trying to out-posture each other and ultimately ‘strike a deal’. What did poor Copenhagen do to deserve this circus?

Media frenzies like this can bring to light some strange phenomenon’s. This particular event has brought into sharp focus, the huge following of a new world religion. “The Enviro-crats”.

The enviro-crat is easily pigeonholed – a bit disillusioned, the type of person who might have been a little bit religious in a time before it became too hard ignore that traditional religion has caused most of the hurt, pain and war associated with this part of the world in particular. So what was needed, was a new religion – something a bit modern, something noble, worthy – oh yeah – Climate Change!

At a time when, more than ever, we need voices of clarity to get behind the causes of waste, pollution and ultimately climate change, what we have ended up with is the Enviro-crat. I mean, this new religion even has a pilgrimage now. Hoards of people are getting busses, boats, and trains this week – all the way from every part of the world to Copenhagen- just to be there to campaign about issues like…. how much oil we use for needless transport. Picture the conversation – “Yeah this is my 4th Climate conference this year, how many have you been to? What, just three? Wow! It’s been totally brilliant though – I’ve met some really cool people who are making such a difference, like Randolph – He’s so passionate about climate change (blushes). He’s part of a group that has been travelling all over the world to demonstrate. I mean they only fly when they have to and they always stay in tents” Yes that’s right – the GAP year has taken on a noble cause. Now let’s get this straight – far from being a climate change nay-sayer, there is no doubt in my mind that (as a member of the human race, with at least a few brain cells) our actions are rapidly laying waste to this beautiful big mess of a planet, that we call home. What worries me is the upside down logic of the disciples of this new religion.

I know the Gap year/wandering soul disciples have taken a bashing here so far, but there are worse; The Chattering classes (I could think of some more descriptive terms!) have turned environmental logic completely on its head, locked it in a single glazed Georgian bubble and put their fingers in it’s ears. We have all witnessed the sickening sight of ‘super mom’ looking smug and glancing around the checkouts for some kind of ‘green credibility as she say’s “no it’s okay, I have my ‘bag for life’” Bravo! But the small city on four wheels, with the emissions of a Russian Power plant, parked outside renders that smugness as nothing more than complete delusion.

But we surely are a smart bunch, aren’t we? Why can’t our clever, modern minds work out what is wrong? What is so difficult? Global issues like this are collections of individual actions, travelling all the way to Copenhagen to lambast politicians does not address the fundamental issues that have created the monster of ‘climate change’ in the first place. We individuals, with our individualistic goals, created this monstrous free word, where we can have what we want , all of the time. The everyday person has become the ‘consumer’, as consumption is more often than not, the everyday activity. We are even being hoodwinked by our own good intentions, with people unfortunately beginning to believe the green drivel, dripping off advertisements, posters, the lips of politicians & celebrities, like sticky environmental snot.

The consumer can become human once again, and influence the directions of society through their own actions. These actions start at home, in the immediate surrounds that your life actions impact upon, not in Copenhagen. So instead of taking 14 busses, 8 trains and a Volvo taxi to Copenhagen this week, do something worthwhile – stay at home and insulate your fucking attic!

Joe Laverty is an angry drummer for a band called Pocket Promise. See him in a warmer climate here on the Bandwidth site.

I was having serious trouble this week.  It’s getting near Christmas and I work in a shop – if I have to explain that to you, you have obviously never worked retail.  The constant onslaught of Christmas shoppers depressed me, and I couldn’t write.  I tried sitting at my laptop and drinking a bottle of wine, but I ended up spilling the last glass and having to suck the dregs out of the USB port.  I tried watching Al Pacino’s inspirational speech from Any Given Sunday 14 times in a row, but that didn’t work either.  Desperate, I decided to give Johnny a call.
‘I’m blocked,’ I said.
‘You’re always blocked.’
‘No, not drunk.’
‘What?  Constipated!?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘No.  Writer’s block.  There won’t be an article this week.’
‘Don’t be silly.  We’ve got something special lined up for you this week anyway.’
‘Ah Jesus…what is it?’
‘Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Did you just say words?’
‘Yes. Fix-A-Grinch.’
‘Yeah I got that – what does it fucking mean?  That doesn’t explain anything.’
‘It’s a company that fixes grinches.  You go to their camp and they turn grumpy people into happy people around Christmas time.’
‘No,’ was all I said.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, and I could hear his smile.  Fuck him, I thought, they can’t make me go.

Around 5am the next morning I was awoken by some broad dressed as an elf.  At first I thought I had gotten drunk in the mall and fallen asleep in Santa’s Grotto again, but then I looked around, saw the two burly guys wearing Santa hats behind her, and realised I was in fact in my own bed.
‘Who the fuck are you?  How did you get into my house?’ I yelled.
‘Don’t make this hard,’ she said with a creepy smile, ’we’re from Fix-A-Grinch.’  I grabbed the half empty (hey, I’m a pessimist) beer bottle beside my bed and chucked it at her, cracking her square in the forehead.  It made a terrific ‘donk’ sound and I started laughing triumphantly.  Then one of the big fellas socked me in the face and I went back to sleep.

I woke up in a big orphanage style dorm room with beds all along both sides.  Every bed was occupied.  The floor was covered with fake snow and there was tinsel and Christmas lights all over the walls.  All of a sudden Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and Wine started blasting from unseen speakers, rousing the rest of the prisoners.  What the fuck is this? was written on every face.  ‘Activities time!’ yelled the smug faced little bitch who kidnapped me as she bounded into the room.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate, it is activities.

Without further explanation, we were led outside into a kind of fake winter wonderland, complete with knee-deep imitation snow, fake Christmas trees, [Editor’s Note: Fake Plastic Trees?  Nice reference.] [Ian’s Note: What?] [Editor’s Note: Never mind.] plastic snowmen, and the most grotesque nativity scene I have ever laid eyes on.  The whole thing was obviously too much for one man, who made a mad dash for the chain link fence surrounding the compound.  He got halfway up the fence before a sniper brought him down with a well-aimed snowball.  He fell to the ground, billowing fake snow into the air, and I noticed that the fence only went about 1 inch below the snow line.  I made a mental note of this as we marched on towards the activities building.  Inside we were each shown to our work area and informed that the first ‘class’ of the day was how to make homemade chutney, which is apparently a fun, inexpensive and heartfelt gift suitable for anyone.  Anyone who thinks apple and onion and fucking vinegar is a winning combination, that is.  Some people started to vomit uncontrollably and had to be carried off by guards wearing Santa hats.

The second class of the day was the story of Christmas.  We were given booklets and told to pay attention, because the following day we would be putting on a dramatic performance of the birth of Christ.  If there is one thing in this world that I hate more than activities, it is doing drama.  I had to get the hell out of there, and luckily we were given a one hour break, with the recommendation that we spend it either revising the story of Christmas, or looking over the lyrics to some carols, as carolling would be the third class of the day.  I quickly made my way back to the bunkhouse and – when no one was looking – I kicked away some of the fake snow in one corner of the room.  I knew it!  The goddamn shed we were housed in was only sunk a few inches into the snow.  The whole place was as fake as a Roland Emmerich movie.  If only I could dig some of it away without them noticing…  Then I remembered the hole in my pocket I’d been meaning to fix.  I turned the pocket inside out and ripped it open, then I did the same on the other side.  Then I grabbed a candy cane off the Christmas tree and started to dig.  I would walk in and out of the bunkhouse humming Auld Lang Syne, covertly shaking fake snow out of my trouser legs every time I made it outside.  It was slow going, and it became clear I would have to endure carolling.

During the carolling class there was a distinct change in the mood.  The people were starting to look like they were enjoying themselves.  I realise now that the mince pies and mulled wine we were served for lunch must have been laced with something.  I was lucky to have been so busy with my digging because I’ve never been known to turn down an alcoholic beverage, and as is so often the case, it almost certainly would have been my undoing.  The last class of the day was a Christmas movie, and they were nice enough to give us a choice.  I demanded that we watch It’s A Wonderful Life.  ‘No!, screamed some hysterical dame sitting next to me, ’Miracle On 34th Street!’
‘I will fight you,’ I said, glaring at her.  Neither of us got our movie – the goddamn airhead consensus was Jingle All The Way, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger.  It was at this point I gave up any intention of taking the bastards with me.

After lights out I slipped out of bed and resumed my tunnelling.  At around 4am I made it under the fence and out of the compound, but the second I stood up out of the snow I was hit by a spotlight and a siren exploded into life.  I saw two of the guards take to a sleigh  to give pursuit, and sprinted off into the woods.  As it happens I had little to worry about – the sleigh was dragged by two miniature Schnauzers wearing little reindeer antlers and it really didn’t move very fast at all.  I didn’t stop running until I reached civilisation and found myself somewhere in Ballymena.  I hid out at the train station until daylight and got a ticket for the first train to Belfast.  As I was boarding I was stopped by the ticket inspector, who eyed my dishevelled clothing suspiciously and asked me where I was going.
‘Ah bay, just headin’ inta the city ta day some Christmas shoppin’, hay,’ I said.  He wished me well and sent me on my way.

Folks, Christmas doesn’t have to be the way it looks on a Marks And Spencer ad.  Me, I’m going to go see Scrooged in QFT (http://www.queensfilmtheatre.com/films/scrooged/).  I’m going to get drunk in some cosy little bar and wait for the Fairytale Of New York sing-a-long.  And yes, I’m going to watch The Great Escape on TV again.  Whatever you do, have a good one, and if anyone gives me homemade chutney as a Christmas present I will fucking kill you.

[Editor’s Note: I know ‘this is not a review’ but… what exactly did you just review?]

[Ian’s Note: Christmas.]

[Editor’s Note: You reviewed Christmas?]

[Ian’s Note: Yes.]

[Editor’s Note: Pretentious bastard.]

10. Phil Anselmo: Ex-Pantera frontman and southern badass, Phil’s coolest tats include the one on his skull (his skull!) and the ‘Phil Core’ on his arm. Hardcore Phil, now of Down, has technically died before, but it hasn’t shown any signs of slowing him down.

9. Maynard James Keenan: Tool’s tiny singer has had this from back in the heavier Opiate days. In all probability it holds the key to the universe and we should all think about getting one.

8. Henry Rollins: Henry has since gone a bit downhill of recent, appearing in gap ads and full metal scrapheap or something challenge. Still though, he’s nearly as wide as he is tall. Apparently the half coloured tattoo of a bone on his lower leg never got finished cause it hurt him too much…

7. Simon Neil: Again, another tiny man. Surprised they all fit on him actually, but they do seem a tad more thought out than a lot of other’s. His ‘god only knows what id be without you’ and In Utero doll are something which can be expected to crop up with all the kids.

6. Brent Hinds: Mastodon’s co-frontman, of sorts, Brent is apparently a bit of the loose cannon of the metal band. You’d need to be, having a tattoo on your forehead and all.

5. Shelly Brien: The female Mark Lanegan almost. COVERED in tattoos and very, very hot. Her vocals, found on Bubblegum, compliment Mark fairly well. She looks like she could knock the bollocks out of you though, but in a good way.

4. Mark Lanegan: Born to be in a rock band, Lanegan has worked with the best in the business including 90’s grunge band Screaming Trees, Foo Fighters, Kurk Cobain, QOTSA, Greg Dulli…it goes on. His style has rubbed off on some. Don’t think Josh Homme’s stars popped up out of nowhere.

3. Dez Fafara: Dez never used to look this strange. With his Coal Chamber days long behind him, he went on to found hardcore band DevilDriver. And seemingly went a bit insane. You maybe wouldn’t tell him though.

2. Timmy C/Simmering Tim, YTK: An excellent bassist for an excellent band. Rage, that is. Audioslave were never going to be greater than the sum of the parts. While Tim and the rest of his RATM teammates toying with the idea of a full-scale comeback, Chris Cornell went to Timbaland and himself appeared live on a few Temple of the Dog tracks with Eddie Vedder.

1. Joey Castillo: Qotsa always needed an excellent drummer following the departure of Dave Grohl and they got it in the monster Joey. 100% pure, tattooed drumming machine.

We had a volunteer this week.  Some broad contacted Johnny about being my date, which naturally aroused suspicion, considering that no woman has ever expressed any interest in going on a date with me.  Johnny did some digging and we found the angle – she works for one of our shitbag rival pod cast sites and was going undercover to get some dirt on our operation.  We don’t fuck around here at Bandwidth though, so we took this as high as it goes.  Above Paul even.  We took this to Will, and Will authorised the hit.

We had to do this thing right though, so when I got the call on Saturday I was ready for it.  ‘Hey Ian I’ve got Lisa here – she’s the first girl ever to volunteer to be your date for the week,’ said Johnny.
‘Does she have big cans?’
‘Um, Ian…’
‘Come on man, what are they like?  Big?  Just say yes or no, she won’t even know what your talking about.’
‘Ian you should…’
‘Jesus Johnny it’s a simple question.  Are they fun bags or soggy rags?’
‘You’re on speakerphone Ian.’  I paused for a second to let this sink in.
‘Hey lady – if you look down can you see your feet?’
‘Um, yes,’ she said.
‘Not interested,’ I said, and slammed the phone down.  Johnny took some time to assure her I was joking, and also to recommend a push-up bra for the night of our date.  No normal broad would listen to that sort of shit and still want to go for a drink with me.  She was definitely a rat.

Under the pretence of a shitty gimmick, Johnny arranged for us to have a few drinks and then go to the late showing of Paranormal Activity.  I got to the bar early and as well as having a few stiff drinks, I ducked into a cubicle in the toilets and made the final preparations.  She showed up just as I was finishing my fourth whiskey.  ‘Hey – you look really nice,’ I said, ‘can I get you a drink?’
‘Yes please.  Vodka diet coke,’ she said, obviously surprised by my friendliness.
‘Sorry about the other day.  My blood sugar was playing up.’
‘Oh that’s ok,’ she said.  Man she was playing it cool.
‘You’re breasts are lovely by the way,’ I said, and smiled at the awkward, slightly scared look in her eyes.

Strangely, she was really quite nice to me.  She did her best to get me talking about Bandwidth and when that didn’t work she just tried to drag the small talk out of me, which wasn’t easy since I like small talk about as much as I like clothes shopping.  Then she started talking about the clothes shopping she did that day.  ‘I got these pretty new shoes,’ she said, showing me her feet.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘Purple.’  I’m very observant.
‘Well, plum,’ she giggled.  Plums are fucking purple you double crossing bitch!
‘My mistake,’ I smiled, and pounded back my whiskey.  Luckily it was time for the movie; I was growing impatient.

To me, hype is like the faint bad smell that alerts you that you have stepped in something warm and soft and disgusting and just not realised.  It’s like a precursor of something terrible.  But not always.  As with everything in life, there are exceptions and sometimes, the hype is well earned.  See, I have always maintained that ghosts are not scary.  I mean Jason will machete your fucking skull open but what’s a ghost going to do?  But then, Jason was never very scary either so maybe my logic was flawed.  Actually after seeing this movie I can say conclusively – my logic was fucked.  The film starts very innocuously in the same vein as (dare I make the comparison!?) The Blair Witch Project, shot as a ‘home movie’.  It’s incredibly economical, which is something I love to see in a film and has become all too rare these days.  It’s also very, very clever.  The recurring night vision shot of the darkened bedroom/hallway is one of the best uses of onscreen space and lighting that I have ever seen.  To put this in the context of a horror movie: it’s really fucking creepy.  On top of that, every other aspect of the film, from performance and pacing to special effects and the use of sound, is so close to perfect that I won’t even spend time making a distinction.  And let me tell you, when I go to see a horror movie and end up talking about the use of sound rather than the leading actress’s rack (which is magnificent, by the way) you know I’m talking about something special.  This movie changed my mind about the paranormal.  It is scary.  I don’t know why, but it is.  And you realise this about 10 minutes before the end of the movie when you get a cramp in your ass from clenching so hard; your body’s instinctual reaction when it realises your ass cheeks will be the last line of defence should your bowel just up and throw in the towel.  [Editor’s Note: Did you mean to rhyme bowel with towel?]  The night I saw this movie I woke up at 4am needing to pee.  When I went to the bathroom, I turned on the light.

After the movie I suggested that we go back to the bar for one last drink, and she agreed.  She even offered to pay.  Just as she was sitting down I excused myself and went to the toilets.  I stretched up over the vomit splashed toilet and reached around behind the cistern.  The weapon was still there.  I looked at it in my hands and contemplated what I was about to do.  Then some drunk bastard banged on the door.  ‘You nearly done in there man?  I gotta puke again,’ he said. I steeled myself and walked back to the bar.  I came at her from behind, and stuffed the huge cream pie in her face.  ‘Take that you bitch!’ I yelled as she went down, spluttering cream all over people at the next table.  Seeing this, the bartender grabbed his double filled pies from under the bar and started throwing them at me.  I ducked and ran for the door as they splatted against the wall behind me.  Johnny was waiting for me in the car outside.  I jumped in and we made a clean getaway.

Don’t fuck with Bandwidth, holmes.

So after a day or so it’s all finally hitting us.
Thanks to all at The Irish Music Television Awards, to Graham Smith and all at And So I Watch You From Afar. Matt and I are very grateful. That’s what I meant to say last night. My actual speech may have been a little less coherent.

Congratulations to all the other winners – its was a night of exceptional talent. And I hope to see a lot more from you very soon.

In the meantime – these awards were pretty heavy. Physically I mean. So much so its quite hard to find a shelf to keep it on. I hear Tom Hanks keeps his oscars in the kitchen – this will do for me:

‘Look I’m getting tired of this date thing.’  I was in Paul’s office.  Dealing with Johnny has become impossible lately.  He just tells me to do what he says or he’ll publish the pictures from Halloween, which apparently give new meaning to the term “horse riding”.
‘Already?  How come?’
‘I don’t know… I feel like I’m running out of steam.  No one is interested any more.  Including me.’
‘Have you ever done this before?’  While we were talking he was trying to set up Sky Plus on the TV in his office.  I don’t even have an office.
‘No, I can’t afford that sort of thing.  You don’t pay me,’ I said.
‘Really?  How did we manage that?’  I just stared at him.
‘Are you telling me you pay the other writers?’
‘What the hell does Program Setup Code mean?’
‘Look Paul, we need to shake things up a bit.  I can’t just keep writing about the same thing.  I need to keep it original.’
‘By all means, shake things up.  That’s why we brought you on board.’  He opened the installation guide.
‘Yeah but…’  And then he spun his chair around to face away from me.  I guessed the meeting was over.

I showed up to the cinema in a bad mood.  I am pretty much always in a bad mood but I was also pissed off that there had apparently been no change to the format whatsoever.  Another goddamn movie date.  Johnny was standing outside with some kid.
‘What the fuck man?’ I asked.
‘No bad words!’ shouted the kid.  I glared at her.  She returned the glare.
‘What’s up?’ asked Johnny.
‘Why the hell am I still reviewing a movie?  And where’s the broad?’  He glanced down at the kid, who was now texting.
‘No fucking way!’
‘Hey!’ she yelled, and stomped on my foot.  ‘No.  Bad.  Words,’ she said, pointing at me.
‘Myeh, myeh, myeh,’ I mocked.
‘This is Sally, my niece,’ said Johnny.
‘I’m not taking a kid to the movies.’
‘Why not?  It’s something new and it’s bound to be a funny story.’
‘I’m not doing it Johnny.  I don’t do kids.’
‘That’s good to hear, otherwise I wouldn’t leave her with you,’ he laughed, ‘you two have fun,’ he said, and just sauntered off.
‘Why is your hair like that?’ she asked me.
‘Like what?’
‘Like… stupid.’
‘If you shut up I’ll buy you sweets.’  She did, and went back to texting.

At the ticket desk I asked for two tickets for Taking Woodstock.  The woman looked at me like I just told her I gave her Chlamydia.
‘That film is rated 15.’
‘She is 15,’ I said, ‘she’s a midget.’
‘I’m not 15, said Sally, ‘I’m 7.’  The woman at the desk smiled at her.
‘Aw, aren’t you cute.  Is your big brother taking you to the movies?’
‘He’s not my big brother.  He’s just some guy.  He said he’d buy me sweets.’  The woman looked at me, horrified.
‘She’s my friend’s niece, alright.  Just give me two tickets for An Education.’
‘What’s that about?’ asked the kid.
‘It’s about some guy who seduces an underage girl,’ I told her.  The ticket lady gave me the dirtiest look I have seen since I drank all the champagne at a house-warming party and threw up.  ‘Oh for fuck sake,’ I said, and the kid punched me in the ass.  It actually really hurt.

At the concession stand she told me she wanted pick n mix.
‘Alright kid, knock yourself out,’ I said, and she filled a bag.
‘That’s £8.75,’ said the guy, after he weighed it.
‘Jesus kid, what did you put in there?’
‘And ice cream and a Coke,’ she said.  The guy found this very funny and started to pour her Coke.
‘Where would be the best place to hide a body?’ I asked him, just as the ticket lady was walking past.  She glared at me, then bent down and whispered something in the kid’s ear.  The joke was on her though; I looked right down her shirt and didn’t even try to cover it up.

I had actually wanted to see An Education, and not just for tips on picking up 16 year old girls.  I like the whole rebellious teenager thing, and I like to think that if I was growing up in Sixties London [Editor’s Note: You’d fall for a handsome older man!?] I’d want to go to Paris and listen to classical music and smoke and read Camus.  The movie captures that spirit perfectly without ever being heavy handed.  Same goes for the performances, all of which are pitch perfect, despite nearly all of the characters being much more complex than is standard for movies along these lines.  It is a mature but light-hearted film that treats its subject matter with much more respect than I have come to expect, probably because it is based on some lady’s memoirs rather than some half-assed, contrived Hollywood script.  Brass tacks, I had a bloody good time watching it.  Christ, sometimes I really do sound like a film critic.

After the movie we bumped into this girl I know from work.  She has probably the biggest boobs I have ever seen, and despite being incredibly hot, she actually talks to me.  She was with her equally hot friend and looked as pleased to see me as I was to see her (boobs).  I soon realised this was because of the kid, whom they were gushing over like typical dames.
‘Aw, who’s this?’ she asked.
‘This is Sally.  She’s my friend’s niece,’ I said.
‘Aw and did you just take her to see a movie?’
‘I sure did.’
‘Aww!  I didn’t know you liked kids.’
‘Well, anything to see a wee smile on her face,’ I said, and patted the kid on the head.  ‘You want to join us…’  Sally rudely interrupted my pick up line with a massive kick to my nuts.  Then she ran off screaming, ‘Help!  Help!’ I went down like a cheap hooker and fought back the tears.

Just about the time I limped back to my feet, two cops showed up to question me about the kid.  They didn’t let me go until Johnny showed up to verify my story.  As he drove me to the hospital I got a chance to question the kid.
‘Jesus Sally, what was that about?’
‘The lady in the cinema said if you touch me I should kick you in the privates and run away,’ she said.  The kind lady had also been kind enough to call the police, it seems.  At the hospital they treated me for a dislocated testicle, something I didn’t even know was possible.  As I sat there with a bag of ice pressed against my nuts, Johnny appeared.
‘You know what man?’ I said, ‘from now on we’ll stick to the regular format.’

10 – Ginger, The Wildhearts. Proud enough of his fiery dreads to leave the name David Walls behind, we could all take note of the Geordie Ginger.

9 – Tori Amos. Theres something about ginger women, everybody knows that. Almost the other ‘love that dare not speak its name’, Tori could be easily joined here by Girls Aloud’s Nicola Roberts. Controversial perhaps.

8 – Ginger Baker, Cream. Looking like Animal from The Muppets, he played like one too, an animal that is. And look at him! Mental! Theres a picture of Animal here too, just not sure where.

7 – The Undertaker. Ok, he’s not a rock star, but he did do that whole Metallica-esque persona for a while. Plus, he IS The Undertaker!
Despite what you may think, he really is ginger. You just wouldn’t tell him.

6 – Axl Rose, Guns ‘n’ Roses. Yeah, despite what you might think of our Axl, Guns n Roses were undisputedly an excellent band back in the day. Since then, falls outs and break ups left Axl with a bit of a bad, (if possible), name. There’s no ‘i’ in ‘team’, Axl, but there’s certainly a ‘u’ in ‘cunt’

5 – La Faro. A band in which 75% of the members are gingers. That makes us a majority. Excellent!

4 – Mark Lanegan. Getting closer to the Number one ginger, Mark had to make an appearance somewhere. Throughout his career he’s managed to attract the attention of other gingers. Regardless though, you can’t imagine a voice like that being attached to anyone who isn’t a ginge.

3 – Tom Waits. Strange that a man, older than Mark Lanegan and whose voice was once described ‘like it was soaked in bourbon, left hanging in the smokehouse for a few months, and then taken outside and run over with a car’ is also ginger. Tom should be Mark’s dad.

2 – The Ginger Elvis. Very, very ginger, and very, very cool. Possibly the coolest ginger man on the planet. Nuff said.

1 – Glen Hansard. Glen’s got about a fair amount, even though he is probably the most ginger person on the planet. Not a hint of a tan anywhere near his ginger skin. Making the transition from music to film on a number of occasions shows that he’s clearly been accepted by the wider community. An inspiration to us all.

The phone woke me up.
‘What?’  I answered.
‘Did I wake you up?’
‘Of course you fucking woke me up!’
‘It’s half four in the afternoon man.’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Johnny.’
‘Ah Jesus.  Call me back in fifteen minutes.’

I drank a cup of coffee on the can and was eating a banana when he called me back.
‘Alright what is it this week and what sort of lunatic am I going with?’ I asked.
‘Well this one is a bit awkward.  It’s going to require some… tact on your part.’
‘Tact?  Jesus the only thing I have less of is chest hair!’
‘Actually that might be a positive here.’
‘Stop dancing around it.  What is it?’  I asked, losing patience.
‘It’s a multi-act show in aid of Outburst, the gay arts festival.’  I knew what he was going to say.  Suddenly I didn’t feel like eating a banana any more.
‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘What?’
‘My date is a gay guy.’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Well what then?’  He paused.
‘The only girl I could get is a lesbian.’
‘Well why the hell would she go on a date with me?’
‘That’s where the tact part comes in.’  He told her I was a lesbian.
‘You told her I was a lesbian.’
‘Yes.’
‘So I have to pretend to be a woman?’
‘Yes.  A gay woman.’
‘You savage fuck, how the hell am I supposed to make myself look like a lesbian?’  Silence.  He thinks I already kind of look like a lesbian.
‘You’re going to say it shouldn’t be too hard, aren’t you?’
‘Well you are vaguely feminine looking.  And you have terrible dress sense.’  My grip on the phone tightened.
‘Just tell me where and when.’
‘Black Box at 8pm tonight.  She’ll meet you out front.’  I hung up, went to the cupboard and got my bottle of Jack.  I took a long slug.

I showed up late, on account of stopping off in The Kitchen Bar (my favourite bar, for anyone interested) to neck a few whiskies.  When I got there, there was only one girl outside.  This broad did not look like a lesbian.  A porno lesbian yes, but not a real one.  I felt like a complete ass but I had a whiskey fire in my belly, and that was enough.
‘Hey,’ I said, realising I forgot to ask Johnny her name.
‘Peggy-Sue?’ she asked.  Obviously Johnny’s idea of a joke.
‘That’s me,’ I smiled.  She didn’t introduce herself, she just stomped inside.  Oh well, just another beautiful woman with no interest in me.  No biggie.

Right inside the door I bumped into a guy I know.  I tried to duck away.
‘Hey man!’  Damn it.
‘Hey how’s it going?’ I said.
‘Not bad… you look different,’ he said, looking me up and down.
‘Uh yeah, I shaved.’
‘No it’s not that… Are you wearing a bra?’ he asked.  I was.
‘Um, yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s a medical thing.’
‘Bitch tits!?’
‘No!  It’s for support.  I had an operation.’
‘Oh, sorry man.  Are you ok?’
‘Yeah.  I’m going to go get a drink.  Take it easy man.’  I got myself a Guinness and located the broad.  She was sitting at a table with a bunch of women who were all drinking Guinness.  They all looked like me.  Fuck my life.  I shook hands with them all and sat down.  The broad didn’t say one more word to me the rest of the night; she sat talking to some bimbo.  The tart.  I focused my attention on the total hottie in a red dress at the next table.  The first act went on.

Koko and the Boomtown Cats is not the sort of band anyone would expect me to like, especially if they had read last week’s Motorhead review.  But I’m an eclectic kinda guy and sometimes things don’t go the way you’d expect.  Despite sitting with a bunch of women who were all just as interested in the lead singer’s tits as I was, and the bra, and being relatively sober, I noticed something strange happening to my face.  I was smiling.  It was impossible not to.   They are three pretty ladies with pink hair, backed up by a band that rocks and rolls in equal measure, and they’re awesome.  Next up was Jitterbug Jackson, who did a sort of circus act to the sounds of Mr. Blue Sky.  My smile widened.  This guy’s energy is infectious, even to a surly fuck like me, and he sure plays a mean diablo.  After charming the entire audience he took a seat behind the drum kit and Katie and the Carnival took to the stage.  Anything I say here is redundant; Will already told you how great these guys are here.  I will simply say that while they were playing I got that sense of selfish satisfaction you get when you see a band right before they hit the big time.  Katie and the Carnival?  Kid I saw those guys live when you were still shitting your short pants.  Then something magical happened.  A lady I recognised as one of Koko’s backing singers appeared on stage, having swapped her pink wig and frilly skirt for a sexy yellow dress and elbow length gloves.  Then she started taking her clothes off.  For an accurate representation of my reaction, see this video. Granted, it is hard to go wrong with a beautiful woman stripping on stage, but this was different man.  This was burlesque.  This was classy.  For me this was love.  She stripped down until the only things covering her modesty were a pair of vintage undies and two light-up nipple tassels, and the whole thing was just too much for me.  I’m no lesbian!  I am man!  Testosterone surging through my body, I reached under my shirt and whipped off my bra.  I stood up, proudly adjusted my crotch, and headed for the bar.  My little scene must have been very inspirational because as Koko once again took to the stage to close the set, all the women at my table started to whoop it up and take off their own bras, leaving their tits swimming around in their sweatshirts like two ferrets fighting over some food lodged in the belly button.  I turned away from the grisly sight and realised I was standing next to the hottie in the red dress.  Go for it, I thought, the spirit of Mickey is with you.  Just then the bartender appeared.
‘Jack Daniels please, no ice.’
‘Sorry mate, bar’s closed.’  At 11pm! This knocked my confidence and allowed reality to seep into my horny, whiskey-pickled mind.  She was out of my league.  Way out.  As usual.  I didn’t say a word to her, as usual.  I went back to the Kitchen Bar for a lonely pint, as usual.  Maybe I am a lesbian, I thought.  I like the ladies, but I sure as shit don’t have any balls.

9. Nirvana – Where Did You Sleep Last Night?
Once dear ol’ Kurt got a whiff of this Leadelly song he originally did a duet with Mark Lanegan on his first solo album, entitled The Winding Sheet. Mostly recognisably though, it appears in flawless form on Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged session.

8. Marmaduke Duke – Single Ladies
By no means the Scottish Beyonce, Biffy’s Simon Neil and Sucioperro’s JP Reid combined (with the other Biffy members) for this cover in Radio 1’s Live Lounge. Like the other covers Simon Neil has turned his hand to in recent years, this turns out excellent.

7. Roger Waters Feat Van Morrison and The Band – Comfortably Numb
Found on The Departed soundtrack, you might end up seeing something almost quite beautiful in Van’s otherwise totally out of place addition.

(N.B. Yeah I know this clip is the concert version, but it’s good too)

6. China Drum – Wuthering Heights
Shattering the delicacy of Kate Bush’s original might be sacrilege for some, but if you’re gonna do it, do it properly. And preferably with a lot of distortion.

5. Manic Street Preachers – Suicide Is Painless
Ok, it comes from the Manics slightly glam era, but it’s still a priceless cover and a slightly ironic song for the Welshmen to come off with, just a few years before Richey Edwards ‘disappearance’.

4. Pearl Jam – Last Kiss
Made famous by Wayne Cochran and the CC Riders in 1962, Pearl Jam’s take allows Vedder’s voice to take centre stage in the otherwise fairly low key cover. Still, though, it’s Pearl Jam’s biggest hit to date – it’s true.

3. The Twilight Singers – My Time (Has Come)
When singer Greg Dulli appeared on Italian-based band Afterhour’s version of this song, originally called ‘White Widow’, it was no surprise it then turned up on his latest Twilight Singers album Powder Burns.

2. Deftones – The Chauffer
Not an instantly recognisable song. Featuring on the ‘b-sides and rarities’ album, the Deftones bring their own smooth take on this Duran Duran song.

1. Johnny Cash – Bridge Over Troubled Water
Everyone knows his cover of Nine Inch Nails’ ‘Hurt’ is heart-renderingly brilliant. Though Bridge Over Troubled Water, which also features Fiona Apple, should be considered just as impressive.

I woke up on Monday with a strange kind of feeling in my stomach.  Not nerves, exactly.  More a sense that something was coming that I wasn’t quite prepared for.  Something I couldn’t prepare myself for in fact.  When I went to the loo and the feeling still didn’t subside I realised the feeling was simply something I hadn‘t experienced in a long time.  I was excited.  I was excited because I was going to see Motorhead that very night.  There was only one person in the world who could fuck this day up for me; Johnny.  I hadn’t even asked who my date would be, these days I just assume the whole thing will be a disaster.  Almost as if that was their plan from the start…

The plan was to meet my date at Katy’s, then proceed to the Ulster Hall for a night of balls-out rocking.  And as anyone who has been rocking professionally for as long as I have knows, the best fuel for this sort of night is Jack and Coke.  I’m normally a straight up kind of guy, but without the mixer there is a danger of dehydration brought on by three hours of continuous boogie.  Besides, it’s Lemmy’s drink of choice and you don’t fucking argue with Lemmy alright?  After my first drink I decided it would be prudent to start drinking doubles (fewer trips to the bar and all that).  It was on double number four that she arrived with her boyfriend.  That’s right, she brought her boyfriend.  There were only two explanations.  Either these people wanted a three-way, or they just wanted to read about themselves online.  Either way I was not happy.  I shook the guy’s hand and grumbled a drunken hello to the chick, remembering the wise words an old sage once told me: ‘Sometimes it just doesn’t make sense.’  Here was this cute rock chick, decked out in a Motorhead tank top and with enough tattoo on show to make you wonder where those things ended up, and she was with this… guy.  This totally unremarkable guy.  Even more unremarkable than me, if only because my height lends me a somewhat comedic appearance.

[Editor’s Note: It should be pointed out that Ian is hilariously short, not hilariously tall.]
[Ian’s Note: Thank you.]

That same wise man also once told me, ‘Ian, there is nothing as hot as a hot chick in a tank top.  Nothing.’  I contemplated this as I stared at her rack and it depressed me so much I had to go to the bar.  I fixed myself a boilermaker and returned to the table.  I have to hatch a plan, I thought as I sat down.
‘I love your This Is Not A Review thing,’ said the girl, ‘it’s really funny.’
‘Yeah she keeps telling me to read it,’ said the guy.
‘That’s ok, I haven’t heard of you either,’ I told him and took a gulp.  I’m not quite sure what I was driving at, but it seemed like the right thing to say.  Drunk and jealous is not a good combination.

On the way round to the concert hall I decided to look to the aforementioned wise man for advice.  I texted him explaining the situation and asked what I should do.  His reply: ‘Windmill in.’  Despite my respect for him, I decided against the use of violence.  Damn.

When we got to the gig I cornered the guy and told him he better get me a good spot near the front or I’d beat him to death his girlfriend’s awesome cans.  It strikes me now that despite their near infinite potential, tits really wouldn’t be very useful as a weapon.  The threat seemed to work anyway.  I went to the bar and sunk two over-priced beers in quick succession, knowing that from here on in I would need to achieve military precision with my drinking, lest I end up too drunk or worse, lose my buzz.  I got myself four more and ventured into the concert hall to the sounds of Sweet Savage warming up the crowd.  They were doing a good job.  I found the pair near the stage and handed each of them one of my beers.  ‘Hold these!’ I yelled, but they didn’t hear and just started drinking them.  I would have been furious but this accidental act of kindness seemed to win over the broad and she gave me the sort of smile that made me wonder if goddamnit I might have a chance.  I just smiled back and put my plan into action.  During the remainder of the support act I strategically bumped into the guy, stepped on his toes and spilt beer on him, apologising each and every time.  Nothing worked on this guy though – he was as patient and friendly as ever – and I realised then that’s what she saw in him.  He was a good guy and he deserved this chick.  I abandoned my plans and went back to the bar, dejected.  I drank a lonesome whiskey, got four more beers and headed back in as the roadies were setting up for Motorhead.  I gave the happy couple a beer each and they apologised for losing my spot, which was now occupied by this ridiculous looking emo dude who appeared to be welded to his really hot girlfriend.  I was in no mood for that shit, but I bided my time.  When Motorhead went on the crowd became a heaving tide of rockers, loaded up on beer and quite possibly several illegal substances, and I made my move.  I gave the emo a high five and then hoisted the fucker up onto my shoulder.  Then I just passed him back onto the up-stretched hands of several hundred half-cut Motorhead fans who mistook him for a crowd surfer and passed him around until the bastard was gone from sight.  I smiled at his girl, threw my arm around her neck and gave her a beer.  We commenced our rocking.

Watching Lemmy play rock n roll is like watching one of John Wayne’s later westerns.  He’s been doing it so well for so long it has become like an instinct to him.  It is so natural it appears almost effortless, and to the uninitiated this can be mistaken for complacency.  Simply going through to motions.  Formulaic.  When in actual fact, it’s anything but.  When you see a young rock n roll band play live you can see them pour their heart and soul into it.  You can see their energy and their passion because they do a lot of jumping around and posturing.  With Motorhead it’s different.  These guys, Lemmy especially, have got rock n roll in their blood.  They need do nothing but stand there and it pours out of them like they just opened a fucking vein.  No fancy stage theatrics.  No gimmicks.  Just balls out rock n roll played louder than everyone else, better than everyone else.  That’s Motorhead, and if you don’t get it, don’t bother trying.  I left the place with a sore neck and a shirt soaked with beer, but most of all I left with the knowledge that I had just seen something special.  Like seeing Hendrix on guitar.  Olivier on stage.  Brando on screen.  Lemmy is rock n roll royalty and nothing I can write here can do him justice, because I’m just not that good at writing.  I went home in a state of Zen-like contentedness that mere alcohol can never instil, with Lemmy’s own words rolling around my head: I’m in love with rock n roll, it satisfies my soul, if that’s all there is, it ain’t so bad, rock n roll!  Fucking A, Lemmy.  Fucking A.

Around about the middle of October, Wicked and I took ourselves along to a Halloween Hoedown. I’ll say it was a Hoedown alright. Wicked Toe was in not the best of form, he was a little on the grumpy side for most of the night. But between you and I folks, it can get a little lonesome curled up on the couch with just Toe, so I put my foot down: we were going out! We got into the Spring and Airbrake and I immediately positioned myself, ear (singular) toward the stage.

The Dirty Roots were first on, that sure shut Wicked up. Apart from being just about the most aesthetically pleasing band in Belfast, it turns out these guys have a sound to back it up. They filled the room with a mellow rock that made the folks listen up good. The smooth funkiness of vocalist Pete Murray lends the sing-a-long tunes an edginess, which pricks your ears. All that was laced with the sweet vocals of a very fine Ada Ketchie making The Dirty Roots sound more than pretty.

Illustrations by Kathryn Boyle

Having Toe’s attention diverted to the other goings on in the room I could relax, and grab myself a pint of beer. The lights were down low, and my back was turned away from the stage. All of a sudden I could see the reflection of a spotlight bounce between the mirrors, and the sound of what can only be described as snake charming music. Sweet Jimmie Rodgers what in the name of all things sacred was going on? I turned round only to be hypnotised by the undulating body of a mighty fine looking belly dancer, whom I later found out to be called Samantha Emanuel. Then I spotted Toe a couple of rows up ahead. His eyes where the size of headlamps, I could practically see his heart pumping beneath his toenail. He turned round to me and whispered, “Joe, I am in love.” Now I don’t know how many of you have every seen a smitten Wicked Toe, but let me tell you, it aint pretty.

Wicked can get a little obsessive, so I thought if the young belly dancer was out of sight she’d be out of mind. I breathed a sigh of relief when the next band came on, Ten Gallon Hat and the Big Salute. The band came out and authoritatively broke into a rock rattle and shake of groovy country blues that got the girls excited and the boys’ feet a tapping. The range of tunes played was really something; there was country up-beat rock tunes like New Horizons and the bluesy Put it Away, which were subtly contrasted with deep soulful tunes such of Mercy of the Water. Even from Toe’s euphoric love struck state, I could tell he was impressed.

As if we could ask for more, the night was capped off with an energetic burst of country love from Jackson Cage. Undoubtedly this band had the most energy on stage that either Toe or I had seen in a while. Their jamming country rock sound had soul, and the boys and gal seemed to really enjoy being on stage giving them a unique buzz that permeated their performance.

I awoke the next morning with a hangover of the head and mouth, Toe awoke the next morning with the hangover of the heart, and we all know folks, they’re the worst kind. Unfortunately for me his heartache seemed to last for a good two weeks. I relentlessly tried cheering him up but the only thing he could think of was Samantha, and her lovely belly. I said to Wicked that this would not stand, I would not sit back and witness him mope into his breakfast each morning. Eventually after much persuasion Toe declared that the only thing would cheer him up was a game of Trivial Pursuits. The things we do for friends. So we sat all day in the house, by the fire, Trivial Pursuits consuming our attentions, until I could not take it any more. Toe, we are going out, you need a beer my lone one, not a board game.

We took ourselves along to a Halloween party, I dressed up as a Mormon, but Toe didn’t dress up. We both agreed it would be kind of silly to dress up a Toe, I mean where does one start? I handed out playing cards instead of religious tracts but I think people generally got the feel. Anyways, at the party this dude told us to check out Swanee River, he said they were playing at the Pavilion on the 29th of October, so check we did.

Swanee River had stage presence that was completely captivating. Lead singer Stevie Horner’s energy is a force to be reckoned with and the sound this foursome produced was complete and bold, yet had taste and restraint. Tunes like Baby Better Lady and Made in The Shade are immediate, the feel of the musicians’ energy and their Zepplin-esk, unadulterated rock and roll sound melded perfectly, making them sheer entertainment. I saw Wicked over on the other side of the bar and knew the Toe’s lovesick blues had been washed away.

That is the cleverest title I’ve ever come up with.

Okay so I stole it from Jackass Number 2, what is this a fucking title competition?  Forget I mentioned it.

I had the most badass plans for Halloween this year.  I was going to host a gangster themed party, complete with poker game and screening of one of my all time favourite gangster movies, American Gangster.  I even planned a special three-course Italian meal.  Then Johnny called me.
‘Bandwidth fancy dress party on Saturday.’  Prick didn’t even say hello.
‘No can do, man.  I’ve got plans.’
‘Well cancel them.  All staff must attend.  And you have to dress up.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes!  You have to write about it for this week’s This Is Not A Review.  I even got you a date.’
‘Really?  Who?’
‘Alicia.’
‘Alicia as in Paul’s secretary Alicia?’
‘Yep.’
‘Jesus.  What did you do, threaten to fire her if she didn’t go?’  Silence.  ‘Don’t answer that.’
‘So you’re going?’
‘Yeah, alright.’
In my defence Alicia is very hot, and I was imagining a slutty nurse’s outfit, or a slutty cop’s outfit, or a slutty outfit of any kind.  I was also kind of proud of my Vito Corleone outfit and was looking forward to showing it off.  I called up my friends and cancelled the party.  They weren’t as disappointed as I had hoped they would be.

So on Halloween I ventured out into the night to brave the weather and the 13 year old yobs throwing fireworks.  I got myself a bottle of wine and went home to put on my outfit.   The wine gave me a nice mellow drunk and with my outfit on I actually felt pretty cool.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.  I regretted using tampons to stuff my cheeks for the authentic Brando impression though.  They soaked up a lot of red wine and when I took them out… Well… We’ll not even go there.

Party time.

I wandered around the party swigging a beer and the only thing anyone said to me was ‘What are you supposed to be?’  I didn’t see anyone I recognised and they were all wearing lame ass costumes.  There were even a couple of jackasses dressed in one of those two-man horse costumes.  I finally bumped into William, whom I hadn’t met since my interview.  He was dressed like Bruno and it was all I could do not to stare at his package, which though average in size, was very well… defined.
‘Hey Will, where’s Johnny?’ I asked.
‘He’s the horse.  What are you supposed to be?’  The horse.  I should have known.  As I made my way through the crowd I kept looking out for Alicia.  Sexy Snow White… Not her.  Slutty cat outfit… Not her.  Damn it.
‘Hey Johnny,’ I shouted at the horse.
‘Hey man, what are you supposed to be?’
‘I was going to ask you the same question.’
‘Haha!  What do you think – pretty cool huh?’
‘Yeah.  Where’s Alicia?’
‘Hi Ian!’  It was the horse’s ass.
‘Alicia?’  She broke away from Johnny and stood up, smiling.
‘Yeah, it’s me!’  She was only wearing underwear.
‘Why are you in your underwear?’
‘Oh it gets so hot in there.’  The horse was grinning at me.
‘Are you half naked in there too?’ I asked him.
‘Of course!’ He said.
‘Yeah, of course fucking of course.’
‘Ooh listen to Mr. Jealous.’
‘Well how does it count as a date for me if she’s half naked inside a horse costume with you!?’  Suddenly the horse’s ass chirped up.
‘Just pretend you’ve got a date with Johnny’s ass!’  She laughed.
‘Oh no, I think I would enjoy that too much,’ he said.  And right then something clicked.
‘Wait a minute, are you gay?’ I asked.
‘Uh, yeah,’ said the horse.
‘But you play Xbox,’ I said, perplexed.  I think I offended him because he just stared at me with his big dead horse eyes and then shuffled off.  As they left I thought to myself, that must be the sexiest horse’s ass I’ve ever seen, and decided I needed something stronger than beer.

They didn’t have whiskey so I started doing shots of Sambuca between beers.  Then I noticed another guy dressed as Vito Corleone and got really jealous.  Oh it is on, motherfucker. Then I realised he was with the hot chick dressed as a fairy.  Ok, you win this round pal. I sulked off to the corner with the bottle of Sambuca and a whole tray of canapés.  The smoked salmon was poor quality but they had one of my favourites – carrot sticks with humus dip – which was dynamite.  I got a good way through the bottle before I realised how loaded I was.
‘Okay everyone to the screening room.  The movie is about to start,’ shouted Dracula.  I got up and went to the can.  And there was Mr. Godfather 2 himself, taking a piss.  I swaggered up to the urinal next to him, started to piss, and glanced down.  My spirits dropped and my stream weakened.  You win this round too, Godfather.

I sat myself down next to the horse, which was now divided in two.  This was good because Alicia was sitting there wearing only a bra.  It was bad because Johnny was sitting there in his underpants.  His really, really small underpants.
‘What’s the movie?’ I asked.
‘Rob Zombie’s new one.  Halloween 2.’  Jesus.  I had already seen it once.
‘This movie fucking sucks,’ I slurred drunkenly.
‘Haha, you’re really good at doing Brando,’ said Alicia.  I had long since taken out my face tampons.
‘I like your boobs,’ I said in response.  Jesus I was drunk.  She didn’t say anything.

I have noted that with every passing week my This Is Not A Review becomes even less of a review.  So here are a few thoughts on the movie:
There is so much wrong with this movie I don’t even know where to start.  Let’s face it, Zombie’s remake of the original Halloween was not only inferior but totally unnecessary.  Its only redeeming qualities were the extreme violence and numerous sex scenes.  And that is only because I happen to like low budget trashy horror movies.  This, however, is a trashy horror movie too far.  Rob Zombie has a lot of potential – I don’t like to see it squandered on shitty franchise cash-ins like this.  Next point.  Have you ever heard a hysterical woman try to talk while she’s crying?  It’s annoying, right?  So annoying you just keep wishing Lee Marvin would show up and give her a good slap.  Well around 60% of the scenes in this movie needed a Lee Marvin intervention.  Not only is the constant crying annoying, I like my horror movie heroines to have some spunk [Editor’s Note: Hehe!]  Third and final point.  The script for this one is even weaker than the previous effort.  Carpenter quit after one.  Zombie should have done the same.

After the movie we all went back to Johnny’s house for the after party.  By this point the drink had erased all notion of rational thought in me and I was acting on pure instinct.  And it would seem that my instincts revolve around hugging everyone and dancing to shitty music.  I also started drinking screwdrivers, since vodka was all Johnny had.  My last memory of the night is of lying on the floor singing along to Left My Heart In Tokyo and watching the Bumblebee Guy from The Simpsons getting off with Superwoman.

I awoke next morning acutely aware of how cold it was.  I sat upright in a strange bed and realised I was bare arse naked.  I noticed a big lump in the bed next to me and thought maybe I had gotten lucky with Alicia.  I whipped back the bed sheets and found, to my horror, a massive horse’s head.  Oh God no.  I started to scream.

Illustration by Paul Milne

There are few bands as exploratory as the Flaming Lips in the world today. This is as close to a FACT as I’m prepared to go.

Sure, there are bands out there making more experimental or confrontational music, but the Lips do it differently. This isn’t a band being wilfully difficult – this is the last gang of cosmic adventurers. Boundaries are ignored, and wisdom is swallowed whole in their quest for knowledge and understanding. And as the Lips push further and further into the heart of consciousness itself, truths begin to reveal themselves.

(Sound + Science) x Emotion ( – ability) = UNIVERSAL TRUTH, ie. “Everyone you know, someday, will die.”

So why is it that I have been initially traumatised by the new Flaming Lips album, Embryonic?

Arriving a good three years after the underrated At War With The Mystics (apparently an album you either love, or hate  – I love it), Embryonic is perhaps one of the most hotly anticipated albums I’ve ever…anticipated. After years of blowing my mind with stellar albums that just seem to be more revealing and invigorating, a documentary which literally changed the way I thought about music, and one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life when I appeared on-stage with the band as a dancer, I was ready to be exploded into another dimension by this album – I would ascend from this primitive shell into a higher state of being.

Imagine my surprise to find myself getting agitated…bored…angry….confused…this is not what is supposed to be happening when I listen to the Flaming Lips.

One of the major strengths of At War With the Mystics (2006) was that it allayed the universal themes and sentiments of The Soft Bulletin (1999) and Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots (2002) to the sonic textures of their earlier albums, creating one of the most lush sonic palettes heard in many a year. For all it’s faults, At War With the Mystics was a joy to listen to just from the standpoint of a band experimenting with sound. Admittedly, it contained some of their most banal songwriting, but the soundscape of noise more than made up for that.

Embryonic takes that sonic experimentation even further, and then pushes it over the edge. From the very beginning, everything seems to have been recorded at the edge of it’s tolerance, causing an unusual distorted sensation from all the instruments. Drums rumble and syncopate, guitars squelch, bass throbs and electric piano tinkles. And tinkles. And tinkles.

Unlike previous Lips albums, the defining feature of the album is the electric piano, which gives it a weird, seventies Miles Davis feel. Much like when Davis tore up the jazz rulebook, the Lips appear to be doing the same with…the Flaming Lips. This feels so unlike a Flaming Lips album that all the ‘usual’ reference points are gone. This disorientation continues throughout the entire album (18 tracks!), and by the end, a feeling of exhaustion and disappointment lingers in the air.

This was not supposed to happen.

However, the damn thing stuck in my head. People asked me, “What’s it like?” and I’d struggle to tell them anything. “It sounds like…..Can being played by Miles Davis…or something.” And then they’d ask, “Is it any good?” and I’d say, “I don’t know. All I know is that I didn’t enjoy listening to it. That’s not to say it’s bad, as such…”

Etc.

But the more I thought about it, I realised how much this music had moved me. It had got under my skin and affected me. It had provoked emotions in me that very few other pieces of music have managed to do so this year. So I gave it another chance.

AND IT BLEW ME AWAY!

Once it reveals itself to you, Embryonic explodes the world into technicolour. Where it once sounded unfocussed and lethargic, now it sounds visionary and intense. This is the sound of the modern age, a world in confusion, where nothing is quite like it seems, and we are spiralling out of control. Wayne Coyne, once the cosmic balladeer, is now some concerned prophet, trying to force us to open out eyes and see what’s happening. But rather than dealing in trite reportage, he expands upon some kind of great galactic crisis that threatens us all. As he whispers himself, “The ego is crushed.”

What once sounded like sonic defects, now reveal themselves as a band refusing to take the easy way out, saying, “You can do this any way you want to – THERE ARE NO RULES.” All that’s important is that you mean it. And where once the endless use of squibbly noises and tinkling electric piano sounded repetitious, now it sounds cohesive, almost as if it provides us with a rope to cling to whilst everything else falls away.

This could be the dawning of a new era, and once again, The Flaming Lips are leading the way.

Just trust your feelings and leave your preconceptions at the door.

So I was sitting in the bar trying to figure out what the hell to do.  Johnny is still on holiday so it was once again up to me to sort out this week’s date.  I sat there for a good long time and as the beer took hold my worries about finding a date melted away and I grew more concerned about what I should cook for dinner.  The wonder of booze.  I pondered it a while and decided to cook myself a delicious mushroom risotto.
‘Where is the nearest place I could get some mushrooms?’ I asked the barman as I ordered my last drink.  He just smiled and gave me directions to a strange little herbalist shop.  But he was right on the money and I got a great deal on some dried mushrooms.  By the time I got home I had a serious case of the beer muchies, so I poured myself a glass of wine.  I said a brief toast to the late Keith Floyd and rustled up a truly dynamite mushroom risotto.  Then I sat myself down with my bottle and watched Countdown until I fell asleep.

I was startled awake by the sound of some filthy bugger ringing my doorbell.  In my half-asleep panic to get out of my armchair I spilt wine all over my favourite wife-beater and ended up running to the front door looking like a redneck that just birthed a fucking calf.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are waking me up at this hour!?’ I screamed as I whipped the door open.  ‘I’ll kick your monkey a…’ I trailed off when I saw who it was.  Officially the most awesome man on the planet: Mickey Rourke (Ref: Here)  He just smiled that cool smile, took off his shades and said, ‘Get your shit together, kid.  We’re going out.’  Needless to say, I obliged.

I put on my most kick ass outfit, looked in the mirror and realised it was only about 30% as kick ass as Mickey’s, and went downstairs to find him swigging from my bottle.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘I heard you needed a date for the movies.’
‘You’re gonna be my date!?’
‘Hell no.  I’m gonna help you get one.’
‘Oh, cool.  I’d actually prefer to just go drinking with you though.’
‘Well I can’t,’ he said, ‘I’m taking two strippers to dinner later.  Let’s go.’

So we went to the mall I work in and I had already developed a swagger that said ‘I’m walking around with Mickey Rourke, bitch.’  I introduced Mickey to my boss and she got his autograph.  He got her number.  Then we headed over to a clothes shop and Mickey started looking at some jeans.  Naturally, being Mickey Rourke, he attracted some attention from the staff.  All female.  He picked out the hottest one and said, ‘Excuse me hun?’  I stood back to watch the master at work.  ‘My friend here told me you were hot but God damn.’  She just giggled and played with her hair.  ‘He needs a date for tonight.  What you say – wanna let him take you to the movies?’
‘Um, yeah ok,’ she said without even glancing at me.  She was just staring at him with this dreamy look in her eyes and I realised her answer would have been the same if he’d asked her to sign over the deeds to her house, or if she’d like to be sold into the sex trade.
‘He’s a silly bastard but I reckon a good lookin’ dame like you could sort him right out,’ he said.  He was so awesome I wasn’t even embarrassed by this statement.  Then I realised I was giggling and playing with my hair.  He called over to the girl’s boss, ‘She’s going home early today,’ and there was no argument.  And so we went to the movies.

I was disappointed that I couldn’t hang out with Mickey for longer but I understood that he could only lay the groundwork, and the rest would be up to me.  He had worked his magic on me though, as well as the broad.  I was a changed man.  This new found self confidence was only enhanced by watching ‘The Goods: Live Hard Sell Hard’ because Jeremy Piven is the leading actor and Jeremy Piven does ‘ultra-confident’ like Sarah Palin does ‘being a huge bitch’.  It is almost impossible not to feel like a cocky sonofabitch for at least a few hours after watching Jeremy do his thing.  On top of that, the movie was awesome and hilarious in equal measure.  Afterwards, shirt unbuttoned almost to my belly and swaggering with such force that I gave myself mild whip-lash, I took the broad for a few drinks.  Despite having already had enough to knock me on my ass, the drink did not turn me into a drunken mess the way it usually would, and I realised that Mickey’s magic was still working.  It is a scientific fact that Mickey Rourke becomes more awesome the more he drinks.  This rule does not have a limit – his potential for awesome-ness is exponential.

At the end of the night the broad wrote down her phone number and gave me a kiss on the cheek.  I must have lost the piece of paper, though, because when I woke up in my armchair the next day all I had was a banging headache and a badly wine-stained shirt.

Sometimes, I find the mistakes more interesting than the thing I’m supposed to be paying attention to. It’s almost as if the little glimpse you get of someone when they muck up what they’re supposed to be doing is a more revealing insight into the person than what they’re actually putting on display.



Ultimately, what I’m saying is that I like the excitement of things going wrong, rather than streamlined perfection.



Some of the best musical moments I’ve ever experienced (live and on record) have come when a performance has come dangerously close to falling apart. Things like that bit in ‘Summer Babe’ by Pavement where Stephen Malkmus sings, “Minerals, ice deposits daily, dropped off,” and he starts laughing, and the music sort of stutters and clatters around him…or the bit in ‘Hardcore UFOs’ by Guided by Voices where the song is about to hit its climactic moment, and the guitar lead breaks, cutting the guitar off…those are the kind of moments I enjoy.



I once saw a band in Scotland (Aberdeen, to be precise) called The Jinx, who encapsulated a lot of what I enjoy about music. An overly literate four piece who were very fond of swapping instruments, they could be quite easily summed up by the word “cult”. Oblique to the point of confusion, a live performance by them could be a thing of wonder, with the audience having absolutely no idea of what is going to happen next.



I fell so hard for this band that I decided to start my own record label, just to release their music and take it to a wider audience. I roped in a few friends and accomplices, and dragged them down to see a show by the band. Brilliantly, they were on top form, four voices mixing with each other, weird, cranky little hooklines that seem to make no sense, but fit together perfectly, songs about losing your watch on the wrists of time…it was all there. We loved it, and left the show, fired up to make magic happen. We would release their record on our newly founded record label, and we would conquer the world with it. We decided we’d catch their next gig, confirm the feeling, and approach the band to see about working with them.



Their next gig was terrible. Strangely, they did more or less exactly the same thing they did at the previous gig, but it was just so shambolic and messy that it seemed to be swallowed up in the complete and total indifference of the crowd. It became obvious that on this particular occasion, NO ONE cared about this music. We left without approaching the band, deciding that we should mull this one over for a bit. Before anything could happen, I left the country, and I guess that was the end of that.



But can you ever really leave the tempting lures of indie-rock behind? As Sebadoh’s Lou Barlow once sang, “Started back in ’83 – started seeing things differently.” I know what he means. I’ve learned to be objective about art and aesthetics, but there’s certain things you just can’t shake. I can now listen to a piece of speed metal or something, and recognise it for it’s own inherent qualities, rather than just writing it off because “I don’t really like that kind of thing.” But every now and again, something comes up that just taps directly into my soul, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s like I’m geared to connect with something on a primal level, and the only option is just to surrender to it.



This happened recently with a band called The Frigates. Formerly The Pascals (many years ago…before my time, I think), they are a five piece hailing from…somewhere on this island. I’ll let Raymond Mullen from the band explain it himself:



“We didn’t really do all that much, slept in late, got up, drank some tea and went back to bed. We passed around a demo and played a handful of gigs half-heartedly trying to get signed. The Pascals were disbanded in 2003, mainly because David moved to Washington and I moved to Paris, but also partly due to disinterest, and general fedupness. Apologies for the mini-memoir, I’m hoping Wayne Rooney will ghost-write our autobiography. I can’t go on … I’ll go on.



“We went over to Virginia (the US one, not Cavan) last year and recorded a number of songs in David’s little subterranean studio, right in the heart of the military industrial complex, well, its commuter belt. Our intention is to release a series of EPs on our own label (K-7 Music, though we’re not too sure about the legality of this manoeuvre) over the next twelve months digitally/virtually, but we’re still going to make a few physical mock-ups, in this virtual mercantile gehenna the physical artefact is all but redundant.

“And it’s about this point where I enter the story. After being passed a copy of the CD with the words, “I think you’ll like this”, I was instantly captivated. For me – and I hope I’m not pigeonholing them here – the sound of the Frigates is one of glorious and gleeful freedom. Bass and guitars and drums and other things collide with each other, overlapping and crashing about in a gentle fury, whilst we are told stories about naval conflict, military ranks, a ghost (I think), and other things as well.



It might not be the tightest thing ever recorded in the world, but that’s what I love about it. Listening to the CD, I can hear the amount of care and attention that has gone into making this. This is the kind of music that requires a lot of care and craft in order to be made, and it’s then fired off into a potentially uncaring and hostile world, so it has to be able to stand on its own merits. If you were going out on a date with the record, it would be like going out with Molly Ringwald at the end of Pretty in Pink, where’s she’s made her own dress, and it’s more charming than all the pre-manufactured crap that the rich kids have.



(Although it’s best to ignore the fact that Molly Ringwald’s dress at the end of Pretty in Pink was horrendous – a truly nightmarish garment which was completely unflattering. Perhaps this wasn’t the best example.)



Anyway, you can hear tunes here:

 www.myspace.com/thefrigates


So you should listen to that.



It’s like the sound of someone falling off the edge of the world, and if you make a mistake and let go of the rope that you’re tethered to, it might just be the single most exhilarating thing that’s ever happened.

Bandwidth is very pleased delighted and honoured to have picked up 3 nominations at the Irish Music Television Awards; two for Best Live video (ASIWYFA in the Waterfront Studio & the Lisa Hannigan session in Derry), and one for Best Director (Will McConnell)

Let’s just say again that, after only really doing this half-properly for a year now, its a great honour for Bandwidth to be recognised in this way, most particularly considering it is an independent in a world of big-budget labels.

The handing out of shiny trophies will take occur in the awful trendy sugar club in Dublin on 27th November.

In the meantime, here’s the two videos what done the damage.

Lisa Hannigan – Lille

Download for iPod (71.3MB)

ASIWYFA – Set Guitars To Kill

Download for iPod (93.3MB)

Illustration by Kris Platt.  Check him out: http://krisplatt.blogspot.com/

Johnny is on holiday this week.  He left me instruction to find my own date, which I naturally protested [Editor’s Note: Because you’re a fanny.]  I marched right into Paul’s office and I told him I wasn’t going on a date this week, and I’d use the column space to write something of some substance for once.  He told me to get the fuck out of his office and get myself a date, or he’d fire me.  So I called up a friend of mine.

‘Hey man.  Look is there any chance you could hook me up with a girl to see a movie with?  I need a date for this week’s article.’
‘What kind of girl?’ he asked.
‘Anyone.  Just as long as she’s bland and innocuous and I can ignore her.  With a nice ass.’
‘Actually there is this one girl I’m banging who I’m looking to get rid of.’  Eye roll for dramatic purposes.
‘Is she good looking?’
‘Hell yeah!’
‘Is she cool?’
‘Yeah she’s a really nice girl.’
‘Then why do you want rid of her?’
‘Ah, just bored, you know?’  No.  I do not know what it’s like to be bored of shagging a hot chick. Jesus.
‘I hear that, man.  It’s the worst.’  I replied, and arranged to meet this broad in Annie’s the following day.

Over my fourth whiskey I got a text from an unrecognised number: ‘Wer u sitn?’  I looked up to see this fat milly -  looking terribly out of place in her velour tracksuit – standing just inside the door scanning the bar.  Good God this is going to be the worst yet. I considered just not replying.  Let her think I stood her up.  There’s no way she’d hang around with all these ‘alternatives’ about.  But I have a conscience somewhere in my blackened soul, and I sheepishly waved her over.
‘Smells like piss in here!’ was her greeting.  Fuck my conscience.  She wanted a ‘blue wicked’ so I made her get it herself.  Then I stepped it up and started laying into the booze.  I texted my match-making friend.
‘Dude, you were shagging this broad?’
‘Naw man, that’s one of her mates.’
‘What!? What the fuck happened to the cool chick with the nice ass?’
‘Oh I decided to keep banging her after all.’  It’s nice to have these choices in life.  I imagine.  I gritted my teeth, pounded back another Jack and told her we were leaving.

When we got to the cinema I realised I was much drunker than I thought, which cheered me up a bit.  It also made me a bit mouthy.
‘Don’t get a large Coke!’ I yelled, ‘No one needs that much Coke in one sitting.  You’ll just have to piss during the film!’  I think she thought I was joking because she got the large anyway.

RULE #1: Toilet breaks are permissible but should be kept to a minimum.

She led the way to our screen and took a seat directly behind some poor schlub.  I didn’t even sit down.
‘Move,’ I told her, ‘you never sit behind someone unless you really have to.’

RULE #2: Unless it is absolutely unavoidable, never sit directly behind someone else.

She got up, moved two rows forward, and sat directly in front of him.
‘No!’  I screamed, ‘You can’t sit right in front of him either.’  I finally ushered her into a suitable seat and almost immediately a couple of dorks sat right in front of us.

RULE #3: Unless it is absolutely unavoidable, never sit directly in front of someone.  Especially if you have big hair.

The movie started.  Good.  I didn’t have to look at her any more.  Then in the periphery of my vision I noticed an all too familiar glow.  I didn’t even turn to look.
‘Stop fucking texting!’ I hissed.
‘Oh fuck off grumpy guts.’  Grumpy guts!

RULE #4: ANY use of mobile phones is strictly prohibited.

‘I’m going to the toilet,’ she said.  Jesus.  I told her!  I was losing patience, unable to follow the movie, and rasping for another drink.  She came back in a huff, slouched in her chair and put her feet up against the back of the seat in front.  I couldn’t believe it.

RULE #5: Never, ever, under any circumstances kick the seat in front.  Try to refrain from making any contact with it at all.

‘Her voice is annoying,’ she loudly pointed out (referring to a character in the film, whose named I hadn’t even managed to glean.)  At that point I just snapped.  I got up, pushed past her legs, and went outside.  I knew what had to be done.  I went shopping.

Only fifteen minutes later and I was on my way back.  In one hand, gripped with white knuckles [Editor’s Note: Well, you’re not black.] [Author’s Note: This is NOT the time.] was a half bottle of whiskey, which I was openly slugging from in the street.  In my other hand was a twelve-inch [Editor’s Note: You wish!] cast iron frying pan.  Why exactly I chose a frying pan I’m not sure.  Maybe it was because I watched Shooting Stars the previous night.  Maybe I was just wild drunk.  Either way, it felt right.

I got back to the cinema, stumbled drunkenly to Screen 12, took a slug of whiskey and slung the bottle into the corner, just like John Wayne would.  It smashed like a tasty petrol bomb without the burning rag.  That got her attention.
‘Where the fuck have you…’  I didn’t even let her finish.  I swung the frying pan up over my head, double handed like I was swinging a mallet at a fairground, and brought it down on her head with a massive fucking ‘WWHHHOOOOONNNNNGGGGGGG!’  She slumped in her seat, old cold, and a stunned silence filled the room.  Then as I stood there sweating pure whiskey and breathing heavily I heard someone start to clap.  Someone else joined in.  And so on and so on, until the entire cinema was on their feet clapping and cheering and whooping it up.  I raised the pan in victory and realised then that I no longer held a frying pan.  I had fashioned a wok of righteousness.  Fade out.  Cheering continues.

Let this be a lesson.  You know who you are, you bastards.  You pollute cinemas the world over.  Most of the time you will get away with texting during the movie.  Most of the time people will be too gosh darned polite to ask you to be quiet or to stop kicking their seats.  But someday, somewhere, you’ll kick the wrong seat.  The person in that seat will be a whiskey soaked maniac who has been fucked over one too many times while trying to enjoy a movie in peace.  And he will smash your fucking head in with a frying pan.  You have been warned.

Please drink responsibly. It’s not that unreasonable a request is it? But within the context of an Oktoberfest in a shed behind the Kings Hall the only real answer you can give is a curt ‘Nein!’ followed by a slap to the face with a pair of leather gloves.

For you see, last night myself and several co-enablers bussed it down to leafy Balmoral and proceeded to fire German beer by the litre down our collective necks, whilst bashing steins together (or off the table, when there were no other steins) ‘yeeeooo’ing and speaking in war movie German.

Because, like the Germans themselves, the 2nd annual Belfast Oktoberfest is far from subtle. From the crude posters to the website that appears to have been designed by Paulaner addled chimps with half an hours worth of tuition it’s clear that any pretence of sophistication has been thrown out the window, alongside any gains that the woman’s lib movement might have made over the past century.

On arrival we were greeted by the chief Fraulein and had the rules explained to us. Tokens would be purchased at the front of the building, where they could be exchanged for a litre stein of your beer of choice. No compromise here – litres or nothing. Within the hall you take your seat at the benches, and a bar-maiden would take your order, and provide table service.

The bar-maidens, while easy on the eye were not an advertisement for teutonic efficiency. In fact there was not a single member of the master race amongst them. So much so, that I was roundly scolded when trying to place an order at the bar. Three seconds later tokens had exchanged hands and we were on our way to boozy oblivion.

How long does it take 2 late twenty-something liberals to start barking like a stereotypical wehrmacht officer in such an environment? Roughly a tenth of a stein. Before long the air was full of curt ‘schnells’, und ‘raus’es, as well as declarations to any passing Englanders that yes, their war was over. Shamefully our conversation made ‘Allo ‘Allo seem as authentic and well researched as Downfall.

In our defence at our own personal Nuremburg, we might claim that we were merely following orders, as well as claiming a great deal of provocation; the barstaff rocking out a particularly fine set of Stahlhelmen and the imported band introducing songs with the likes of ‘This was Der Fuhrer’s favourite, and ‘this is the theme to The Great Escape – how that happened I’ll never know.”

Then the vaguely martial music came to an end, and Pete ‘opening of an envelope’ Snodden took to the stage to announce that most Prussian of activities – the Rocky Horrorshow Dance-off. Yes, for far longer than it should have the beery bonhomie of the beerhall was transformed into the wedding from hell as he encouraged the bar-maidens to ‘show ‘em how it’s done.” Cringeingly the bar-maidens (average age, of I’d say about 19) didn’t know the dance moves and moved vaguely about.

Still, their choreography was up there with Nijiniski’s compared to that of the hapless drinkers plucked from the audience. The eventual winner seized the prize (which, to be fair, I can’t recall – some beer themed tat, I’m sure) through  the unusual move of kicking his shoe in the air and failing to catch it. He was later thrown out for drunkenness. Then came the Blues Brothers Tribute Band. Who were very good. Of course, by then the beer had taken it’s toll, so hacks were swiftly ordered and bedways was very much bestways.

Would I go back? Well I was offered the chance to return later on in the week, but feared that the beery good times of a mid-week session would turn into a fully fledged riot come weekend, so I declined. But next year? Jah I say, but miss out the Time Warp.

So the minute I heard Duff McKagan’s Loaded were playing Spring and Airbrake, I knew I was going.  I missed them last time, with the added insult of being in Katy Daly’s for a pint while they were next door setting up.  And being the conniving little bastard that I am, I saw this as a prime opportunity to have Johnny set me up on a date with a hot rocker babe.  So I called him up…

To my surprise he got back to me a few days later, and he had good news.  It was all set – I was going to the gig and I was taking a dame.  I was amazed.  ‘How the hell did you manage that?’ I asked.
‘Easy, man.  I made you an account on a dating site.  Fucking clever huh?’

Next time I won’t ask.

There was one advantage though – I could now check this broad out before I met her.  With all the stereotypes swimming around in my head I wasn’t hopeful, and I REALLY did not want to see my own profile.  But how could I not take a look?

Next time I won’t look.

My profile picture wasn’t a portrait, nor was it me.  It was a picture of a man’s naked torso, taken by pointing a camera phone at a mirror.  I’m going to take a wild guess and say that the torso belongs to Johnny. [Editor’s Note: Yep.]  All the physical criteria I was looking for were checked as ‘Any’, including Gender, and my occupation was listed as ‘Pimp’.  My interests were ‘Guns and Roses’.  I had been matched to Jessica because one of her interests was roses.  Apparently the match-making software chose to ignore that I am also a pimp who likes guns.  Admittedly, Jessica was very beautiful.  Her profile, however, made no mention of rock n roll music.  Or drinking.  Or Humphrey Bogart movies.  No mention, in fact, of anything I like.  Instead were several references to faith, spirituality, and her ‘personal relationship with the Lord.’  A nice Christian girl.  Fuck it all.

The night of the gig I rushed home from work, picked up a bottle of Jack and some ginger ale, and got down to it.  This is fairly standard practice for me but with hindsight I can see that I hit it a little harder than usual this time.  I’m useless around attractive women.  My brain goes all to shit and my mouth tries to handle the situation itself, which never works.  Unless, of course, I’m drunk, in which case I am full of confidence and manly vigour.  Or rather, I just couldn’t give a shit what anyone thinks of me, great tits or not.  After a few strong drinks I filled my hip flask and headed to Katy’s.  My friends were already there and already about as drunk as I was, so I got myself a cold one and sat down to watch the door.

She arrived promptly (of course) and I waved her over.  She tried not to look disappointed when she saw me, which was thoughtful, but she didn’t hide it well.  We had a brief do-we-hug-or-shake-hands moment before I gave in and shook her hand.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ I asked, impressed with myself that I didn’t say something stupid.
‘Oh I usually don’t drink very much.  I’ll just have a West Coast Cooler.’  God fucking damn it.  I hate buying alcopops.  I nearly always outright refuse, and when I do give in I always over-compensate with my own order, to earn back some man points.
‘Okay,’ I smiled, ‘these are my mates – you can sit here.’  I looked at the drunken fucks sitting around the table.  ‘You bastards be nice – don’t come on her.’  Shit! ‘Onto her,’ I corrected myself, impressed that I managed to say something stupid before she even sat down.
‘Yeeeooooo!’
‘Ah, wanker!’
The only time my friends ever agree is on my status as a wanker.  I sulked off to the bar.
‘A West Coast Cooler, a pint of Guinness, a double Jack and a shot of Jager please.’  Told you I over-compensate.  I hit the shot at the bar and went back to the table to rudely interrupt my friend Jonny chatting up my date.  Please note the lack of ‘h’ in the name.  This is not Editor Johnny.  This is Mate Jonny.  And yes it is a funny coincidence that they share a name.  [Editor’s Note: Like him already.]
‘So have you heard this band before?’ I asked Jessica, hoping to break the ice.
‘What band?’
‘Duff McKagan’s Loaded – the one we’re seeing tonight.’
‘We’re going to a concert?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Oh, what sort of music do they play?’
I can’t help but scream ‘Rock n roll!’ the way Jack Black would say it.  This time she doesn’t try so hard to hide her disappointment.  I think the ice just shattered beneath me.  From then on we mostly drank in silence.  Halfway through her second drink, despite being sozzled myself, I noticed that she wasn’t lying about not being a drinker – she was already half cut.  When she finished her drink she excused herself from the table and left.  No, I mean she actually left.  As in just didn’t come back.  I can see now that it was quite rude of her but at the time the drink had straightened out my priorities and I was far more concerned that I had spent £20 on her ticket.  I drunkenly decided to try my hand at scalping.  After half an hour I ended up selling the ticket at a heavily discounted price and made a mental note not to try scalping again.  Anyway by this time the doors were opening so Jonny and I went around the corner to drink our hip flasks.
‘Where’s your woman?’ he asked.
‘Gone with the wind, man.’
‘That sucks.  Did you see the titties on her?’
‘Yes Jonny, I saw the titties on her.’
‘Big ole titties,’ he said, and we finished our whiskey.

The last whiskey hit me hard, which was unfortunate for anyone sitting near us.  None more so than the insanely hot woman seated right in front of us.  She was wearing leather trousers so tight they would make David Lee Roth blush, and I immediately fell in love.  Then it turned out she knew someone in my group, and he introduced us.  I must have looked like a retarded Girls Aloud fan meeting Cheryl Cole because she thought I was awfully cute, and gave me a hug.  All I know is that hug made my whole night.

When the band went on I was the first of the group to make my way up to the stage – as is always the case – and I immediately started head banging and sloshing beer over all the poor buggers standing beside me.  My friends soon joined me and there was much synchronised head banging, arms thrown around shoulders and high-fiving every time Duff said something between songs.  My pogo-ing doesn’t go over at all in shitty dance clubs, but the rock n roll crowd are a good bunch and everyone was courteous (or drunk) enough to give me a fist bump every time I initiated one.  I spent the whole night dancing and singing along to songs I didn’t know the words to, taking a break only to get another beer or take a piss.  By the end of it all I was pouring sweat, partially deaf, absolutely trolleyed and generally loving life – which is the way everyone should leave a good rock n roll gig.

What no one should have to deal with, though, is coming out of a club to see their date stumble drunkenly onto the band’s tour bus, followed by four other groupies and Duff McKagan himself.  Nice Christian girl my ass.

Bandwidth has made it to the shortlist of the Irish Web Awards in the ‘Best Video Podcast’ category. Check out the site, where our friends over at Panic Dots have been nominated like four times. So it’s all good!

I’m not going to start at the start, but I do have to start somewhere so I’m going rewind to just after Hurricane Katrina. I was driving my truck north out of New Orleans, when I caught a glimpse of a Toe standing at a bus stop, bags packed, waiting to move. I thought to myself, I have a nice roomy truck with a spare seat, even though my wipers broke two weeks ago, why shouldn’t I offer this poor toe a free ride?

He got into the passenger seat, “Can you take me to the airport?”
“Sure thing buddy, say, what’s your name?”
“Most folks call me Wicked, Wicked Toe.”
“Alright then Wicked, most folks call me Joe, Joe Davisham Walsh.”

It was on that first car journey that I realized just how wicked Wicked Toe actually was. He had one hell of a chip on his shoulder, and still does to this day. But I knew as soon as he stepped into that truck with me that this was fate and we were going to do great things together, Wicked Toe and I. See we shared a common love for all things musical and now, I don’t like to admit it, but I find his wickedness kind of charming these days.

Anyways, the long and the short of this here tale is that there was a spare seat on the plane to Ireland that Wicked had booked onto, and I just couldn’t let him go alone…..

……………………………………………………..

I awoke this morning with a fire alarm exploding in my ear. I say ear, singular, as I only got one. Just the way I was born, or so my mother says, it didn’t fall off or nothing sinister like that. I have tried a variety of hairstyles and hats in my time to disguise my lack of ear on the right hand side, but nowadays I have just resigned myself to my ear, singular. It’s alone, but it’s good. And the ladies seem to have a particular interest in my onlyoneear? Which I have to say pleases me. A lot.

With my tongue stuck to the lining of my alcohol inspired mouth, I looked over at a similarly conditioned Wicked Toe, who was most inconvenienced by this irritating sound, at 5:37am this morning. We both waited for the “False Alarm” to be acknowledged, but no such acknowledgement came. A vaguely familiar girl bounded into the room with noted authority hollering, “Fire, Fire, Fire, Everybody Out, Everybody Out.” Irked Wicked Toe explained to me calmly that he would be going nowhere, “Well, can you smell any burning?” No, but not the point, school had hypnotized me into exiting the building quickly and calmly and in an orderly fashion…. What ever that is?

As I sat smoking my first cigarette of the day, I carefully collected fragmented memories from my evening at the Dublin Fringe Festival. Wicked and I had seen a band that surely tickled our chins, Bocs Social, who played at the Bosco Tent on the Wednesday night. The band are a bunch of boys that hail from Wicklow. They’re a suitably funky shake of Indie, Ska, Punk, and Pop, and on stage their inexhaustible energy made for a darn fine show I can tell you. The trumpet buttered songs like “Whoa” with a charming and authentic 80s Ska sound made Wicked and I sit up straight and listen; the catchy Indie tune leaves you interested and wanting more.

As they bounced around the stage these boys communicated a playful attitude to what they do, which made them all the more charismatic. Doing covers of stuff like The Specials “Dawning of a New Era” and a sound number of their own melodic and spicy tunes produced a truly entertaining show. Wicked Toe raised his eyebrow when Bocs Social offered up a cover of Peter Andre’s “Sweat”. A la la la la long…. You know the one. But I have to say, in my humble opinion the guys nailed it. They bounced about the stage and leant the annoyingly-familiar-but-can’t-remember-what-the-song-is a touch of cheeky soul, which seems to be what Bocs Social are very talented at.

Well folks, that’s enough for now, speak to you all soon,

Joe Davisham Walsh

Christ I feel rough.  And it’s not just the hangover, since I know that’s what you’re thinking.  I’m fucking heartbroken.  It is 10.33pm, I have to submit this goddamn thing before tomorrow, and all I can do is sit here struggling down a beer and listening to ‘Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?’ over and over and over.  I don’t know why I ever agreed to this…

So a few days ago I go to the Bandwidth offices to meet this week’s ‘date’ whom once again, I have no knowledge of.  Johnny left a voicemail message saying he’s on business in Milan (what the hell kind of business could Bandwidth be doing in Milan?) and he hasn’t been returning my phone calls, so when I got there I was dealing with Paul.
‘How’s Johnny’s business trip going?’
‘What?’ he looks confused.
‘Johnny said he was going to Milan on business.’
‘Ha! That’s a good one.  Nah he just got the new Batman game for the Xbox.  He’s in his office playing it right now.’
‘Are you serious?’ [EDITOR’S NOTE: Hehe!]
‘Ian let me introduce you to Jennie.’  And my eyes just about popped out of my head.  ’My daughter,’ he added, and I quickly retracted my eyeballs.  I think God hates me.  I gave her a sweaty palmed, limp-wristed handshake and mumbled a hello.  This is my standard greeting for beautiful women,  but since Jennie was a lot more beautiful than most women I had to outdo myself.
‘I have to go to the toilet… to wee.’  That’s right, I said ‘wee’.  I disappeared into the john and cried in front of the mirror like a recently-hit-upon secretary from Mad Men.
When I came back she was texting and Paul suggested I take her to the Garden Gourmet thing at Botanic Gardens.
‘What?  What about the movie?’ I asked.
‘Oh you don’t always have to write about movies.  This will give you plenty to write about.’
‘But I wanted to see Gamer… it looks badass.’
‘She’s not old enough to see that anyway.’  17 years old.  God fucking hates me.

I tried to make polite conversation on the walk down.  I also tried really hard not to glance at her arse.  Neither worked.
‘So what are you studying?’ I asked.
‘Hold on a sec,’ she said, and went on texting.  That sec lasted all the way there and right up until, walking through Botanic Gardens dodging screaming children, I saw sanctuary.  Or rather, a big sign stuck to a tree that simply said ‘Bar’ with a big arrow.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ I suggested.
‘I’m not old enough to drink.’ Right.  Fuck.  Let’s look at some flowers instead.  We dandered around, in and out of tents full of flowers and vegetables and little pieces of cake with ‘Please do not touch’ signs, and she just kept texting the whole time.  The tents were mostly boring and crowded and I was confused as to what exactly I was looking at.  Why would I pay to see a plant in a pot?  Was exactly is the importance of this potted plant that it deserves pride of place on this table?  And who the hell is she texting so much?
‘Who are you texting anyway?’
‘My boyfriend.’  Boyfriend.  Of course.
‘Oh…’  I saw a stall offering roast pork baps, which got my interest up.  ‘You want a pork bap?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Well I do.’  And I joined the queue.  I’ll get her one anyway, I thought, she’s probably just refusing out of politeness.  I asked the guy for two.
‘I’m a vegan,’ she said.  The guy at the stall stopped loading a bap full of pork for a second and gave us a dirty look.
‘Where’s that?  Europe?’
‘It means I can’t eat anything that comes from animals.’
‘Oh it’s like a medical condition?’
‘No, it’s a dietary choice.’
‘So you don’t want the pork bap?’
‘No.’
‘Okay I’ll have two.’
‘That’s eight pounds please,’ said the girl at the stall.  Eight quid!? I smile and hand her the money.  The pork baps are damn good… maybe not good enough for four quid a pop, but good.
‘I bet you’d change your mind about meat if you tried one of these,’ I told her.
‘I don’t believe in eating anything that comes from animals.  It’s not just meat – that’s vegetarian.’
‘So you don’t eat eggs?’
‘No.’
‘What about milk?’
‘No.’
‘What about cheese?’
‘No.’
‘What about butter?’
‘No!’
I started trying to think of other foods that come from animals, and tucked into my second pork bap.  Then we passed a paella stand and I had a revelation.
‘What about squid!?’
‘No.’  I ordered one portion of seafood paella and we moved on.  The paella was way too salty and I didn’t finish it.  I was parched, and for some reason we were watching some kids entertainment act with shitty things like songs and dancing and audience participation.  Fucking CBeebies Live and Unplugged.  I had to get away.
‘I‘ve gotta go to the toilet,’ I said.
‘To wee?’ she smirked.
‘No,’ I said, and immediately regretted what that connoted.  ‘I won’t be long – you keep texting your boyfriend and I’ll meet you at the giant vegetables.’
‘Fine,’ she said, and I just about skipped towards the bar.

On the way there I passed a dude wearing this crazy wooden rig that was about ten feet tall.  At the top it had a little puppet clown, which he controlled using strings.  The clown kept doing little flips and jumps and dances and I honestly entertained of enquiring with the guy about how I might go into his line of work.  Then I saw a kid with his face painted like Gene Simmons, eating a bag of mini donuts. [EDITOR‘S NOTE: How do you paint a face to look like Gene Simmons eating donuts?]  I asked him where he got them.  He gave me surprisingly accurate directions to the donut van and I got two bags.  One for me and one for Jennie, as a gesture of good will.  The donuts were frigging awesome and I finished the whole bag by the time I got to the bar, so I had one out of Jennie’s bag, knowing she wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
‘Gimme a pint of something strong and German and delicious please,’ I said to the girl at the bar, feeling good for the first time since I’d left the house.
‘All we’ve got is Harp or Guinness.’
‘Make it a Guinness then.’
‘You got I.D.?’  Oh fuck off.

She gave me a pint in a plastic glass [EDITOR’S NOTE: Plastic glass?  Lolz!] with a head that looked like it had been sprayed on with an aerosol.  I took a seat next to Captain Clean Up – a man wearing a costume of big blue foam muscles – who I guessed was there to encourage the kids not to drop litter.  Being the only other person at the bar he recognised me as a kindred spirit and looked up from his pint to give me a nod.
‘One of those days?’ I asked.
‘One of those days.’ He agreed.  He was having trouble drinking because his massive fake biceps prevented him bringing the glass to his mouth.  I took pity on him and bought him his next drink.  That was how it began.

When Jennie finally tracked me down I was five pints in, and had left her on her own for around two hours.  She wasn’t pleased.  I was in no state to care.
‘Hey babe, I’ve missed you,’ I said.  I introduced her to the Captain: ’Captain, this is my date Jennie.  Jennie, this is Captain Clean Up.’
‘Damn, she is hot,’ he said.
‘Told you,’ I grinned.
‘I’m leaving,’ is all she said.
‘What?  Don’t do that.  I got you some donuts.’  I gave her the bag and she looked it over.
‘These have dried egg white in them.’
‘Oh for fuck sake what can you eat?’ I asked.  She stormed off, and I guessed that was my cue to follow her.

Her boyfriend pulled up on his motorbike and the fact that he looked like Gerard Butler didn’t help at all.  It also reminded me that I missed Gamer to do this.  My depression set in as I watched them zoom off into the distance.  I decided to head back to the bar but the beer had made me sleepy, so I stole a motorised wheelchair and drove myself there.  That’s around the last of the lucid memories until…

I was awoken by park security at closing time, still slouched in the wheelchair.  I tried to pass it off as my own and leave with it, but they insisted I leave the chair and get out immediately.  ‘That fucking paella sucked!’ (smugly pronouncing it ‘pie-ay-ah’, rather than ’pie-ella’) I yelled, since it was the only legitimate criticism of the day that I could conjure up.

Waiting for the bus home people kept giving me strange looks, even though there was a crazy old lady there who was far more interesting than me.  She was slouched at a strange angle and at first I felt really sorry for her, assuming she was disabled in some way.  Then she got up, leaned way back to correct her balance and shambled around behind the bus stop so all I could see were her feet.  And the vomit splashing the pavement in front of them.  She was drunk off her ass!  An old lady!  At 6.30pm!  Fucking disgrace.  Everyone just ignored it and kept staring at me, and I made a mental note to use the incident as some sort of genius metaphor for my day.  You know, like how you can meet the girl of your dreams on a sunny Sunday afternoon but life has a way of making sure that you end up cold and drunk and alone and even if you get sick people will just pretend not to notice.  But while I was thinking that I caught a reflection of myself in a bus window and realised my face was painted like the Star Child from Kiss, and it hit me hard and fast that I was kidding myself.  I’m just not a genius metaphor kinda guy.

** Author’s Note / Apology: I realise this is my third post in about seven days.  I’m not trying to hog the limelight, it just kinda worked out that way.  Hopefully from now on you should only hear from me once a week, probably on Fridays.

I should have known this was a mistake the second I heard about Crazy Hat Thursdays. I don’t know what sort of site these people are trying to run, but not only are the organisational skills non-existent, these guys just might be insane…

I chose to exercise my only creative influence on this whole process by choosing the movie: 500 Days Of Summer. I saw the trailer, thought it looked quirky and cool, and remembered that I’m in love Zooey Deschanel, so I probably would have seen it anyway. But since I was going on a blind date I thought it would be prudent to choose a movie a girl might like. This movie seemed perfect. The scene was set. I even got there on time. My new supervisor [EDITOR‘S NOTE: ‘Boss’ is actually a more accurate word Ian] had emailed me the day before and assured me that I didn’t need to worry about anything – they had chosen the girl and she knew what time to be there, what I looked like etc. After 10 minutes of waiting my already faltering confidence in my editor completely disappeared and I decided to ring him. I could hardly hear what he was saying because a crazy woman had just gotten out of a car and was screaming at the driver in Russian, but the conversation went something like this:

ME: Johnny, this broad hasn’t showed up. I told you this was a bad idea.
JOHNNY: No, she’ll be there man, trust me.
ME: Well how long am I supposed to wait? The movie’s starting…
JOHNNY: She might be there already and just doesn’t recognise you. How many women are there around?
ME: Oh for fuck sake, this is ridiculous. Next time I am meeting the dame at the office so I don’t have to go through this shit every week. What does she look like?
JOHNNY: Well, she’s… mature. Kinda tarty make up. Lots of tattoos… and she’s foreign. Like Eastern European or something.

Just like in the movies, she recognised me at the same time I recognised her. The car she had been screaming into now itself screamed off and she doddled over to me on huge pink high heels. She had six inches on me at least [EDITORS NOTE: Hehe, six inches…what are we talking about here Ian?] and I could tell that whatever she said, though not in English, was not an apology for being late. I just smiled and led her inside. I took it for granted that I had to buy her ticket, and also the nachos, Slush Puppy and Maltesers that she demanded. She knew how to say the names of all of these snacks.

We got to our seats just in time, missing the opening credits, which pissed me off. I tried my hardest to settle into the movie. It opened well – establishing the non-linear narrative early on, which was used to much better effect than I expected, especially later in the film. I found it hard to concentrate though, since my date kept texting throughout the film. She also refused to put her phone on silent, and actually took a call at one point despite my best attempts at shutting her up. Beginning with a polite ‘shush’ I ended up yelling ‘see-lonce’ like a fucking caricature Nazi, as if she would understand that any better. The film’s charm and Ms. Deschanel’s… charms just barely made the whole experience tolerable until we found some common ground. She produced a half bottle of Stoli from inside her faux-fur coat and emptied half of it into her Slush Puppy. I asked if I could have some and just went ahead and poured the rest into my Coke. The vodka seemed to settle her and she apparently respected my heavy drinking. Things were looking up, and the film was really getting quite good.

The premise of the film, summed up very nicely in the tagline, is simply ‘Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Girl doesn’t.’ This makes for some very interesting scenes and deals with some situations most no-talent rom-com writers just won’t touch. It’s very modern, very hip and all the characters are so likeable, I started to wonder – around halfway through – where’s the catch? Turns out the catch never arrives and I happily went on sympathising with the guy who, unlike stereotypical male love interests, is funny, human, vulnerable, and excellent at karaoke. Hell, I was starting to enjoy myself. Then I realised she was sleeping. This normally wouldn’t have bothered me but her loud snoring was embarrassing, so I shook her awake. She mumbled something in Russian and took a gulp of her alco-puppy. Then the cheeky bitch decided to help herself to my popcorn, which was sitting in my lap. I figured she wanted some of the crumbly stuff at the bottom because she rooted around in the box for a long time before giving up, empty handed, and giving me a dirty look. ‘I’ve got to piss,’ I believe is the only English sentence she strung together in our entire time together, and she got up and left. For around half an hour.

She came back much seeming drunker than when she left and totally spoiled the good mood the film had instilled in me by yawning loudly over and over, as if trying to make a point. She was a hardened cynic, quite obviously an alcoholic, and there was just no way she’d ever understand a movie like this. About falling in love with someone who likes the same music as you. About getting drunk and singing along to that same music when you realise she doesn’t love you back. Some people just don’t get it, and it scares me to think maybe one day I won’t either…

It all fell into place outside the cinema, after the movie. I told her it was a pleasure and tried to make my getaway. She told me the film was longer than she expected and I had to pay for another hour. I told her I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. She said something in Russian and stormed off to her car. About 3 seconds later her pimp was coming at me with a switchblade. I ran away and hid in a public toilet, which I had to pay 20p to get in to. He was quite patient for a pimp, and went on banging the door for quite a while. I ended up spending £2.60 just to sit there for an hour and a half. After some time I realised it wasn’t him banging the door any more and someone just needed to pee. When I went outside they had gone, but I ran all the way to the bus stop anyway.

[EDITOR‘S NOTE: her pimp billed us for the last hour a few days later. Nice work Ian.]

[IAN‘S NOTE: You’re the one who sent me on a date with a hooker, jackass. And stop interrupting my fucking article with your little Editor’s Notes.]

I guess maybe a lot of people won’t like this movie. Chicks who dig regular rom-coms will be disappointed because the whole idea is that the film turns their beloved genre on its head. Most guys won’t like it because, well, it’s still a love story and it’s not macho enough. It’s a great little film though, so all those people can go eat shit. It has some great twists on cinema conventions, a couple of really excellent scenes (the big musical piece and the split screen segment), some cool music, and it is genuinely very funny. I guess either you’ll get it or you won’t. Either you’ll fall in love with Summer or you won’t. Either you’ll understand the simple joy of it all, or you won’t. If not, maybe considering taking a hooker to see the movie. At least you’ll get a popcorn hand job.

INTERESTING NOTE: I stole the idea for the title of this column from this movie. At the start of the film we are warned that it is not a love story. Just like this is not a review.

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Not interesting.]

[IAN’S NOTE: I’m serious - stop that.]

Oh amber nectar! What has become of me! Will I ever escape thy vile clutches? Will I ever want to escape, for that matter? 

Just in time to round off the year, your humble correspondent has embarked on a plan of action that will either make him one of the most cultured men in Belfast, a rakish wit who will be glimpsed at every social gathering, adding that little special something to the proceedings, or it will make him an alcoholic. 
 
I have joined the Rum Club. 
 
Every Sunday to Tuesday, The Spaniard Bar in Belfast is host to Rum Club, one of only four such Rum Clubs in the world. The concept is remarkably simple: 25 rums from around the world, which one endeavours to work through, developing one’s palette and learning a little about rum in the process. Upon drinking all 25 rums, the club member achieves a status of Tiki Godhead, and is gifted with a new Tiki God name, which is engraved upon a silver tankard, which is hung behind the bar, and only to be used by the person bearing the name on the tankard. 
 
Simple enough, one might think. But sadly your correspondent has never been much of a rum drinker, preferring the dark pleasures of gin (or latterly Bushmills whiskey). So rather than this just being a regular booze eating competition, there is a degree of determination required in order to complete my task. Truth be told, it hasn’t been that arduous, and I have developed quite a taste for a little number called Clements Crelole Shrubb, which is delightful orange flavoured liqueur.  
 
Another thing to recommend Rum Club is that all the rums are cost price to Rum Club members, which means that this trans-continental jaunt is not quite as bank balance crushing as usual. However, it was with no small amount of horror that your correspondent watched as a round of three drinks came to the whopping tag of £37.50…for two rums and a cup of tea. Don’t get me wrong, the rum tasted like honey drawn straight from the rear end of Lovely McBuzz –Buzz, the god of bees, but I suffered a minor stroke with that one. 
 
And in case you think the wonderful Spaniard is promoting binge drinking, never fear: the 1^st rule of Rum Club is that you can only have three per night. The 2^nd rule of Rum Club is…etc. 
 
After the delights of Rum Club, myself and my two companions moved on to our next weapon of choice – The Manhattan.  
 
I’ve never tasted a Manhattan before, and it was with great anticipation that I watched our friendly neighbourhood barman, Dale, mix this most illustrious of drinks. Fine, elegant, classy – I am none of these things. But with a Manhattan in my hand, I feel like I should be attending a gathering of Warholian superstars, or perhaps a soiree hosted by Truman Capote. 
 
Another drink which was sampled was the Nuclear Daiquiri, a delightful blend of rum and wizardry, which definitely soothed the palette of myself and my two companions. And without wishing to gush on about it too much, there really isn’t a nicer spot in Belfast for this sort of thing, the environs perfectly complimenting that laid-back Sunday feeling. Belfast can get a bit claustrophobic from time to time, and there’s something about the Spaniard on a nice day which makes you feel that you’re somewhere else, somewhere very far away indeed. In many respects, everything that the Cathedral Quarter is supposed to represent is embodied by the Spaniard – its compact, has a great atmosphere, friendly staff, and it has an unusual odour 
 
However, this particular Sunday was not just about Rum Club, as alluring as it might be. Our next port of call (after a quick pit-stop at Muriel’s, where I thrashed my companions at chess) was the Archana Indian restaurant on the Dublin Road. Archana has the distinction of being one of Belfast’s oldest and most respected Indian restaurants, as well as being a restaurant which has never turned your correspondent away, regardless of his current condition. Never having been one for anything too spicy (I’m man enough to admit that I once accidentally ate a pizza covered in chillies, and actually wept) I normally go for a korma, despite every single person I’ve ever met telling me that this is the way of the loser. Regardless of whether it’s wimpy or not, I positively relish the thought of a nice creamy korma, and once again, Archana didn’t disappoint. 
 
Stuffed with curry and rum, I made my way across the road to Auntie Annie’s for a bit of post-hardcore action. On the menu for this evening’s entertainment were two of Northern Ireland’s hidden gems – Spectator and Black Bear Saloon. Spectator hail from the North West, and specialise in breathtakingly tight arrangements which pummel you into submission. Black Bear Saloon kick you to death with riffs and shouting, and seem to have a particular aversion to psychics. A good time was had by the few who were there, but attendance was low, which is disappointing for bands of this calibre.  
 
But I was there, and I guess that counts for something. After all, when you’re a member of the Rum Club, “Determination” is your middle name. 
 
And perhaps having your name engraved on a silver tankard is something that would get people to more gigs? 
 
Promoters…take note.

As I sat at reception in the Bandwidth building I was grateful that I was being ignored. I was never good at job interviews and I have never in my life given a ‘pitch’, so I was pretty nervous. My palms always sweat when I know I’m going to have to shake hands, so I was trying to covertly dry them by angling them towards the fan that was whirring away next to me, without looking like a complete twat.

At this point some guy wearing a World War 2 Nazi helmet walked down the hall bouncing a tennis ball. As he passed me he suddenly yelled ‘Hey!’ and I instinctively yanked my hands back to my lap. I looked at him and saw he was winding up for a throw like a fucking pitcher in baseball. I froze. He slung his arm with such force he almost lost balance. I didn’t even make an effort to protect myself – I just pulled a stupid face and yelped like a little dog. He didn’t let go of the ball. He just cracked up and sauntered on down the hall, bouncing his ball. I looked at the receptionist for an explanation but she just bit her thumb to keep from laughing and avoided eye contact. Even the fan turned its face away. I sat there, utterly bewildered and ashamed. I wondered briefly if the receptionist thought her hat suited her. Then I got hold of my senses. Fuck this, I thought, and got up to leave. Before I got far some guy very conveniently poked his head out from behind a door and said ‘Ian?’  I turned around.

‘Yeah?’

‘Come on ahead.’ And he opened the door for me.

After the obligatory introductions, handshakes and offers of coffee I sat down opposite Paul – the Bandwidth boss – and William, his right hand man and the guy who puts the ‘width’ in Bandwidth. William was wearing one of those old fashioned floppy sleeping caps with a pom pom on the end. I didn’t mention it.

PAUL: So Ian, we’d love to hear your ideas for a new column on the site. What sort of direction would you like to go in?

ME: Well, I’ll be honest. I’m tired of being the clown. It’s just not me. I’d like to interact with film on a much more analytical level. I’d like to be taken seriously. I have a degree, you know?

– They glanced at each other uneasily before Paul went on.

PAUL: That’s great. We love that. But what we’re really looking for is a new angle. We want a whole new take on the “review” process.

– Strangely, William joined him in signing quotation marks around the word review, and managed to do it in perfect sync.

ME: I’m not really sure I understand…

WILLIAM: Take this for example.

– He motions to his hat.

ME: Yes?

WILLIAM: We decided the whole office environment here at Bandwidth needed to be jazzed up a bit. So we hired an O.E.A. to come in and develop some ideas to take us in a new direction.

ME: O.E.A?

WILLIAM: Office Environment Analyst.

PAUL: Very contemporary. Very expensive.

WILLIAM: Hence.

– He pointed at his hat with both hands.

PAUL: Crazy hat Thursdays.

– I just stared, blankly.

WILLIAM: Every Thursday everyone in the office wears a crazy hat.

ME (TO PAUL): But you’re not wearing a hat.

– This cracked them both up.

PAUL: Gets them every time! Look…

– And he started peeling off his bald fucking scalp to reveal, not a bloody skull, but a full head of hair.

PAUL: It’s a fake bald head! Crazy huh?

– I just nodded, actually quite impressed with the quality of his fake bald head.

PAUL: Anyway what we’re saying is, we want to go the same direction with the website.

ME: You mean like crazy header Thursdays?

– I started to cringe before I had even finished saying it.

PAUL: Ha! I love that.

– William actually jotted my idea down.

PAUL: Look, Ian, can I be straight with you?

ME: Sure.

PAUL: We already have an idea we’d like to run past you. I’m gonna turn you over to William.

WILLIAM: Okay, the title is: ‘Wanna go to the movies?’ And the concept is this: each week we will set you up on a blind date. You will take the girl to the movies, have a great time, and base your article on the date, rather than just on the movie.

– They kindly give me time to let the idea sink in. It doesn’t. It floats on top like a snickers bar in a swimming pool, and I’m too suspicious to go near it.

ME: Ummm, I’m sorry I don’t understand.

WILLIAM: Well, like I said – you’d go on a date, and then you’d write about it. And you know, mention the movie as well. You know?

ME: What has that got to do with film, though?

PAUL: Well that’s why we’re so interested to work with you. We read your blog, and I have to say, it was exactly what we were looking for. I mean you claim to write about film, but you never do! It’s brilliant.

ME: So you don’t want me to write about movies?

WILLIAM: Well, yes. I didn’t want to get into the scientific stuff, but we have been doing serious research for the past 6 months now, looking for ways to expand and grow as a company. As you can see, we have already implemented several strategies.

– He motions to his hat again. Paul lifted the gross fake bald head for emphasis. Then he started trying to put it back on, which I found very distracting.

WILLIAM: Blogs are taking off in a big way. Twitter is getting huge. People are nosey – they want to hear gossip and real life stories. And you’re the perfect writer.

ME: Really?

WILLIAM: Of course! You already spend most of your time divulging personal information about yourself rather than writing about film.

PAUL: And, you don’t have a girlfriend.

ME: Oh, yeah. That’s true.

PAUL: Look trust us, it’ll be great.

– I decided to go with it.

ME: Will I get paid?

PAUL: No I’m afraid that’s not possible.

ME: Oh… will I get reimbursed for the cost of tickets?

WILLIAM: No we can’t do that either.

ME: Can I at least choose who I go to the movie with?

PAUL: No that will be up to your supervisor, our critical editor in chief, who I’d like to introduce you to, actually.

– He pushed a button on his phone.

PAUL: Could you send Johnny in, Suze?

– The door swung open and there stood Johnny.

PAUL: Johnny, meet your new top writer. Ian, meet your new boss. He won crazy hat of the week.

JOHNNY: I always win crazy hat of the week!

– And he was still bouncing that fucking ball.

N.B. More from Ian’s blind date next week. In the meantime go and read his blog at Drunken Rumblings. Go on, get to it!

Seems like yesterday – well, it was only February – that they tore up the Limelight to launch their eponymous EP:

A Plastic Rose – Superspeed

Download for iPod (44.5MB)

And the good times roll on for Northern Ireland bands. Huw Stephens in Wales picked up on Belfast’s Not Squares and promptly plucked them for the BBC Introducing stage. Footage from Leeds is now up on the bbc site.

Suck it up here:
BBC INTRODUCING

** UPDATE – Videos of A Plastic Rose have just been posted – hop over here **

Thanks to our new friend Patrick over at Secret Fireworks who gave Bandwidth a very positive write up yesterday. It’s good to feel loved.

He’s a particular fan of IN STORES NOW, and episode 3 in particular featuring John Shelly & The Creatures – He said this: “The sound is gorgeous, the band are inventive (using a vinegar bottle on a slide guitar, salt shakers etc) and there’s a great circular shot that brings in the entire chip shop.

Bandwidth may not win Oscars any time soon but we should be damn proud of them.”

Download for iPod (50.9MB)

What, isn’t there an Oscar for best retail-based musical performance?

Patrick has a real handle on the music scene in Northern Ireland at the moment – he’s blogging from a fan’s perspective – and its damn entertaining. We would heartily recommend you take a perusal – and don’t forget to join his myspace page too. Job done!

Many thanks to Deirdre McKenna for allowing us to collaborate with her on this month’s IN STORES NOW gigs with the fantabulous Kitty & The Can Openers

The Golden Thread have a great article about Deirdre and the exhibition “This Might Work!” – which inspired us so much – on their site which you can ** check out here **

If you missed this unique performance the first time – have a look here – this is a new, previously unreleased song from the KATCOs (cool abbreviation huh? The name just gets better an better) – so remember you saw it here first!

Oh and what with UFOs all around the place and all the talk of moon landings..

A happy event in the Bandwidth paddock – the results for the NI Chart Music Video Poll are in, and Bandwidth came in a storming SECOND and FIFTH in the poll with The Jane Bradfords – The Evening Angels Gather Here and A Plastic Rose – Kids Don’t Behave Like This

This is a great honour and privilege for us and we don’t take it lightly. Thanks to everyone who voted. And congratulations to a stonking winner Richard Crothers’ Clown Parlour – Rabbit (A Guilty Sweat) – which I’m going to admit we all voted for too.

To celebrate, here’s a chance to relive some of the old videos, starting with The Jane Bradfords:

The Jane Bradfords – The Evening Angels Gather Here

Download video from iTunes (58MB)

And who could forget the quiet little one in the corner, Kids Don’t Behave Like This for A Plastic Rose.
We don’t want the debate to end though – even since the poll was conducted there have been some fantastic new music videos released, like this one from Brendan McCarey for Under Stars & Gutters.
So here’s to next years poll and a whole bunch of doubtless great new videos in time for then.

In the meantime – drop a comment below suggesting your FAVOURITE LOCAL VIDEO WHICH WAS OVERLOOKED in the NI Chart poll..

A Plastic Rose – Kids Don’t Behave Like This

Download for iPod (35.3MB)

*********

WAS YOUR FAVOURITE LOCAL VIDEO OVERLOOKED? LEAVE A COMMENT AND SUGGEST A GREAT LOCAL MUSIC VIDEO WHICH DIDN’T MAKE THE POLL:

*********

Spring is springing and there are some updates from the Bandwidth barn to share with you.

Smart Turkey -
Firstly and feistily, we are proud to have given delivery to a bouncing baby section – a brand new comic strip from Jared Longlands called Smart Turkey – have a captain hook at the very bottom of the Bandwidth films index page – and check back regularly, the Turkey will be respawning every week or so.

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Urban Hymns: The Movie @ONE DOOR CINEMA CLUB -
Secondly we’re proud to welcome back to the barn another steamy helping of ‘Urban Hymns: The Movie’. To launch Oh Yeah’s new free film exhibition space ‘ONE DOOR CINEMA CLUB’ – we’re presenting this awesome concert-film all over again.

For those who missed it the first time – ‘Urban Hymns: The Movie’ is a film of the awesome and near-holy event which took place last October in the May Street Presbyterian Church in Belfast. Organised by the Oh Yeah Music Centre, acts like Duke Special, Foy Vance and Bronagh Gallagher gathered together in the church and, from the pulpit, sang two songs each with The Inishowen Gospel Choir – each one of their own tracks and a soul cover. Other acts included that night included Joe Echo, Gabriel Makamanzi, Burning Codes and Ken Haddock. To see a snippet of what to expect, check out our Christmas special podcast from Joe Echo. And to further whet your fancy (or is that tickle your appetite?), have a look at the Inishowen Gospel Choir in action on the night here and here.

We filmed it all and screened the result in full at the Belfast Film Festival this year – but now its back and available to view in its complete form for 5 days from 12noon to 3pm, starting Monday 15 June at Oh Yeah.

And as if this wasn’t all ebnough to convince you – admission is totally FREE.

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Vote for Bandwidth on NI Chart -

Thanks to the guys over at NI Chart dot com who have complied a poll to find Northern Irelands’ favourite music video.

There are some quality submissions there – and I get a chance to nominate just some of my own favourites – It’s a great honour to be nominated not just once, but for FOUR different videos – namely, It Bends In The Middle for Dutch Schultz, Kids Don’t Behave Like This for A Plastic Rose, Golden Recruit for Panama Kings and The Evening Angels Gather Here for The Jane Bradfords.

What makes this such an extra extra special honour is that the nominations were made by my peers in the film-music-video-journalism world – so thank you so much guys.

To see a full list of the nominees – and there’s some great work there – head to the NI Chart Poll.
To vote for a Bandwidth filum in the poll click here:
Dutch Schultz – It Bends In The Middle
A Plastic Rose – Kids Don’t Behave Like This
Panama Kings – Golden Recruit
The Evening Angels Gather Here – The Jane Bradfords

So vote early and vote often!

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In Stores Now -
And finally, Bandwidth is planning to launch a new web series from next Monday 15th. Entitled ‘In Stores Now’, its a series of unique performances from local artists, each performing an acoustic track in a different independent shop or establishment in Belfast. To launch the series we’ll be showing a double-wahmmy of Escape Act playing in The Spaniard bar, and Clown Parlour performing in the wonderfully whacky Viva Retro on North Street.

After that the series will run every Wednesday for 12 or so weeks – or until we get banned from every shop in town.

But then there’s always other towns….

I like adventures, but only in theory. Occasionally the prospect of doing something terrifies me, preventing me from taking any kind of action. So whilst you are out there, rad-ing it up in a fine style, I can frequently be found curled up in a foetal position on the living room floor, clutching a bottle of wine.

However, sometimes destiny comes a-knockin’, and there’s nothing you can do about it (probably as it has the keys, and can let itself in without your approval). These are the times when it’s almost as if your course of action is predetermined, and there’s nothing you can do to get out of it.

I’ve never been a big fan of determinism, as I think that ultimately human beings possess too much of the random factor to remain tethered to one particular course of action. I know it’s a proposition that will probably never be resolved, but the four years of philosophy that ate up most of my time in the early part of this decade have cemented in my mind the existence of free will. I guess I like the thought that I have some kind of input into my behaviour, rather than being the product of circumstances. But sometimes, an event will become lodged in your headlights, and no amount of manoeuvring will shake it off. These are the times when rational philosophical discourse goes out the window, and you just have to uncork a bottle of wine and go with it.

So it was that I found myself stepping into a car on the Ormeau Road on a sunny Saturday afternoon, with at least one person I’d never met. The seeds for this piece of pre-determined fun were sown on the previous Tuesday, when I interviewed a man about a music event taking place in the future. At the time, I had no idea it would involve MY future, and as he handed me five VIP passes to Pigstock 09, I thought nothing more of it.

Fast forward to the weekend, and the long-predicted heat-wave finally exploded upon our collective skins. My initial plan for the day was to simply listen to punk rock and nurse my hangover. However, several garbled phone calls later, and myself and two compatriots were tooled up with wine and hats, and getting ready to go to Killinchy. Pigstock, it appeared, was on.

I have to admit that by this point, I didn’t really want to go anywhere. When the idea of going to Pigstock was initially mentioned, I was enthusiastic enough to rope in someone else for the journey. As we walked aimlessly up the Ormeau Road, this burst of excitement had faded, being replaced with a despondent hunger for food, and a desire to lie down. However, the immovable power of destiny intervened, and the car showed up at just the right time before I gave up and went home. There was something in the cosmos compelling me to go to this particular field, and I was powerless to resist it…

Pigstock is an open air music festival in Killinchy, which features lots of local bands playing in a field, whilst people drink heavily and eat a roasted pig. The event is now in its second year, and initially started as a kind of party thang, before solidifying into the festival it has now become. I’ll admit that I was expecting something fairly low-key; a few bands playing to a few people, all very civilized and reserved. The reality was very, very different.

Upon reaching the site, I was immediately struck by how many people were there. It was like a gathering of the tribes, with groups of people wandering around, eating, drinking, and generally having fun. We set up camp somewhere in the middle of the field, and promptly began to make a little nest, ostensibly to give a home to my wine.

The stage was a considerable distance from where I was positioned, but the music was loud enough to float over our heads into the stratosphere. Without being too dismissive to the bands playing, we didn’t really pay an awful lot of attention to them, instead making our own amusement back in the nest. In fact, at one point we were happily singing our little hearts out, tackling a handful of popular classics.

The sun beating down upon us, our attention soon became focussed on the drumming group that marched through the field, featuring two of our companions. Emboldened by their rhythms, I marched with them, munching on my pork burger, which was truly horrible (but the salad was really nice). The drumming seemed to attract more attention than the rest of the bands, some of the more adventurous spectators (i.e. drunk) attempting to dance to the samba rhythms. One particularly exuberant chap danced so hard his trousers literally fell down.

As the evening wore on, the sun melted into the sky, and beverages were quaffed. As a result, memories become a little sketchy as to exactly what transpired. All I do know for certain is that I threw some hay into a man’s face, after he had thrown beer over us. Also, two of my companions revealed themselves as talented boglers, a skill which has, as yet, not been at all useful.

I’m not much for the great outdoors, but something about that field in Killinchy touched me (and it wasn’t just the bugs that tried to eat me alive). Standing there, surrounded by revellers, I looked around me and felt a contentment I don’t usually have. The moon hung low in the sky, and the light of the fires upon people’s skin made them all look very happy and pleasant.

The following is all based on reported information, your correspondent being too ‘distracted’ to be a reliable source.

Then we returned to Belfast in a car which, according to the recipient of a phone-call whilst on the journey, “Sounded like a nightclub”. The action continued in my apartment, with Loveless by My Bloody Valentine being thrown on the turn-tables, prompting shoegazing dancing. A discussion on the work of Alan Moore sent yr humble correspondent into a feverous whirlwind of excitement, distracting him from the knowledge that his Facebook status was being repeatedly vandalised.

It is here that we return to our theme of the unbeatable power of destiny. A party somewhere in Belfast soon became a magnet to our attentions, and just as it was a cosmic inevitability that I would be taken to Pigstock, so too did the universe intervene and prevent me from partying, by causing me to fall asleep on the sofa, entering into a weird limbo-death state, oblivious to any form of physical contact.

Like I say, when the universe wants you to do something, free will goes out the window, and you have to just accept it.

It’s bigger than us, and it always wins.

Can you picture the void?

The actual nature of true nothingness cannot be understood by the human mind. It is simply too vast and awesome for us to comprehend. ‘Nothing’ is beyond the realm of the human mind.

Put something on yr desk. Then take it away. What do you have? Nothing? No, you’ve got a desk. Take the desk away. Nothing? No, you’ve got the floor.

Etc.

Our lives are so filled with content that the absence of everything is a notion that will always squirm and squiggle its way out of comprehension. Which is probably just as well, as the notion of nothing is a pretty terrifying thought. I’d be pretty upset if I woke up and discovered that there was NOTHING at all in existence. In fact, it would totally put a cramp on my whole day.

But, dear reader, yr correspondent has stepped forward to the precipice and looked directly into the void. I do not do this for myself, but for you mere mortals who lack the moral compulsions that drive one such as I.

Gripping the rail, I hoisted my head over the big barrier, and stared into oblivion, the winds of creation howling around me. Dazzled, I pulled myself back and composed myself.

It looked a lot like Enniskillen.

I have discovered that the place pretty much shuts down after 6.00pm on a weekday. I found myself on this foreign soil on a wet Tuesday evening, to conduct an interview with a very pleasant young man. However, after the interview was over, I discovered – to my horror – that there are no buses back to Belfast after 6.25pm. The time was now 7.10pm.

This is the first time I truly wish I had learned to drive. I did attempt to do it once, but I discovered certain hurdles that persuaded me to give up. Most notably, I had a few difficulties with the hand-brake. On one memorable occasion, I was attempting to start a friend’s car, and had started the ignition, and found the ‘biting point’ (that’s a little technical term for all you drivers out there) but – alas! – forward momentum was not forthcoming. As I put pedal to the metal, there was still no progress. I couldn’t fathom it! I’d done everything right, but was still stationary. The owner of the car leaned in through the door, and discovered that I had not released the hand-brake yet. I struggled with it, but could not let it go. He leaned in through the door and released it for me, and the car hurtled into a hedge at about 80 mph.

After that, I wasn’t even allowed in the passenger seat.

But if I’d stuck at it, perhaps I wouldn’t have been sitting in a Wetherspoon’s pub (!) in Enniskillen town centre, spinning my phone round and round and round and round and round…

My boredom threshold is pretty low, so after reading the complimentary magazine a few thousand times, I began to get desperate. I left the bar and went in search of cigarettes, and found myself aimlessly walking for what seemed like an eternity in search of a shop. There were none to be found.

I don’t want to sound disparaging about Enniskillen, but where do all the people go? Even in the two lonely bars I found, there was scant evidence of human life. My only company was my own inner narrative, and the void.

The utter bleakness of my situation struck at me like a knife in my soul. My only other option of escape had been to get a bus to Dublin, and then get a bus to Belfast from there. But that moment had been and gone, and I was left trapped. There was no escape – this would be for the rest of my life, sitting in Wetherspoons, spinning a phone on a dirty table.

“But how are you writing this now, safe within the confines of your poorly lit, Belfast-based office? What miracle occurred for you to escape this purgatory?” I hear you ask.

I phoned my father, and he came and got me.

Which, although very kind of him to do so, crushed part of my spirit. I am a young man, forging my way through this cruel world! I am canny and cunning, and can out-think even the most perilous adversary! I shouldn’t be phoning home for help! Especially when the phonecall is as follows:

“Hey! You know how you always say I never call unless I’m after something? Well…I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

Either way, five hours after my brush with the void, I found myself back home, safe and relatively sound.

And what did I learn from my voyage?

Here’s the punch-line:

Nothing.

Space and time are confusing things, existing completely outside our sphere of existence, whilst simultaneously defining everything we do.

Or at least that’s the conventional school of thought regarding the issue. I, on the other hand, prefer to march to the beat of a different drum, and as such have attempted to crack the mysteries of time and space – all within a two day period.

You can thank me for it later.

The first step on any quest is often the most difficult, and it was after great consideration that I chose the first step of my personal voyage to be in Botanic Gardens. Although it was not so much a ‘step’ and more of a ‘fall’, and a fall with potentially fatal consequences.

Foolishly, I had been balancing on a fence in the park, in a misguided attempt to convey what ‘fun’ was to one of my companions. After a heated ‘debate’ in Common Grounds Café, where I had been cast in the role of destroyer of culture, and living representative for everything that is wrong with the 21st century, we had gone to the park where I planned to end this ‘Magical Misery Tour’ by behaving in a totally rad, Ferris Beuller-type manner. Or at least what I thought to be a totally rad, Ferris Beuller-type manner.

Unfortunately, whilst I was doing this, I hadn’t noticed the soles of my sneakers getting wet and proceeded to climb atop a particularly spiky and dangerous fence. Balancing and pirouetting, I began taunting my companion. Then, fate finally intervening, I slipped and lost my balance. I was literally inches away from having a large metal spike go through my chest (or – worse, perhaps – my groin). Luckily, my mutant powers saved me and I was able to avoid disaster. I pushed myself back, and landed on the grass, unscathed.

But the experience left its mark on me. That moment where I was balancing and, indeed, falling, caused me to contemplate the intricate relationships between all things we perceive in the modern world – the space between things, if you will. It was an exciting moment, to be sure, and I appreciated the fact that my almost certain demise would be precipitated by an object I had never previously considered, something so unimportant to me that I had previously denied it’s existence, considering it unworthy of even one miniscule brain-wheeze. And then it nearly had its revenge on me, by driving itself through my chest (or groin). Truly, the relationships between space, time and objects – inanimate or otherwise – would have to be considered further.

But before I could do that, I had to heed the call of the night, imploring me to cast away such heavy philosophical notions, and embrace the call of the wild. (ie. I received a text message asking me to go out.) After such highbrow postulating, I was only too happy to travel across town to meet an acquaintance in the Duke of York. Space and time being what they are though, I was a little late by the time I arrived. However, my companion didn’t seem to mind, and we sat soaking up the atmosphere of this most esteemed of Belfast watering holes.

The Duke of York is an unusual bar, seemingly having been designed by a person with absolutely no idea of what shape a bar should be. A narrow bottleneck exists in the exact place people would naturally congregate, whilst the seating area is cramped and uncomfortable. Both of these factors combine to render it almost impossible to be served at the bar when there is more than about 5 people there (this is a slight exaggeration). Despite these factors, however, it still has a great atmosphere, and generally attracts a good crowd.

On this particular evening, both I and my companion opt to sit outside, her sipping Magners, I opting for white wine (Chardonnay, if you’re curious). The air is cool, but pleasant, and conversation and laughter filter through the air. The fading glow from the sunlight, coupled with the ever-present hum and shine of the electric lights outside capture my thoughts, and take me off in different directions. This could be anywhere I want it to be, but for now I’m content for it to be exactly where I am, and be with who I am with. We discuss drunken episodes, and compare notes. I am found to be the more irresponsible whilst under the influence of alcohol – whiskey in particular – and then we travel to the other side of town.

Our destination this time was Mr Joe Lindsay’s rather superb carry-out disco, Palookaville. After initially launching in Ruby’s Diner, it has now settled in Brown’s Café on James Street South. The premise of the evening is simple: bring thy own booze, and get yr groove on, as Joe and Kenny Matheson man the wheels of steel.

By the time we arrive, there’s not too many people there yet, but even still, the atmosphere seems right. Palookaville has the feel of a proper ‘club’, or a gang; something you’ve got to be part of, but something that still feels secret. Wine is poured, and conversation continues to flow.

As for the music, I have no idea. But they somehow brought out the sleeping groove-behemoth out of its torpor, and I found myself doing the Harlem Shuffle (or possibly the Voodoo Krispie, or the Diesel Jerk, I can’t recall). This is particularly note-worthy as I NEVER DANCE. So a proverbial tip of the cap to the people involved.

There’s something about the way Palookaville works that just seems to suck me in. I’m not going to say it’s the perfect night out (only one toilet!) but it’s pretty darn close. I begin to fill up with a hitherto unknown confidence, and begin to properly interact with the humans again. Establishing physical and emotional contact, I am transported out of the constraints of this world and taken to another, leaving behind the shackles of space and time. Indeed, the events of the next few hours are difficult to pin-point.

However, there are a few facts:

1. At some point I fell over onto my skull, with a small amount of blood being shed.

2. I was apparently told to “get a room”.

3. Food was consumed. It looked like chips, but it was allegedly chicken.

I woke up in a confused state and said my farewells to my companion. As the light streamed through the windows, I once again began to ponder the mysteries of time and space. I had, indeed, had a good evening. But I also have precious little memory of it. I also have various aches and pains, with no idea of how they were sustained (with the exception of the skull smashing). The only explanation I can come up with is that I somehow broke the boundaries of time and space in order to have an amazing night.

But the Universe was not done with me yet, not by a long shot. An accomplice recommended that we take a trip to the Black Market, to perhaps pick up some machine guns or something. However, these are not the kind of goods one would expect to purchase in this kind of market (well, certainly not from the stalls that I visited, anyway…). Instead one would find different kinds of food, comics, records, clothes, trinkets, crafts, equipment, books, scrap and junk, and all manner of forbidden lore. All the kind of things I’m interested in.

I immediately spent my last few pounds on a vinyl copy of the Minutemen’s Ballot Result album (DOUBLE LIVE!!!) and a refreshing beer. It was around this time that I began to realise that I was possibly still affected by the alcohol, and as such my judgement might have been impaired. Staring at the double live album I clutched in my hands, I decided that this was a ‘good’ thing, and that all my actions were now taking place in some kind of twilight zone, outside the clutches of time and space.

The atmosphere in the Festival Marquee was utterly contagious, with my accomplice being lured into a cardboard fort, which was apparently ‘smoking friendly’, which is a nice courtesy in this day and age. I bravely attempted to play a solar powered slide guitar, using naught but a Zippo lighter, whilst a crowd of people looked on.

After a short while, Heliopause, who had set themselves up in a corner of the market and were selling copies of their new single, began to play, treating us to a set of beautifully delicate sounds and whispers, which hummed by on the warm summer breeze. The perfect balance of Richard Davis’ acoustic guitar and voice, Chris McCorry’s expertly treated electric guitar, and Niall Harden’s rhythmically complex, but evocative drumming, merged perfectly with the guest vocals of Cutaways’ Grace McMacken. Indeed, this hushed and intimate music attracted a sizeable crowd, all of whom were perched on every note, every word, creating an eerie pocket of calm at the heart of this bustling market.

Few bands can handle this kind of balance, but Heliopause make it look effortless, every sound in exactly the right place, but still managing to draw us in further and further, until we are wrapped completely in blankets of beautiful noise. Their own self effacing charm perfectly compliments the atmosphere, and by the time they finish, everyone is walking around with smiles on their faces, a general feeling of, “Wouldn’t it be great if something like this happened every day?” permeating through the market.

Indeed, the longer one spends in the slight carnival atmosphere of the market, the immersive nature of it’s existence takes hold, and visions of some kind of bohemian existence, outside the constraints of ‘normal’ society, becomes apparent. At one point, a man walks around with a pair of scissors, offering to give people a haircut, and it seems like the most normal thing in the world. Well, not ‘normal’, exactly. In fact, it’s around this time where the veneer slips slightly, and one can see that there is a lot of indulgence going on, but it’s all perfectly acceptable After all, we are artists; it’s our job to be indulgent.

With the sun baking on our skulls, we continue to drink beer, and time slips and slides out of our perception, hours feeling like seconds, seconds feeling like hours, until we have no idea where we are or what time it is. Such is the effect of displacement. And a pleasurable feeling it is, too! For a long time, I never wore a watch, enjoying being freed from the shackles of time. Of course, it meant I was late an awful lot, but it seemed like an easy price to pay. This day has a similar feeling, and we are happy to swept along on the ebb and flow of time and space. So much so, that we are drawn towards the cinema to see the new Star Trek film, in a slightly bemused (i.e. drunk) state.

There’s been a lot of talk about how Star Trek has now been made ‘cool’ to like, no longer the exclusive territory of the nebbish and isolated, but somehow socially acceptable. I have always been open about my love of Star Trek, but I’ve always maintained that I still am tethered to reality. Yes, I have forced every girlfriend I’ve ever had to sit through Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (or at least attempted to), but I was doing it for their own good – it’s a great movie. Indeed, I always considered myself to be socially aware enough to realise the impact of what Star Trek could do to the non-believers. Hence my deliberate usage of Star Trek: The Motion Picture as a sympathy prompter; I know how boring many see this film to be, so I have no qualms about putting this film on, knowing it will cause my girlfriend to try and ‘distract’ me in order to get us to stop watching the film. It’s a kind of social experiment, I guess.

So, the new one, Star Trek 90210, or whatever the hell they’ve called it, is, as Mr Spock would have it, highly illogical. Full of colour and lights and lasers and explosions and black holes and people shouting and kissing and fighting…it was like being shouted in the face by an angry passerby for an hour and a half. And let me make it clear, this is no fanboy-type rebuttal (“Hmmm…the colour and rank insignia on the uniforms is incorrect, therefore this is a terrible film.”), rather it was a load of brain-dead nonsense that expects you to open wide whilst they keep on shovelling it into you for as long as you are prepared to take it. I didn’t like it.

After watching the black hole atrocity that is Star Trek, I staggered to the Garrick, to sip wine and once again ponder the mysteries of time and space. Time had certainly passed since I’d started thinking about this stuff, but not strictly in a linear way. It had seemed to jump and lurch, with some simple things taking forever, and some complicated things going on forever, whilst I was buffeted by the changes. Space had also played a key role in the proceedings, both in terms of distance and location. I felt as if I’d walked all over town (which, in fact, I sort of had), and the locations I’d visited had been key to my enjoyment of things. Joe Lindsay’s Palookaville – if it hadn’t have been where it was, would it have been as fun? Perhaps, but I loved the fact that it was somewhere new, somewhere strangely inappropriate and appropriate at the same time. The Black Market – everyone was creating their own space, and they were overlapping and interacting, creating a sensation of almost leaping out of reality. Star Trek – hell, they went over the whole damn galaxy in that one.

But what conclusion can one come to? What lessons have been learned? Well, none really.

Whadda ya want? Revelations? Read Stephen Hawking or something. I ain’t no guru, man. All I know is that the fourth album should always – always – be double live. Nothing else will do.

Amen.

Head over to the Official Therapy? Site and check out some stills from Bandwidth’s Session shoot last week. The band were in town recording for BBC Radio 1 Introducing in Northern Ireland, and we at Bandwidth were there to capture it all..

MORE SOON..

In association with May Street Church, The Oh Yeah Music Centre and The Belfast Film Festival, we are proud to announce Bandwith’s first feature length film, “Urban Hymns: The Movie”.

Filmed last October at May Street Church, the event organised by Oh Yeah, May Street and the Belfast Festival, brought the best local musicians together to sing some fantastic blues classics with the Inishowen Gospel Choir – and Bandwidth was there to film it all.

Featuring Foy Vance, Duke Special, Bronagh Gallagher, Joe Echo, Burning Codes and many many more this was the most talked about concert of the year – and its your only chance to see it again (or for the first time if you missed it completely) – in this exclusive one off screening at Oh Yeah!

Presented with exclusive behind the scenes stuff and some background from the people involved, this is unmissable stuff for lovers of soul and blues music.

£3 entry

RSVP on Facebook

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Upon entering Common Grounds Cafe, my glasses instantly steam up. This could be because of the change in temperature from the chilly Belfast night to the warm and inviting cafe atmosphere, but it’s more likely to be from the sheer number of people populating the cafe. You see, rather than just being an ordinary Friday night, Heliopause have decided to unleash their brutally fragile muse upon the cafe this evening, and it seems I was not the only person wanting to be part of this.

The cafe is literally full to the brim, with every space occupied by a human being, their attention entirely focussed on the three gentlemen in the back of the cafe, creating a hushed intimacy that is increasingly rare in these oh so bombastic times. Rather than stand in the way, I opt to leave, going to Lavery’s for Cashier No.9 and Crystal Stilts.

The room is almost empty as I arrive, save for the members of the band and a few curious folk milling about. After the recent spate of well-attended gigs, it appears that things have gone back to normal again, with empty rooms and disinterested audiences.

Then Cashier No.9 strike up their first song, and the room instantly fills up. From having a wide open view of the proceedings, I have gone to being hidden behind a wall of bodies. Strategically repositioning ourselves, I become consumed by the noise Cashier are making. Having previously been underwhelmed by them, I’ve recently become a complete convert, absolutely in awe of them. I’d written them off as baggy-copyists a long time ago, but it seems that some kind of transformation has taken place, and I am left with no option other than to accept that I was very, very wrong about this band. Indeed, they are effectively playing a type of music I have no fondness for at all, but I find myself loving every note.

After they finish, I sit, elated and full of possibilities. Then fate deals me a cruel hand when I discover that a band I am very, very fond of have just recruited a new member – someone who happens to be my least favourite person in all of Belfast. As I try to ponder the odds of a city populated by over 320,000 souls vomiting forth the one individual I don’t want to see, Crystal Stilts start up. Theirs is a derivative racket, reminiscent of various bands, but not fit to touch the hem of their collective garments. I lose interest immediately – along with most of the crowd, it must be said – and try not to let anger completely consume me.

Eventually, they stop, and I manage to regain some sense of composure. Marshaling my rage, I find myself being swept along towards the Spring and Airbrake for A Plastic Rose’s ep launch. Until recently, the Spring and Airbrake had been one of my least favourite places on earth, having been the site of several of my most spectacular emotional failures, and the backdrop to the most dissapointing gig I have ever attended: Dinosaur Jr. The American indie legends had held me in thrall for over a decade, their tuneful brilliance, and belligerent noise being part of my very lifeblood. To be confronted by three aging, fat men, with no personality whatsoever was a disapointment. To have my eardrums raped by the sheer volume they decided to play at was insulting (although, I should have know that would happen, to be honest…). To find them widdling through their set as if they really didn’t give a damn at all was the final straw, causing me to leave the gig halfway through – the only time I have EVER done this! – and trudging home to sit nursing my obliterated eardrums.

This night finds the Spring about half full, with people disinterestedly checking out the synth-y new wave sounds of Disconnect 4. The Galway band suffer from nothing more than wanting to be liked too much, their attention grabbing hair and tight trousers leading many to dismiss them as ‘try hards’. Which is a shame as they are actually rather good at what they do, fusing Cure-esque guitar lines to melodic bass and disco drums. Either way, they go down like a pair of Jehova’s Witnesses pounding at your door all night.

It is at this point that the curse of the Spring and Airbrake begins to wrap it’s tendrils around me, with an inevitability so…inevitable, that I really shouldn’t be surprised at it’s arrival. I spot an absurdly attractive girl at the bar, and somewhere within my booze addled brain, I decide that it’s time to throw all the emotional wreckage out the window and start anew, phoenix-like from the flames. Of course, having the social skills and grace of Boris Yeltsin at a free bar, my chances at accomplishing are limited from the start. I elect to maintain a mean and moody distance, whilst simultaneously looking like that guy your parents always warned you about – not the dashing rebel, the bogeyman.

I’d almost forgotten about A  Plastic Rose when they bound onto the stage with an infectious enthusiasm. This is a band meant to perform, and seeing them in full flight is an experience one is not likely to forget. They have that elusive ability to actually CONNECT with an audience, feeding off the mystic energy that flows between performer and spectator. And when they know they’ve got that connection, they just get better and better.

I watch the attractive girl go to the front of the stage, and I elect to follow, positioning myself right at the front. I notice the loudness as I walk towards the stage, but – like a fool – think nothing more of it. The second Gerry and Ian begin to sing, it feels as if the entire world just shifted off it’s axis. The volume is INCREDIBLE. In fact, it’s so loud that it feels as if I am listening to everything through ripped fabric, the lines becoming blurred and indistinct. But somehow, unlike Dinosaur Jr, it passes, and some kind of chemicals kick into my brain. I regain my composure, and am party to the kind of performance you rarely get these days. When they’re not engaging directly with the crowd, they’re blowing minds.

And all the while, attractive girl is dancing right beside me, with about one atom between us. There’s plenty of room around us, but this is the way it seems to be going. I am powerless to stop it.

Unfortunately, I’m powerless to do anything about it as well. I just stand there, frozen with terror at the prospect of having to act in the face of emotional carnage. At one point, I receive a dedication from the band, and this leads me to do the unthinkable: I actually turn round to the crowd, point at myself and shout, “That’s me!” Twenty seven years of experience go straight down the toilet, and I stand there, open mouthed at the power of A Plastic Rose, and my own all-consuming idiocy.

Eventually it’s all over, and I’m standing at the bar, still wondering whether there’s any point in making a move, when a realisation washes over me, opening my eyes to the futility of my situation. I walk out of the venue, and light up a cigarette. It is at this point that the attractive girl also comes out for a cigarette. I focus my mind on A Plastic Rose, hoping that by doing so, I can tap into some of that charisma and charm, and begin the trudge home, shoulders hunched and mood black.

It was a foolish thought, really. You’ve either got it or you ain’t , and A Plastic Rose have it. If only they had enough spare for me.

POST-SCRIPT
The very next night, I saw both the attractive girl and Gerry Norman. She was dancing to appalling music, and speaking to the kind of guys whose faces eventually end up in mugshots. Gerry was creating a whirlwind around himself and sweeping a lot of people up in the process. Some things never change.

To celebrate the culmination of Bandwidth’s 10-week residency at the Oh Yeah Music Centre in Belfast, we will be attending the very first Project X event, curated by Horseface Promotions this Sunday 14th December at Oh Yeah. Doors open at 7.30pm and tickets are under £5.

Project X, which describes itself as ‘An Adventure in Musical Anarchy’ is a collaborative project that puts new musicians together and, over the course of 10-weeks, attempts to create new and challenging music through intensive improvisation sessions. Bandwidth was of course there to film the whole process.

The gig should be amazing, and Bandwidth will be there showcasing upcoming material, including clips from the Project X sessions and our footage recorded back in October from Oh Yeah’s Urban Hymns event at May St Church, featuring Duke Special, Foy Vance and Bronagh Gallagher playing soul classics with the Inishowen Gospel Choir.

This November saw Belfast’s very first (hopefully first of many) Solidarity Festival, hosted by the very beautiful Belfast 4-piece And So I Watch You From Afar.. Over three days, in four different venues around the city, the locals were entertained by over 20 Northern ireland acts, signed and unsigned, all playing on the same bill in the spirit of cooperation, solidarity (funny enough) and to showcase the greatness of the N. Ireland music scene to the world. It wasn’t just bands in attendance, but alos artists and other creative types. Graham Smith showed some of his photographs, while community station NVTV had some pictures to show. There was also a weird tepee outside the Mandela Hall.
Bandwidth was in attendance throughout, and left with a sore head and some truly legendary footage. So, in 3 installments, feast your eyes and ears on:

Here Comes The Landed Gentry – getting silly backstage at the Oh Yeah centre

General Fiasco – Owen chilling out in the bar (noticing a theme here?) after their Mandela Hall gig

Cara Cowan – a fabulous newcomer winning over her crowd with Jefferson Airplane covers, again at Oh Yeah.

Enjoy the shows, and to meet the people responsible, visit here.

Bandwidth are proud and happy to announce they have taken residency in Belfast’s wonderful Oh Yeah centre in Belfast. Oh Yeah is a new centre for musicians and music businesses in Northern Ireland, with many great resources and a lot of good will to bring out the best for local music. Bandwidth have been selected for a prestigious 10-week residency programme called ‘Scratch My Business’, which will offer us to the chance to work with lots of other great and talented businesses, hopefully culminating in big event at the end of the year. Stay tuned for more..

andwidth are proud and happy to announce they have taken residency in Belfast’s wonderful Oh Yeah centre in Belfast. Oh Yeah is a new centre for musicians and music businesses in Northern Ireland, with many great resources and a lot of good will to bring out the best for local music. Bandwidth have been selected for a prestigious 10-week residency programme called ‘Scratch My Business’, which will offer us to the chance to work with lots of other great and talented businesses, hopefully culminating in big event at the end of the year. Stay tuned for more..

We are pleased to announce the launch of the new Bandwidth podcast from Bandwidth films. Featuring an exciting live music performance, updated regularly, each episode can be downloaded free at this site (www.bandwidthfilms.com), through our myspace or on the itunes music store.

To launch we are proud to announce a double bill of NYC’s finest, The National, playing in a secret location in Belfast, and Fighting With Wire, recorded at The Spring & Airbrake in May. Enjoy!