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I had been living in Will’s wardrobe for three days before I heard anything. It only occurred to me then that I had concealed myself on a Friday afternoon and had been staking out Will’s office over the weekend, when no one was there. Luckily it is a walk-in wardrobe, necessary to house Will’s collection of t-shirts with witty slogans on them, which he never wears any more because of ‘the fucking hipsters’, but refuses to throw away. I was able to get up and stretch my legs, but all I had to eat was a wheel of cheese that was so cheap I couldn’t pass it up. I soon realised that it had been reduced because it was out of date and by this point it was so caked in mould and t-shirt fluff that I could have crumbled it over a bed of baby-gem lettuce and cherry tomatoes and charged twenty-two quid for it in Deane’s Deli.

Anyway it was on Monday afternoon that I heard Will talking to Maggie, the former runner we rescued from the BBC a couple of weeks previous (an adventure you can read about here). I only caught a few words from their conversation: adapt… TV… BBC… Wednesday, but I knew it was something I would have to investigate further. After that it sounded like they were just moving furniture or something because for the next half an hour all I heard was a lot of thumping, punctuated by the occasional grunt of ‘of fuck’ by Maggie. She must have been lifting something really heavy because I have NEVER heard a woman make a noise like that before. While they were distracted I wrapped up my cheese, kicked some t-shirts over the corner I had been using for my ‘business’, and crept out, a plan already formulating in my head.

Unfortunately my plan was for naught. On Wednesday morning I walked to the barber’s to get a haircut and found the place closed. Naturally this ruined my day so I went home in a huff, put my jammies on and climbed into bed with a bottle of wine. I even dug out a Smiths album and put it on for the full effect, but I had to switch it off after one song because I was worried I might start lactating. I put Motorhead on instead and drank myself into a restless sleep, no doubt attributed to the cheese I had continued to eat throughout the week.

When I woke up it was dark, I was disoriented and Lemmy’s bass was making it sound like there was a war going on around me. Still furious about having so much hair and, frankly, still drunk, I remembered the BBC meeting Will was sending Maggie to and decided I ought to be there for it. I splashed on some aftershave, scrubbed my teeth back from wine-stained black to their regular coffee-stained yellow, and watched Meet Don Draper six times in a row to psyche myself up. Then I headed for Wetherspoons, where the meeting was to be held. It was called a networking event and was part of the 360 Degree Screen Writing Festival at the BBC, I had discovered, and the whole thing had made me very suspicious.

The place was fucking packed, so I got myself a double and sat on a sofa in my best Don Draper pose, in the hope that people would mistake me for someone important and leave me alone. After my second double and a dirty look from a dame whose ass I had been checking out, I decided to look for Maggie.

I clocked her standing near the stairs, talking to some broad who had a lanyard hanging around her neck, which I took to be a sign of elitism and immediately put me on the offensive. I sidled up behind Maggie and eavesdropped on enough of their conversation to find out that Will’s plan was to sell This Is Not A Review to the BBC so they could adapt it for television.

‘I think it would be perfect for TV,’ said Maggie. The nerve.

‘I don’t,’ I said, making my presence known, and accidentally sloshing some whiskey onto my shirt.

‘Oh, this is Ian,’ said Maggie, glaring at me. ‘The guy who writes This Is Not A Review.’

‘Oh, okay, and why don’t you think it’s right for us?’ asked the producer.

‘It’s better than the BBC,’ I said, and it took a second for my statement to sink in. When it did she scowled at me as if I had just said something incredibly arrogant and rude. She quickly made up an excuse and walked off to hear some other horseshit pitch from some other shitbird.

‘Well done Ian,’ said Maggie, ‘she could have been a big help.’

‘Look!’ I said, ‘If I wanted the comedic geniuses behind The Folks On The Hill to work on my material I would filter it through a sieve of mediocrity.’

I looked around and realised I had been talking a lot louder than I realised, and had attracted the attention of some people nearby, all of whom were suitable appalled. I drained my glass dramatically.

‘That doesn’t even make sense,’ said Maggie.

‘Your face doesn’t make sense,’ I said.

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Actually I’m working,’ I said. ‘This is my art!’

‘This is NOT art,’ she said.

‘Oh HA, HA,’ I mocked, secretly stung by the quality of her joke.

The crowd soon dispersed and I managed to get some more information out of Maggie. She had spoken with another producer, who had shown some real interest in the idea, and they had agreed to meet at some point in the near future.

‘I have to be honest, I don’t think the public is ready for a documentary about me,’ I said.

‘It’s not a documentary Ian,’ she said. ‘Have you been listening to anything I said? The idea is to adapt your writing into a comedy show. An actor would play you.’

‘I see. Well naturally there is only one actor who could possibly do it,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘Liam Neeson.’

‘Liam Neeson!?’

‘Well who else could do my accent?’

Stay tuned for further developments in the This Is Not A Review television project.

The band are playing dates in Cork, Dublin and Limerick in February and March – so look out for them if you’re there.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

We’ve always brought you the best new music from Ireland north & south, and on our 50th episode we brought you something rather special by bringing you an artist we considered to be a pretty big deal.

But now the series is officially 60 episodes old, and to celebrate, we’ve gone up a notch. From Downpatrick, here is the amazing Tim Wheeler (from a band called Ash) and, from London, the amazing Emma-Lee Moss (also called Emmy The Great), performing a Sleater-Kinney cover in Tim’s mum’s kitchen. Now you don’t see that everyday (unless you’re a bandwidth subscriber of course).

[Download Video]

Definitely my favourite month.

You may have been wondering what happened to Will and me. Or you may not, how the fuck would I know? The point is I’m going to tell you.

After a well deserved Christmas break I returned to the Bandwidth building bright and early on the January 1st with a spring in my step. I had been meaning to see a doctor about it, but what with being drunk for an entire month I just hadn’t gotten round to it. It appears to have been a psychosomatic issue, because what I found at HQ (that’s right, we use professional-sounding lingo) destroyed my mood worse than a badly timed shot of Ron Jeremy’s O-face in a cheap porno, and my tottering short person walk returned almost immediately. The place was a shit tip. Smashed windows covered with cardboard, the unmistakeable stench of a backed up toilet, rats building little houses out of discarded syringes, and by far the worst of all, Michael Barrymore appeared to be squatting there.

‘We warned you about this Barrymore!’ I yelled.

‘No, Will said it was cool this time,’ he replied.

‘What? When? Where is Will?’

‘I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago he said he was moving on. Greener pastures, he said.’

‘Fuck,’ I said, pulling up an office chair and taking out my hip flask. ‘Will was my hero.’ I had a swig and noticed Barrymore eyeing it. I passed it to him. ‘Going though another rough patch huh?’

‘Yeah, just need some time to get my shit together,’ he said, guzzling my whiskey. I snatched the flask back.

‘Could be worse,’ I said. ‘Michael Madsen’s in the Big Brother house.’

After that nothing more needed to be said, and we finished the whiskey in solemn silence.

Before I left I went to take a leak, and that is where I got my lead. The toilet was filthy, and of course there was no toilet paper left. Barrymore had been using old office documents, which he had carefully torn up into wipe-sized squares. I recognised most of them as old This Is Not A Review articles and it struck me that there really would be no reason to print those things out, except with the intention of wiping one’s ass on them, but I didn’t have time to be offended. There, nestled amongst the words that spilled out of me like whiskey from a glass when I fall asleep in front of the TV, was the remnants of an official looking letter written on BBC stationery. The BBC. Of course.

I marched all the way to the BBC building, stopping only briefly for three pints of Guinness. At the reception I slammed my fists on the desk and demanded to see Will. The receptionist told me I wasn’t allowed in without a visitor’s pass.

‘How do I get one of those?’ I asked.

‘Just fill in this form.’

‘Fuck that!’ I screamed. ‘This is an emergency.’

‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave sir,’ she said.

‘I’ll be back,’ I said.

CUT TO:

Me, crashing a car through the front of the BBC building.

I reached over the desk and snatched a visitor’s pass, then I descended into the depths of televisual hell. I had prepared myself for some resistance, but the only obstacle I encountered was a girl I went to university with.

‘Hey [name deleted for reasons of libel], good to see you again. Now where’s McConnell?’

After pretending not to recognise me, she gave me the long version of how successful she has been in the ‘industry’. Finally she told me how to find Will and went back to mopping, insisting that I not walk over her lovely clean floor, and find another way around.

The door was marked ‘Sound/Dubbing/Cleaner’s Store’. I booted it in, and immediately regretted my decision. Will had his feet up on a mixing board and was leisurely masturbating to a behind-the-scenes video loop showing [name deleted for reasons of libel] repeatedly bending over, exposing perhaps an inch of cleavage at most.

‘Ian!’ he exclaimed.

‘Jesus!’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Please stop masturbating!’ I said.

‘Oh, right,’ he said, tucking himself away. ‘What’s up?’

‘Dude, what’s happened to you?’

‘I’m moving up in the world Ian. Steady work. A credit on a real TV show. Even my own office,’ he said, motioning around the cramped mixing studio we were in. ‘The ladies toilets are next door. You can hear them when they’re in there.’

‘Jesus fuck Will, you’ve turned into a sex pest. And worse, a dubbing mixer.’

‘Oh yeah, coming from the guy who works in a chocolate shop.’

‘I still have my dreams Will. And when I jerk off at work I have the decency to go to the toilet.’

‘But I’m happy here. It’s easy,’ he said.

I grabbed him by the collar, spun his chair around and slapped him in the face. I tried to ignore the fact that the movement had exposed his genitals again. ‘Listen to me William,’ I said. ‘Did I ever tell you about my uncle?’

‘Your uncle was not John Wayne, Ian’

‘No, my other uncle. Tony. He had this obsession with people letting their dogs shit in the street. He used to go on and on about how the council should do more about it until one day he finally snapped and started his own private business cleaning up dog turds in upper class areas. At first everyone thought he was crazy, but it really caught on. He was even in the paper. ‘Pooper Trooper is Super, Says Council’. But you know where he is now? He’s a dog shit warden in a park. The council liked his idea so much they hijacked it and now he works for them. Just another cog in the machine. He never has to get his hands dirty, but you know what? He’s a broken man. Says he can’t even remember what a bucket of dog shit smells like any more.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Will.

‘Don’t you see? You used to be in charge of shit. Even if it was just small time, it was all yours. Now you’re just doing someone else’s shit for them.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, standing up, his junk lolling into plain view. ‘Let’s go make some fucking music videos.’

‘Okay, but put your bits away first dude. And zip up this time.’

As we tracked mucky footprints across a beautifully clean floor we bumped into the runner, heading in the other direction with a tray loaded with cups of tea. Seeing the mess we had made she dropped the tray, scattering broken crockery and tea, and broke into tears.

‘I can’t do this any more,’ she cried. ‘Please, take me with you.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good…’ I started.

‘What show do you work on?’ Will interrupted.

‘Out Of The Blue,’ she sobbed.

‘Oh you poor thing,’ he said, putting his arm around her. ‘Of course you can come with us.’

I mouthed ‘what the fuck?’ at him and he responded by cupping his hands in front of his chest and biting his lip in a furious manner. Luckily I know sign language, and understood that he was indicating her massive breasts. He had a point.

‘Okay then,’ I said, ‘let’s go.’

We headed straight back to HQ, stopping only very briefly so I could have three pints of Guinness.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Thank you and Merry Christmas.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

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Check out The Jepettos on bandcamp.

Piss up in brewery you say? Sure ok. Here’s the highlights:

Playlist:
1- Sons Of Caliber
2- Runaway Go
3- Paul Shevlin
4- Lee Hedley Band
5- Junior Johnson
6- The Inishowen Gospel Choir
7- Farriers
8- Clown Parlour
9- Aaron Shanley

Michelle Williams as Marilyn Monroe. Or, all I really want for Christmas.

[Editor's Note: This was supposed to be a review of the last week's Electric Six gig. The following is what Ian turned in. When questioned about it his only response was, 'Fuck that noise,' in what we think was supposed to be a Kenny Powers impression.]

I was on the can when the inspiration for this article hit me. There was a condom machine just outside the stall I was using, and with no reading materials to hand, I had begun pondering it. The machine advertised three condoms for three pounds. What struck me as unusual about it was that it dispensed a pack of three different kinds. A regular old rubber Johnny, an ultra-fine, and a ribbed-for-her-pleasure. Surely for most people this is just plain inconvenient. Surely anyone who needs a condom has a preference, which means two out of those three aren’t going to be exactly what they wanted. I, for example, would have no use for anything other than the regular one. I am a meat and potatoes kinda guy, you see. And when you’re fucking a plate of meat and potatoes the ultra-fine ones have a tendency to rip, and the ribbed ones just become clogged with food, which defeats the whole purpose. I jest, of course. I have never been able to persuade a plate of food to sleep with me, even after adding liberal amounts of wine during cooking. I came close once, but the bitch tricked me by asking for oral first. By the time I realised my error I had scoffed the lot, leaving nothing but a gravy slicked plate. What was I talking about again? I was going somewhere with this…

Oh yes, condoms as a metaphor for life. I know what you are thinking. You all know enough about my sex life – ie the complete lack of it – to know that I have no use for contraceptives. So how do I know so much about them? Well I’ll tell you. There is a girl who works in the pharmacy next door to the shop I work in. She is so pretty she makes my heart hurt. No, seriously, one day I had to ask her for a bottle of Gaviscon. The convenience of her profession was not lost on me. As it turns out that day the heartburn was actually caused by a case of Bulgarian beer I found in my mate’s shed. I had to drink the lot, to prove my assertion that ‘beer doesn’t go out of date.’ Even after six years. Back to the rubbers…

Six months ago I hatched a plan to woo this pretty pharmacist. I say plan. I started buying condoms off her. Every week. The biggest box they had. No conversation. No silly come ons. Just an expression that said yeah, I do a lot of sex. My thinking was that she would at first be intrigued, then impressed, then downright jealous of my sheer… output. I was banking on it, in fact, because after shower cap I couldn’t think of a use for the goddamn things and they were starting to pile up. After a few weeks I decided to up my game and go for the wow factor by buying a pack of Magnums. I only did that once though. After slipping one over my head for my morning shower I was fucking horrified to find it quite roomy. Who buys those fucking things? Seriously, I have trouser legs with a lesser circumference. Every cloud, though. That was the first morning for about a month I washed my hair, so I immediately stopped looking so… Persian. My next tactic was to give off the bad boy vibe. You know, living on the edge. I started buying the ultra-fine ones. Because for a badass like me, the very slight improvement in pleasure was worth the increased risk of unwanted pregnancy, or even chlamydia. (I just fucking spelled chlamydia right first time!) This didn’t seem to impress her the way I had hoped, so I changed tactics again. I started buying the ribbed ones, in a bid to look like a considerate lover. I had put off buying this particular kind on general principle, as I believe the female orgasm is a myth, like Elvis’s death, or the whole black guy thing. I will concede that white men can’t jump, but only because we don’t need to, as demonstrated by Guinness world record holder for ‘greatest number of badass acts of violence in one TV show’, Vic Mackey:

Fences? Fuck fences. Where was I? Oh yes, ribbed for her pleasure…

These did not appear to have the desired effect either, and the ever growing pile of condoms in the corner of my room was like a monument to jerking off. Then I caught a cold and decided life sucks and I shouldn’t ever bother trying to do anything. I stopped at the pharmacy on my way to work and, seeing me approach, the girl grabbed a box of twelve ribbed condoms.

‘Oh, no thanks,’ I said. ‘I just need some decongestant.’

‘Oh,’ she said, putting the condoms back and picking up a bottle of Sudafed.

‘I was only buying those to impress you anyway,’ I said.

‘It didn’t work… at all.’

‘That’s okay, don’t suppose you want to get a cup of coffee some time?’

‘I have a boyfriend,’ she said.

‘That figures,’ I said with a wistful smile. ‘Just out of curiosity, what is your preference with those things?’

‘Oh… umm… my boyfriend has to use special ones actually.’

‘Ah, latex allergy.’

‘No, those ones,’ she said, pointing to the Magnums. And suddenly her odd gait made sense. I tried to suppress a grimace. ‘Is that everything then?’ she asked.

~ Pause for comedic effect ~

‘Actually I’m gonna need some Vaseline too.’

Where was I going with this thing again? Oh yeah, the life lesson. I forget what it is, actually. The only advice I can impart is, don’t turn the ribbed condoms inside out for enhanced sensation. Apparently ‘ribbed for her pleasure’ actually means ‘chafes like a motherfucker’. If you do ever make that mistake, though, don’t bother your GP with it. You local pharmacist should be able to help.

[Download Video]

Have a look at the playlist below watch all 10 videos, including performances from The Lowly Knights, Katie & The Carnival, Southern, Captain Cameron, Ben Glover & Anthony Toner and Rams’ Pocket Radio

[Download all 10 videos for ipod] – zip, m4v files, 672MB

Naoimh is in the process of mastering a new EP – and will tour Europe in 2012 – I urge you to see her live at some point.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

For those who can’t wait for the 2012 tour of course – Naoimh happened to be playing The Black Box in Belfast the day of shooting – here’s a bonus track, a rather startling version of an Adele song (a Bandwidth first I think).

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed Belfast, November 2011.

The mountainous northern Alabama.

‘Here is something you can’t understand,
How I could just kill a man.’

- Cypress Hill

I covertly sniffed my armpit. It definitely wasn’t me. I tried to scan the immediate vicinity but my vision was consumed by two huge anorak-covered backs. One belonged to a beer swilling giant of a man, the other to his almost-just-as-giant beer swilling wife, whom I suspected was the one farting in my general direction. I stared into my empty plastic cup, wondering where Scarlett had gotten to, and then put the cup around my nose so I could huff some whiskey fumes. How the fuck could there be so many Steve Earle fans in Belfast? Then Scarlett was poking me in the back and she was empty handed.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t get near the bar.’

‘But your lightly freckled cleavage ought to be bartender Kryptonite!’ I said.

‘The bar is full of assholes,’ she shrugged.

‘Same deal in here,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I can do this sober. I’m going to snap the next time someone shoves me.’ And someone shoved me. I spun on my heels, ready to paste the motherfucker and discovered it was a heavily tattooed guy with long curly ginger hair. Considering the possibility that he was some sort of heavy metal Celtic warrior, I squashed myself against the wall and let him pass. ‘Next time I really will,’ I reassured Scarlett, and she gave me that smile.

It had been pure dumb luck that I stumbled upon Scarlett’s video on Youtube.

[Editor's Note: Ian's web history shows that he had "stumbled upon" Scarlett's video by way of a search for 'Irish girls gone wild.']

She was a girl from Galway, drunkenly singing Galway Girl by Steve Earle, although the only part she seemed to know was the ‘eigh-aye-eigh-aye-eigh’ bit. With the Steve Earle gig only a couple of weeks away I decided it was a sign from the gods and had Will track her down. Long story short she didn’t want to pass up a free Steve Earle show and she arrived in Belfast a couple of days before the gig. We hit it off the second she finished her pint of Guinness before me, and we spent every waking hour together. Every sleeping hour too, if you get what I mean…

[Editor's Note: You're a liar?]

The night before the show I watched True Romance and had an epiphany. It is very unlikely that Patricia Arquette will be ever fuck me. So I decided to settle for Scarlett. The day of the gig I bought a ring, thinking I would be romantic and propose during Galway Girl. Now a brief pause to allow the female readers to finish saying ‘awwwwwww’…

[Editor's Note: What female readers?]

But there I was smooshed between a bunch of fatties and Steve Earle was coming on and any sense of romance in the air was blanketed by the smell of beer-sweat and cheese and onion flavoured farts. It’ll be okay once he starts playing, I thought, then they’ll settle down. But they didn’t. In fact most of the people there didn’t even believe that Steve Earle’s presence on stage warranted a pause in their conversations. They didn’t just talk during songs, they talked, nay, shouted over Steve while he was trying to talk to the audience between songs. This prompted a number of ‘shushes’ and even a few ‘shut the fuck up’s, but to no avail. Even when Steve himself suggested that ‘the people at the bar shut the fuck up’, they ignored him and continued yammering loudly at each other. The fact that I was squashed in at the back was tolerable – I am always squashed in at the back in Mandela Hall – but being squashed in at the back with nothing to drink, surrounded by obnoxious assholes who think their own inane fucking conversation is more interesting than hearing Steve Earle live was too much for me. If you were at the gig and you talked during it, I hope you get cancer of the prostate/vulva (delete as appropriate), you sack of shit. It does go to show how good Steve was, however, that even the shit crowd couldn’t ruin the gig for me. He did a long set with a bunch of the classics peppered through more recent songs and although it was hard to hear him over the sea of dickheads surrounding me, he took the time to tell a few cool stories and interact with the crowd, which I always appreciate. He did play Galway Girl, but I decided it wouldn’t be wise to take a knee in the bustling crowd, so I slipped the ring over my finger for safe keeping and decided to propose after the show. Alas, my plan was doomed.

I was lost in a furious trance, glaring at some twat who was taking a video of the show on his phone. Just a piece of advice: if you pay thirty two quid to see a living legend in your own home town and you decide to watch it through a three-inch screen on your shitty fucking camera phone, you’re an asshole. There is no exception to this rule. Then someone dumped half a pint of Harp down the back of my neck and I finally lost it. I turned around to see some silly fat bitch trying to manoeuvre (read: push) her way through the crowd CARRYING FOUR PINTS OF HARP. Who tries to carry four pints in plastic cups through a sold out crowd? I never even try to carry three pints in case I drop one and look like a twat.

[Editor's Note: Well, you do have little dainty hands.]

Not now Ed, I’m on a roll…

And here was this ignorant twat pushing past me and rolling her eyes like it was my fault she spilled some.

‘YOU FAT FUCKING CU…’ I started to scream, and then I was shoved again. I turned around to see the Celtic warrior, once more on the warpath and taking no prisoners. I shoved him back and when he turned on me I chinned him a good one. He stumbled back, his eyes going wide, and then he collapsed. I looked at my fist, awed by my own manly prowess, and realised it hadn’t been my Tyson Fury-like right that put him down. The diamond from the ring on my finger had evidently come loose and flew into his throat when I hit him. As I watched him choke to death I realised it wouldn’t be long before someone called the cops, and they would probably blame me, so I fled into the night.

Scarlett hasn’t spoken to me since. Apparently seeing me commit manslaughter wasn’t a turn on for her, so I suppose she wasn’t right for me after all. Well, there’s always Alabama…

This is not an accurate depiction of Ian's life.

For some reason it never occurred to me that a screening of Game Of Thrones would be full of fantasy nerds. In my mind it was just another example of the sort of quality television I have come to expect of HBO, but fantasy fans are a peculiar breed of die-hard and they were out in force for this particular event. There were even a few in costume, though at this point I had never seen the show so I didn’t know who they were supposed to be. One of the dressed-up dames had caught my eye. She was standing off to one corner, wearing a long shabby dress and looking rather timid. And her tits were fucking huge. The sheer fabric of her costume was stretched taut enough to give every unkempt prick in the lobby a half-mast hope that at any point it might just give and rip in just the right spot. She fit the description Will had given me – which was in actual fact just a groping hand motion in front of his chest – but intimidation had me rooted to the spot. I hadn’t had time to stop in the pub before the show, and my Draper-juice was tucked away in a flask inside my jacket. The flash of chrome would have been a dead give-away and I feared being thrown out before I even got drunk enough to cause a proper scene. Finally I managed to channel some Mickey out of sheer desperation. There was a creepy looking motherfucker with a pony-tail hovering dangerously close to her and I didn’t want to relive the pain I suffered at a recent gig when some groupie-wannabe was stolen from me by a pony-tailed pig, whose only tactic seemed to be grinding up against her and spilling his beer on her shoes. Just the flagrant waste of good beer was enough to piss me off, but the dame appeared to be into it and that just about ruined my whole night. I shuffled over to her and gave her a weak smile.

‘Is there any chance you’re April?’

Looking slightly relieved she confirmed that she was indeed April. ‘I thought you must be Ian when I saw you but I wasn’t sure.’

‘How did Will describe me?’

‘Oh, uh, I wouldn’t want to say…’

‘No, it’s okay. You won’t hurt my feelings,’ I said with a smile, demonstrating my manly thick skin.

‘Well, he said “pre-Hollywood-weight-loss Ricky Gervais”.’

My feelings were pretty badly hurt, but I knew I couldn’t show weakness. I tried to laugh it off. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t mention my thinning hair.’

‘Oh, he did,’ she said. ‘I forgot that part.’

‘Well, you look good,’ I said, staring at her tits.

‘Thanks. I’m just a wench. I thought you would like a wench.’ And immediately, I forgave Will.

That night they showed the first five episodes of Season 1. At first I was all like ‘eh’ but it wasn’t long before I decided it was the best thing of all time. It could have been a terrifically boring night considering how long it lasted, but by the time the credits rolled on episode five I was so hooked I probably would have sat through the following five as well. Alas, they were to be saved for the following night. My hip flask now empty, I had just enough manly confidence to say goodnight to April without jabbering like a fool and I went home feeling strangely light-hearted, safe in the knowledge that I would see her again before long. When I caught my reflection in the taxi mirror I noticed that my face was contorted – my mouth sort of drawn up at the sides – and I realised I was experiencing something incredibly rare. Sober joy. My God, I thought, imagine how good this would be drunk. I decided to make a few adjustments for the following night, and it wouldn’t be Don Draper or even Mickey Rourke who would be my inspiration. It would be Tyrion Lanister, the coolest wine-swilling, wench-fucking dwarf I had ever seen. When I got home I grabbed a bottle and my mum’s sewing kit and set to work.

When I woke up the next day I couldn’t move my arm and I was stricken by blind panic, until, through the haze of the hangover I realised I had just stitched the cuff of my shirt to my jeans. The needlework was surprisingly good, if I do say so myself, but the garment I was working on was destroyed in the struggle to free my arm. Fuck it, I thought, I’ll just wear a cape, and went back to sleep.

That night I made sure to get a good buzz going before I arrived at the Movie House, and of course I had my flask with me again. I ducked into the toilets and put my cape on, and when I looked at myself in the mirror my face was smiling with the anticipation of seeing my busty wench again. When I swished back out into the lobby, though, the smile quickly fell away. April was there, but my wench was not. She was just dressed like a regular modern day dame. A buxom dame, sure, but she had lost the specialness that her filthy harlot costume had created.

‘I thought you thought the costume was kinda goofy,’ she said.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I just wasn’t myself last night. Didn’t have enough whiskey. I even wore a cape tonight.’

‘I see that.’ she said.

‘Like Tyrion…’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Because he seems to be a hit with the ladies.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘Tyrion has to pay for it. Now Khal Drogo, he just takes it. I like that.’

My feelings were pretty badly hurt, but I knew I couldn’t show weakness. I tried to laugh it off. ‘And he has a pony tail,’ I joked.

‘Oh I LOVE pony tails,’ she said.

Fuming, I went inside, found a seat and took a hit from the flask.

If anything there were even more beheadings and titties in the second half of the series than the first, which I found impressive. Her comment had all but ruined every scene involving Khal Drogo for me, but at the same time I couldn’t quite hate the guy. He is played by Jason Momoa – a man so large and good looking that even the intense jealousy he inspires isn’t enough to mask the truth of the situation, which is that if I was a dame he would make me moist too. I have a certain deference for men like that. If I’m going to be a loser I’m going to try to be a good one. I won’t give anything away about the show, I would just urge you to check it out. It is not the best TV show ever made but that is due to the quality of the other shows, not a lack thereof in this one. What it does do better than just about any other show is turn the badass level to eleven. What man doesn’t like bloody violence and titties? And what woman doesn’t like the idea of Khal Drogo taking you as his princess and banging you in his tent every night after a hard day cutting fucking heads off? What else can I say? It has something for everyone.

After studying Tyrion Lanister’s every conniving move for over four hours and having my world rocked by the season finale, I was convinced that I could bed April, wench-outfit or not. A small contingent headed for the nearest bar and we followed. Inside I draped myself into one of the booths and told her to bring me some wine. She brought me over a glass and then excused herself, so I took the opportunity to sup my wine and survey the bar, feeling like a royal fucking badass. When I caught sight of her again she was being chatted up by the creep with the pony tail. He was hunched over her in such a sweaty frenzy he spilled some of his pint, which just made her giggle. As my look dissolved from drunk and aloof to drunk and maudlin, a group of zombies walked into the bar, celebrating Halloween early. They stopped at my table.

‘Are you Willow?’ asked one of the lady-zombies.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Who are you then?’

‘Tyrion Lanister.’

‘Who?’

‘Never mind,’ I said. I drank the glass of wine down in one and got up to leave. As I did, my foot got caught in my cape and I fell down.

‘Go easy on the wine there Frodo,’ said one of the others, and all the zombies laughed at me.

PS – if any of you are lucky enough to work on Game Of Thrones, I have a film degree, I am desperate and I make really fucking good tea. I’m just putting that out there.

TPT is the musical project of one Ben Behzadafshar – Bandwidth regulars may recognise David Armstrong in the band, of Polar Beyond infamy. Though the project was short lived, I’m sure we haven’t heard the last from him as a recording artist.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed at Giant’s Ring, Co. Antrim, June 2011.

This Is Not A Review will return next week. I will be spending the entire weekend finishing my Halloween costume, which is Tyrion Lanister from Game Of Thrones, a.k.a. ‘The coolest motherfucker of all time.’

Being short just got awesome. Prophecise, bitches.

I couldn’t resist working with him again, being as he is, one of my favourite emerging artists from these parts. Full stop. Luckily for me and you, Chris is recording his debut EP. This is a little bit of what he can do:

[Download Video]

Filmed in Belfast September 2011

I had only ducked into the bar for a pint and some peace and quiet. Not only was there a pub quiz on, screwing my plans for peace, but as my Guinness settled I spied a new bottle on a shelf behind the bar. I clocked it as Four Roses bourbon, which I have never tried before.

‘Barkeep!’ I yelled. ‘Four fingers of Four Roses, please.’

‘We use measures here Ian, you know that,’ he said.

‘How many fingers in a measure?’

‘I don’t know. About one and half.’

‘Of course, depends on the fatness of one’s fingers, I suppose. So one and half fingers per measure… four divided by one and half… the fractions always get me… the number you’re diving by, turn upside down and multiply… hmmm… eleven? Jesus that can’t be right.’

‘How about you start with one and if you like it you can make the next one a double,’ said the barman, eyeing the queue that was forming behind me.

‘Good thinking,’ I said, and he poured me one. It was delicious, if you were wondering. Not the best bourbon I have ever had, but then I am a connoisseur. Or ‘fuckin wanker’, as they say in Belfast.

‘It’s about time,’ said one of the punters behind me. ‘I just missed the Strictly Come Dancing question.’

‘My apologies sir,’ I said, supping my whiskey. ‘Have them repeat it and I will give you the answer.’

‘You don’t look like a Strictly fan,’ he said.

‘But why wouldn’t I be. Strictly features a veritable feast of the most exotic women on television. They have names like Katya, Flavia and Aliona, and they are all leg. Not only that but you get the best of both worlds – all sweaty in tank tops and shorts while they’re practising, and all dolled up in nothing but two well-placed straps and a pair of satin knickers when they perform. It’s a work of fucking genius.’ The queue of thirsty people just stared at me, apparently awed by my cinematic speech.

‘Fuckin wanker,’ someone muttered.

‘Connoisseur!’ I corrected, but my attention was immediately diverted by the sight of the barmaid, pulling a pint. ‘Exotic as they are though,’ I said, leaning on the bar and giving her my best Roger Sterling smile, ‘they can’t quite match the staff in here.’ My line fell on the wrong side of sleazy though, and she just looked away. I drained my glass.

Many drinks later I motioned for the barman. The barmaid had successfully ignored my every attempt at eye-contact, thereby avoiding serving me.

‘I need more whiskey,’ I said.

‘How much this time?’

‘Hell, a whole bouquet!’

‘How much is that?’ he asked.

‘Hmm, how many fours in a bouquet? Jesus I must be drunk.’ Rather than wait for me to work it out he just gave me a single and took my money. The barmaid was at the tap right in front of me.

‘Listen!’ I yelled so loud she couldn’t hope to ignore me. ‘Your aloofness is understandable, and it compliments your beauty perfectly, but you are breaking my goddamn heart!’ My words – always my strongest asset – broke through the wall my drunken debauchery had built between us, and I swear it, we had a fucking moment. ‘When do you finish?’ I asked.

‘Ten minutes,’ she said. Which was lucky because I had drank all my money, and I am not sure how much longer I could have stretched this part of the story.

After her shift she met me outside. She had changed out of her sweaty tank top, let her hair down, and she was now fully made up, wearing a beautiful dress, which I felt was impractical but lovely nonetheless. I told her as much, and she smiled.

‘Let me show you something,’ I said.

CUT TO:

The Bandwidth building.

We crept in through the front door and sprinted across the lobby to the elevator, the fat Mexican security guard giving chase as best he could. The damn lift was out of order so, giggling with the naughtiness of it all, we headed for the stairs and ran up a full five flights, well ahead of the guard. At the fifth floor I guided her to Will’s office, where we hid until we were sure the guard had given up looking.

‘Why are we here?’ she asked.

‘You’ll see,’ I said, and went to the floor-to-ceiling window. I pulled open the blinds, revealing the most spectacular view in all of Belfast. I know this because next to the window is a brass plaque which reads ‘The most spectacular view in all of Belfast.’ The city was beautifully illuminated and the cloudless sky impossibly full of stars. She came over to stand next to me and took my hand as we gazed out the window at the city. We had another moment. At around 2am, when the streets started to fill with boking students, we decided to call it a night. We went back to the stairs, but couldn’t open the door. The security guard had had a heart attack from the exertion and fallen down behind the door, sealing us in. The lift, of course, was still out of order.

‘It looks like we will have to stay the night,’ I said, and we went back to Will’s office.

‘I’m cold,’ she said, wrapping her arms around herself. I reminded her that I had warned her about the impracticality of her attire, but re-assured her that I would take care of it.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen like four episodes of Bear Grylls.’ I started kicking at the legs of Will’s desk until I splintered a couple of them off. I built them up into a little pile and tried to set fire to them, wondering why they wouldn’t catch. Then I remembered that Will’s desk is not made of wood, but of the bones of several notorious South American dictators. He claims their spirits live on, enriching him with what he calls his ‘death stare’, or ‘olhar mortal’.

‘I’m sorry, this isn’t going to work,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to find some other way to keep warm.’

‘Like what?’ she said.

‘Well if there was a camel carcass here I could hollow it out, but there isn’t…’

‘What else can we do?’ she asked.

CUT TO:

The following morning.

The cleaners found the dead security guard on the stairs, then me, sleeping naked on Will’s smashed-up desk, clutching one of his sofa cushions to my chest. The carpet was charred and littered with shards of bone, and next to me on the floor was an empty Four Roses bottle, and Will’s coffee cup, half-filled with urine.

The damage to the office has subsequently been blamed on the security guard, since he was Mexican, and he was dead anyway.

Gratuitous photo of Kirsten Dunst in a wet tank top.  Or, the only redeeming feature of the Spiderman movies.

Drive

When I try to be all professional and shit…

Drive is about stunt driver Ryan Gosling, whose past-times include chewing toothpicks, brooding, and driving getaway cars for professional burglars. He is the perfect professional – a lone wolf who lives to drive and drives to live. Until, that is, he meets Carrie Mulligan, who is prettier than any woman really has a right to be. The Goz gets involved with her and her son and everything is going well, until her husband gets out of prison and comes home. The husband owes money to some nasty people, who want him to pull a job as payment. The Goz agrees to help him, because he is a bloody decent guy. But, of course, things don’t go to plan.

Films with this much style don’t often come with substance to match, so this is quite a rare species. The Goz, aside from being the handsomest devil on the planet, is a damn fine actor and turns in a pitch perfect performance as the getaway driver with such huge balls he has to wear specially tailored jeans. All of the actors are good too, but this is very much a one man movie. A man who doesn’t blink and has a scorpion on his jacket.

It just wouldn’t be right to neglect to mention the cinematography and the score, though – both of which are stunning. The attention to detail in every aspect of the film creates an experience that goes beyond simple storytelling. There is a cohesion between the story that is being told, and how it is being told, which is something most lazy film-makers just don’t bother with. The artistic merits offset the gloriously graphic violence, which rather than seeming gratuitous, is brutal and shocking and absolutely right for the tone of the film, turning a simple shotgun blast to the head into a beautiful ballet of brains and blood.  That’s right, alliteration bitch.

A truly exceptional piece of uber-cool cinema.

When I just say what I really thought…

Ron Perlman is like a fucking alligator. He has too many teeth and his number one interest is murder. And he’s not even the best thing about this goddamn movie…

Melancholia

When I try to be all professional and shit…

Melancholia is a film in two halves. The first one is about a doomed wedding reception for newly-weds Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and Michael (Alexander Skarsgard). Not only can their family members not get along, Justine is suffering from a sort of melancholia that is only made worse by everyone’s insistence that she be happy. The second chapter, as Von Trier does enjoy his films in chapters, is about Justine’s sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg) who is convinced that a planet called Melancholia, which is due to pass by close to Earth, is actually going to collide with and destroy the entire planet. As if that isn’t enough to worry about, she is also trying to look after Justine, whose melancholia has developed into a fully fledged depression.

Each chapter works well independently. The wedding reception at first appears to be nothing more than a beautifully shot melodrama, but is in actual fact quite a nuanced and subtle study of depression and modern-day malaise. Dunst’s performance was a true revelation to me, as I personally haven’t seen her given free roam in a challenging role before. The second chapter is a simpler, more tightly contained story. Charlotte Gainsbourg’s performance is on par with Kirsten Dunst’s, as she slowly unravels in the face of potential world destruction. Like Justine in the first chapter, Claire’s mental state is only antagonised by those around her – scientifically-minded husband (Kiefer Sutherland) and walking zombie depressive sister – who fail, or refuse, to understand her fear. Though each half is accomplished in itself, the film taken as a whole becomes more than the sum of its parts.

The prosaic pacing had me wondering, at points, if it was all really necessary, or if the director had simply given himself over to self-indulgence. Lars Von Trier is not one to shy away from controversy or unconventionality, and is not afraid to explore some plot threads which are ultimately left dangling – a terribly faux pas in Hollywood film but strangely intriguing when done correctly, as it is here. The whole thing probably could have been more concise but I have to admit that after the screening, and for the days since, I have been thinking about the film, which isn’t something I can often say. I feel like I haven’t fully processed it yet, and as such am slightly ill-equipped to say anything definite about it. It is a ponderous, beautiful film, which won’t be to everyone’s tastes. There are some true flashes of brilliance, though, in the performances and in the epic, intense imagery, which is more aesthetically than emotionally pleasing, but incredible to behold all the same. It is beautiful and thoughtful and I liked it. I just haven’t decided how much yet.

When I just say what I really thought…

Damn, Kirsten Dunst has some nice boobs.

But nothing lasts forever. Stevie Scullion, one half of Cat Malojian, continued as a recordign artist, and what’s more, he took the name ‘Malojian’ with him. The Cat is dea, long live ‘Malojian‘.

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, August 2011.

I awoke in a dusky haze to feel something vibrating against my thigh.

‘Not again Donna! My ass looks like a goddamn yawning child!’ The vibrating persisted.

‘Damn it Donna don’t make me take the belt to you,’ I yelled, leaping to my feet. I found the room empty. Of life, that is. The room was actually quite full – of whiskey bottles mostly, and empty Jaffa Cake boxes. I reached into my pocket and took out my phone, which was still buzzing.

‘Yeah?’

‘Ian it’s Will. What have you got for Friday?’

‘Fuck all my man, fuck all.’

‘That’s what I suspected. Which is why I have scored you entry to a press screening of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy today.’

‘Say again?’

‘I got your name on the list to see the movie for free, so you can write about it on Friday.’

‘I see. Are you sending the limo?’

‘Why would I send a limo?’

‘Typical. I might as well work for the fucking Telegraph,’ I said, and hung up on him. ‘Donna!’ I yelled. Donna is a broad I shacked up with a few weeks ago. She’s a bit older than I would normally go for but she drinks like Prohibition is coming back and she is downright filthy between the sheets. She appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, which was quite the coincidence because that’s exactly how I was dressed. She took a long drag on her smoke.

‘What is it honey?’

‘Go dig out your finest threads babe, I’m gonna show you off around town.’

‘Where we going?’

‘I’m taking you to a movie première.

‘Really?’

‘Goddamn right. I told you I was a celebrity.’ Nestled among many other lies the night we met, I had in fact told her I was a celebrity.

‘What about Jaxon?’ she asked.

‘Who’s Jaxon?’

‘My son!’

‘Oh yeah, the kid. Leave him with your mother.’

‘My mother died two months ago! How many times?’

‘All right, we’ll leave him with my mother.’

‘You’re going to let me meet your mum?’ she said, a look of almost painful hope on her face.

‘Hell no, she’d flip out. I’ll tell her I found the kid in the street and I’ve gone to report it to social services.’

‘Oh… okay,’ she said, and turned to go.

‘Hey babe.’

‘Yeah?’ she turned back, hopeful again.

‘I’ll have eggs for breakfast.’

‘Okay Mickey,’ she said. And I suppose that would be the cue for some back story.

Two weeks ago on a routine night out drinking in the bar, two of my friends joined me. I have grown rather accustomed to drinking alone and having company usually has one of two effects: either I curl up inside my shell and wait for them to leave, or I kick the shell off my back and start dancing like Mick Jagger. What happened to me two weeks ago, because of my prolonged state of solitude, is a rare medical condition known as going ‘Full Mickey’. This is inspired by Mickey Rourke’s triumphant return from the darkness to the spotlight, which was punctuated by recurring displays of awesome. When I was first taken by the spirit of Mickey I ordered another double Jack and requested that they play ‘Here I Go Again’ by Whitesnake, which I then sang along to. My display attracted the attention of Donna, who was sitting nearby, and complimented me on my chest hair. The rest of the night involved me stuffing a faux-fur scarf down my shirt (to give me the Chuck Norris look, since chest hair was working for me), demonstrating how bitchin’ Rab McCullough’s version of Voodoo Child was on my air guitar, and walking through town shaking hands with everyone I met. When I came to the next day I was in Donna’s place, and though my head was pounding rather than buzzing, the spirit of Mickey hadn’t left me. I decided to roll with it, so I had a beer for breakfast and rolled back into bed with my newly acquired cougar. And that about brings us up to date.

Donna staggered into the room on six inch heels and a dress of shimmering emerald green sequins that hugged in all the right places. I had opted for my lilac tuxedo and shades (of course).

‘Goddamn baby, you look sexy. Like a high class hooker.’

‘Aw, thanks babe,’ she said. ‘I left Jaxon with the lady next door, so we don’t have to bother your mum.’

‘Who’s Jaxon?’

‘Jesus Mick, how much have you had already?’ I waved the whiskey bottle in the air so she could see, then had another swig.

‘That stuff’s not good for your stomach,’ she said, stuffing a bottle of Smirnoff into her bag.

‘I’m taking Minxie,’ I said, lifting the dog into the crook of my arm. I had kitted her out in a little red coat.

‘Aw,’ said Donna. ‘You remind me of someone standing there like that.’

‘Mickey Rourke?’

‘No, not him. I can’t think of who it is though…’

‘Never mind babe, we have to go. I want to get there early to catch the paparazzi. Will the whiskey fit in your bag?’

‘I don’t think so…’

‘Goddamnit Donna you always carry a bunch of useless shit around.’ I took the bag and threw out all unnecessary items – make up bag, feminine products, insulin kit – and stuffed my bottle in.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t worry about it babe,’ I said, then gave her a kiss and a smack on the ass and we headed out the door.

When we got to Queen’s Film Theatre there was no one outside.

‘We must have missed the red carpet,’ I said, and Minxie gave a little yap in agreement. We went on in.

I swaggered up to the front desk.

‘I’m from Bandwidth, I’m here for the movie,’ I said to the woman. She looked at me, then at Minxie, then Donna, and then back to me.

‘Um, dogs aren’t allowed in the cinema sir,’ she said.

‘Come, she’s not that ugly,’ I said, looking at Donna, who responded by punching me in the side of the head.

‘This is my guide dog,’ I said. ‘I’m blind.’ The dame didn’t look convinced, despite the fact that I was wearing sunglasses indoors. Seriously, some people.

‘Minxie, where’s the bar?’ I said. Minxie barked.

‘See?’ I said, and walked over to the bar. Donna followed, trying to stay upright on her ridiculous heels.

‘What are you having babe?’ I asked.

‘Just get me a Coke and I’ll put some vodka in it,’ she said, looking around the reception area at all the other press folks.

‘You take it easy on the sugar, sugar,’ I said, and we both had a good laugh at my joke. We got our drinks and took a seat.

‘I don’t like these people,’ she said. ‘They all look like they’re holding in a shit.’

‘They’re critics baby, they aren’t known for holding in shit. They prefer to type it out.’

‘So how come you got invited?’ she asked.

‘I write shit too baby. It just doesn’t smell as bad.’ Minxie yapped her approval and I set my glass of beer down on the floor next to her, in case she got thirsty. By the time they called us into the screening room, she had lapped up a good half pint.

Donna didn’t seem to care much for the movie, and neither did Minxie for that matter. Donna kept nipping out to get more Coke for her vodka, which annoyed everyone else a lot more than it annoyed me. She kept smuggling in beer for Minxie too, and before long they were both drunk. Minxie just fell asleep but Donna, as usual, got a bit rowdy. I was too engrossed in the film to be bothered with drinking, so I had no time for her shit.

‘You want me to give you a blowjob in the toilet?’ she asked, loud enough for everyone to hear. A monstrously fat woman in the next row turned around and shushed her. ‘Shush yourself, you fat bitch,’ said Donna. Then to me, ‘Come on baby, how about it?’

‘Look I’m trying to watch this,’ I said.

‘Well fuck you too!’ she shouted, and stormed out. The fat woman turned around again to show her disapproval.

‘What you lookin’ at lady?’ I asked.

‘Your dog is snoring,’ she said.

‘She’s got sleep apnoea! You of all people should be sympathetic.’ She just tutted and turned back to the movie. I petted Minxie on the head, but she was out like a light.

The film is a perfect example of something that is all too uncommon in modern cinema: the good old fashioned British stiff upper lip. It is Richard Attenborough in The Great Escape. John Mills in Ice Cold In Alex. And now Colin Firth is at the forefront of its resurgence, with his roles in this movie, A Single Man and of course The King’s Speech. It is something the Americans just never did very well, and this film is chock full of it. And it’s about damn time, since Britain’s recent cinematic exports have come in the forms or Ricky Gervais’s cheeky chappy persona and Russell Brands own brand of dandy foppishness. Every performance in this film is a true class act, which should come as no surprise given the cast list. There are three or four plot strands that could be feature films in themselves and it is slightly disappointing when some of the stories aren’t explored in much depth, but as far as that goes the multiple plots are expertly spun together. It makes for undoubtedly dense viewing, but the story never becomes lost or confused, which is quite the achievement. It is also slow film, working at a pace most directors wouldn’t have the balls to use, but the thoughtful, measured pacing only adds to the overall style of the film, of which it has an abundance. And if that is not compliment enough, take my refusal of ‘a blowjob in the toilets’ as reassurance. It’s a bloody flipping good show.

There was some mild commotion in the lobby after the movie. Some silly dame had collapsed. Then I recognised the tits, only barely concealed by the sparkly green dress.

‘Donna!’ I yelled, and ran over to see her.

‘Oh, Mickey,’ she said as I stroked her hair. ‘I know who it is you remind me of in that tux.’

‘I know baby, Mickey Rourke…’

‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I love that movie.’

‘Yeah, I love it too…’ she said, and then her head fell over to one side and her eyes closed over. Just then a couple of paramedics came rushing in. One of them bent down next to her and checked the pulse in her neck. He looked at me and shook his head.

‘She’s gone,’ he said.

I went to the toilets to splash water on my face and have an intense moment of introspection as I stared at myself in the mirror. She was right. I hadn’t gone full Mickey. I was just plain dumb. Maybe even dumber. I let out an agonised scream and punched the mirror, but it didn’t crack or anything because I can’t punch very hard.

As they pushed the stretcher into the ambulance the paramedic turned to me and said, ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing we could have done. It was just too late.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘she died of a broken heart.’

‘Actually she died of diabetic shock. Why didn’t she have her medicine with her?’ he asked, but I wasn’t paying attention. I walked off into the evening, still cradling Minxie, who had slept through it all.

A couple of days later I took Minxie to the vet, because she still hadn’t woken up and she was very cold.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the vet, ‘she’s dead. Looks like she has been for some time now.’

‘Damn it, she must have died of a broken heart,’ I said.

‘Actually it looks like alcohol poisoning,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea how she could have consumed alcohol?’ But I wasn’t paying attention. I was walking off into the sunset, putting on a black cowboy hat and affecting a laboured swagger. I had gone full John Wayne.

I went to see Cowboys And Aliens at the weekend. It threw up some serious philosophical questions about life that I am still grappling with. Questions like, ‘How did Sam Rockwell come to be so fucking awesome?’ and, ‘Why isn’t it illegal for Olivia Wilde to wear clothes?’. I wasn’t able to answer those questions, but the question that really got me thinking was one that applies to my own life. There is a kid in the movie. In one of the scenes, Olivia Wilde’s character gives him a hug, to comfort him, because something tragic has just happened. Now I do not want to suggest that the film was not enthralling enough to keep me mesmerised for the entire duration, but this scene struck a chord with me and sent my brain off on a wild tangent about life. I mean here I am, a man of 24, and my only memory of female contact during my teenage years is the time during a school dance when I somehow worked up the courage to press my boy-boner into the thigh of the girl I liked while we shuffled from foot to foot for one whole slow song. And here he is. This kid. This fucking kid. And already he has had a hug from Olivia Wilde, the closest thing to human physical perfection ever captured on goddamn film. Not only that, but he got paid to do it. And shit, this is a pretty big movie, who knows what he will go on to do in the movie business. He could have a whole fucking lifetime of hugs from beautiful women ahead of him. And he’s just some kid. And it made me think, some people have all the fun, and the rest of us are shit out of luck. Why bother trying, when we are doomed to fulfil our mundane destinies without even a whiff of beauty or magic or art, never mind the nostril-flaring scent of a woman, made famous by Pacino in the film of the same name, and the one undoubtedly enjoyed by this fucking kid when, whilst being paid, he had his face mashed against Olivia Wilde’s bosom! Damn it I need a fucking beer to calm my jangled nerves…

Okay… Okay… So it got me thinking. And then I started to connect some dots in my head and eventually my mind was eased by a fifty year old man with big muscles and tattoos. A man called Henry Rollins. I went to see his spoken word gig a couple of weeks ago and it was the memory of the overwhelming energy I felt after the show that made me question my previous assertion, that we are all doomed to accept our fates. And that is because Henry Rollins is a walking testament to the philosophy that genius is 1% inspiration, 99% perspiration.

Henry Rollins is a fucking badass. This is not a matter of opinion. This is one of those facts of life I touched on in my last article which, while they may appear subjective, are simply inalienable truths. If you don’t think Henry Rollins is a fucking badass, you are wrong. ANYWAY. I went to this gig alone because… well because I am a pig and it is becoming increasingly difficult to con women into going out with me. But also because I didn’t want some goddamn dame fucking up my Zen while I dug Henry’s musings. This was not just some night out for me. This was special. And if you need any proof of that, take the fact that I was sober. I had three whiskies the whole night, not because I was broke, but because I wanted to be fucking lucid during this thing. When this guy talks I drink it up like Daniel Day Lewis drinks a fucking milkshake. ANYWAY. So there I was at this gig and I was sober and my chair was really fucking uncomfortable and I didn’t even give a shit because I was going to see Henry Rollins in the flesh. And then he came out on stage like a walking espresso and did a two hour set of stories that were insightful and inspiring and hilarious, and all around me men and women alike were gazing in glassy-eyed wonderment at the physical manifestation of awesome standing centre stage, regaling us with stories of his absurd and badass adventures. And when I left I was buzzing in a completely different way to how I usually leave a gig, because Henry’s energy is infectious. And when I got home I didn’t mind so much that we live in a world of unfairness and inequality. A world in which millions of people starve every day while some others eat themselves so fat they can’t get out of bed. A world in which poor people die in wars created by rich men. A world in which some fucking kid gets to hug Olivia… Sorry. Point is, all of it seemed manageable, safe in the knowledge that there are dudes like Henry around. Now, to be fair, there really aren’t that many dudes like Henry. He’s one of a kind. He’s the kind of dude who, if your girlfriend left you for him, no matter how bummed out you were you’d just have to nod and tell her you understand, because deep down you know, you were thinking about leaving her for Henry Rollins too. But it’s okay, because there are lots of people listening to Henry and as guys like Henry are still drawing the sort of crowd that filled The Empire Music Hall a couple of weeks ago, there is still some hope in the world.

So where am I going with all of this? What does it all mean? To be honest I don’t know. I was hoping that if I started writing it would all just come together at the end. I suppose what I am saying is, don’t get too down when it seems like the odds are stacked against you. Sure, sometimes it seems like some people have all the luck, but even if you’re not born rich or good looking or you don’t find yourself hugging Olivia Wilde on screen as a teenager, don’t give up. Keep up the good fight. And when you need motivation to get back to the grindstone, check out some of Henry’s stuff. He is about as prolific as they come and there is no shortage of his material out there. Just don’t let your girlfriend in on it – Henry is a sexy man – the rest of us just can’t hope to compete. Fortunately, Henry is hard to please…

Henry Rollins official site.

So after my last post we have had almost two thousand requests via Facebook that This Is Not A Review be scrapped in favour of a Blake Lively Appreciation Blog (or BLAB, which isn’t a bad title…). As if this wasn’t disheartening enough for me, four days ago I woke up to find sixteen voicemails from Will on my phone. They were recorded between the hours of 11pm and 3am, in increasing states of drunkenness. All of them, however, were on the theme of how shit I am. The most cutting of all was the penultimate one, in which Will demanded to know why I can’t be more like Ned Hepburn, followed by a detailed explanation of all the ways Ned is better than me. The last, and most disturbing voicemail was an incredibly emotional rendition of Elvis Presley’s ‘She’s Not You’, which I can only infer was a veiled admittance that Blake Lively can’t quite replace me. Encouraged by the idea that Will isn’t quite ready to let me go, but determined to up my game and win back his affections, I bought a six-pack of Guinness and pored over Ned’s blog, hoping to find something I could rip off. Then I had a nap, because Guinness makes me sleepy, which was wrought by tortured metaphorical dreams in which I was in a crowded bar, trying desperately to order a pint of Hepburn, but the bartender heard me wrong and gave me a gin and coke, which made no sense and was fucking disgusting. The dream haunted my thoughts for days, leaving me ponderous and morose, until I had a revelation.

My revelation came about from a bowl of soup my friend cooked for me. Okay so I didn’t really have a revelation, but I didn’t have a good angle for this article and, obtuse as it is, the soup one works. My friend asked me what I thought of her soup and I told her it was delicious, but then she pressed me for any criticisms I had about it. I told her, ‘Well, this is not a review but…’ (huh? Huh?), ‘it was slightly under-seasoned.’ Another friend, who is not in soup club but whose opinion is valid nonetheless, said that seasoning is a matter of preference and as such it isn’t fair to base a judgement on it. This was the spark that ignited in me a fiery internal dialogue which lasted for two full days and during which I came to question the very essence of what makes me, me. I am conflicted, you see. On the one hand I understand that everyone is different and they like different things, so how much salt goes into food could be subjective. On the other hand I believe that just because a bunch of people think one way doesn’t make it fucking so, and when you got to a Michelin-starred restaurant, there isn’t a salt shaker on your table because any chef worth his salt (huh? Huh?) knows how to properly season food and isn’t going to let you dick around with it. So it’s not so much that I don’t have an opinion. I just find it too easy to see two sides to an argument, which makes leaning one way or the other very difficult. And that makes this whole blogging terrain a hard one for me to negotiate, because unless one takes the well-travelled ‘pictures of cats and food and sex gifs’ road, opinion pieces are a blogger’s bread and butter. Ned Hepburn does some wicked opinion pieces, but also throws in some good music, winning anecdotes about his experiences with beautiful women, and pictures of Daisy Lowe. In other words, he has this blogging thing down pat. I just can’t hope to compete.

Even my most firmly entrenched beliefs can’t inspire enough confidence in me to publicly proclaim my opinion one way or the other. Part of it is undoubtedly a self-esteem issue – I don’t feel I have the right to an opinion – and I should probably see a professional about it. But the other part of it is I just can’t help thinking, ‘Who gives a shit?’ For example, I truly believe that the entire Twilight franchise is a steaming pile of horseshit. I do not agree that it is a matter of opinion, I believe this to be an absolute. This is not the same as me not liking Harry Potter. I do not believe Harry Potter is intrinsically bad. In fact, for what it is, I believe it is really rather good. It’s just not for me. Twilight, on the other hand, is trash. Plain and simple. The same way that Celebrity Big Brother is trash. It has no artistic merit whatsoever, and the fact that it has millions of fans is no more proof of its worth than Michelle Bachmann’s fans are proof that she is not batshit crazy. But. BUT. As sure as I am of these things, I do not reject the possibility that really these things are subjective, and I am grossly mistaken. That is a scary prospect to me because people who assign a great deal of importance to their own opinions either end up on Newsnight Review or in the comments section on Youtube, depending on their level of education. Either way, they’re still full of shit. The truth is, I would like to be one of these people with opinions, but without the nagging self doubt that makes me wonder if I’m just being an arrogant prick.

A lot of the people I look up to are guys who have strong personalities and aren’t afraid to voice their opinions publicly. Bill Hicks (whom I wrote about before) wanted to make a TV show called Let’s Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus. Stewart Lee destroyed Top Gear – Richard Hammond in particular – with an almost unparalleled articulate venom. And George Carlin said simply, ‘Fuck Lance Armstrong.’ None of these men were, or are, fence-sitters. They said these things on stage, and didn’t seem to suffer from the feelings of self doubt that plague me. By God, I want their level of confidence. I want to stand up like Bill and say, ‘Jesus, Iggy, what are you doing hawking insurance?’ Even Lemmy, my number one rock n roll idol, did an ad for Kronenberg beer. But that’s the world we live in. A world in which the Prince Of Darkness Ozzy Osbourne had a fucking reality TV show. The problem is, I can hear the arguments before anyone even brings them up. Who the fuck am I to question the rock n roll integrity of Iggy, Lemmy or Ozzy. Even their fucking names are all similarly rock n roll! Could doing some commercial shit really compromise the credentials of heavyweights like these guys? I don’t know. I know there’s nothing rock n roll about selling insurance, but I also know rock n roll is about doing whatever the fuck you want, so doing an ad and saying fuck you to anyone who doesn’t like it might be the most rock n roll thing of all! Jesus, what a fucking quandary.

But then, I suppose that’s why This Is Not A Review. I’m not here to tell you what I think about shit. Not really. Even if I do sometimes, it’s not the point of this thing. And it’s the reason I’m not as cool, or as prolific as dudes like Ned. A lot of the time I just haven’t got anything to say. Not anything I think is worth saying anyway. So if I haven’t been to a gig and I haven’t got something I think might make you laugh, I just end up posting a leggy picture of Blake Lively. Even if all it inspires in you is a stirring in your jockeys, that’s enough for me. I’ll leave the rest to guys like Will and Ned. Now excuse me, I have to go leave a Youtube comment on the new Twilight trailer.

Will was shooting pheasants when I told him the news, and did not seem at all disappointed. When I asked what I should post in place of Ian’s article he said, ‘I dunno, a photo of Blake Lively or something.’

Good call Will.

Image links to source.

]]> http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/a-note-from-the-editor/feed/ 0 http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/open-house-festival-2011/ http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/open-house-festival-2011/#comments Tue, 02 Aug 2011 11:36:32 +0000 Will McConnell http://www.bandwidthsessions.com/?p=3686

Regular Bandwidthers will know I’ve been documenting elements of Belfast’s amazing Open House Festival this year – starting with some delightful acts for a unique cover sessions series – and even our intrepid Ian Shearer was blogging from the event.

And so, as fans of the festival facebook page will have seen last week – I now have a full document (of sorts) in 6 parts to enjoy, featuring highlights of the festival and live performance footage from, amongst others, Fleet Foxes, Laura Marling & Villagers. Thrown into that heady mix was also the annual Chillifest and Chilli eating contest, a healthy programme of Irish Trad music, a unique caravan jam series in open house square, and an amazing ‘Breakthrough’ line up of new undiscovered music.

Here it is then, enjoy. It was so much fun to do this and be a part of such an amazing institution for a fortnight, so hopefully some of that comes through.

Fleet Foxes

[Download Video]

Villagers

[Download Video]

Laura Marling

[Download Video]

Smoke Faeries

[Download Video]

Marcus Foster / The Staves

[Download Video]

Lost Brothers / Caitlin Rose

[Download Video]

There were many highlights from this year’s festival; set within the walls of a plush victorian walled garden, and featuring arts, crafts and performance arts from across the country as well as the hottest new musical acts – this year saw in an amazing new venue, the Crafty Tea Rooms, propped up by the campsite, beside Delamont Park’s impressive monolith. It hosted Tim Wheeler and Emmy The Great the first night of the festival, and the monolith itself was the impressive setting for a dusk-drenched midsummer serenade form the Inishowen Gospel Choir.

The next day, The Minutes rocked, The Vals sparkled, Pat Dam Smyth dazzled, Robyn G Shiels emoted, Shlomo amazed and Not Squares partied into the night. Here are just some of the highlights from another amazing year:

Beat N’ Drum & The Inishowen Gospel Choir

[Download Video]

Tim Wheeler & Emmy The Great

[Download Video]

Robyn G Shiels

[Download Video]

The Vals

[Download Video]

Pat Dam Smyth

[Download Video]

The Minutes

[Download Video]

Shlomo

[Download Video]

Not Squares

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in Killyleagh, Co. Down July 2011.

I get a shit-ton of fan-email. (E-fan-Mail?) For some reason most of it comes from China and I can’t understand a goddamn word of it, but I just take it as evidence of my worldwide appeal, and that’s enough for me. I did, however, get a very nice email from an African princess who told me she wanted to marry me. Despite her incredible wealth and the endless opportunities this would have afforded me to make jokes referencing the film The African Queen whilst in the sack I had to decline, as my heart still lies with Caitlin Rose. Interestingly, though, I also get a lot of questions regarding Will. Initially I was shocked by the sexual frankness of the language being used, but I am now used to it, and the continuous requests for locks of his hair, most of which I oblige, usually by digging in the plug hole of the shower in his office en suite. Most commonly though, I just get questions from adoring fans about what he is really like. It seems he is a true enigma among Bandwidth fans, his air of mystery no doubt adding to his incredible success in the industry. Anyway, I finally decided to shed some light on the mysterious sexual figure that is Will McConnell. I approached him with the idea that I shadow him for a few days, in a bid to put together an accurate portrait of him for the fans.

‘Go to hell, ass-face,’ he said.

1. The first interesting fact about Will is that he imposes a watershed on himself, meaning that before 9pm he only ever uses PG-rated swears. This also means he does not make love before 9pm, choosing instead to kiss passionately for ten seconds and then have a cigarette with the duvet pulled up past the nipple line.

Luckily I pre-empted his refusal and I had a backup plan in place. That’s right Will, that guy you caught looking in your window who claimed to be a door-to-door pen salesman? That was me in disguise. And I want my pen back. That Muslim woman in full burka next to you in the bar who had to drink her whiskey by sticking the glass up inside her hood? Me too. And that wino who accosted you outside the kebab shop to ask for money for the train home? That was me, but technically I wasn’t in disguise and I really did need money for the train. Burkas are fucking expensive. I also hired Rebekah Brooks to hack Will’s phone, but I really only did that because she looks so much like an evil villain’s sidekick I couldn’t pass it up. And she was so desperate for a job she didn’t even object to my calling her ‘Frauline’. So here it is folks. The result of six and a half hours of dangerous undercover work to bring you the man, the myth, the legend…

2. Will sleeps on a pillow stuffed with the fine downy hair of a rare Guatemalan pig. It takes around 260 pigs to fill one pillow, as they really don’t have that much hair to begin with, and the pigs are slaughtered in the process as Will finds the idea of shaving a pig repulsive.

3. When the pillow loses its ‘smunchiness’ (Will’s word) he orders a new one and has the used pig hair woven into high quality neck ties which he wears, loosely tied, to all the important functions he attends. He makes a point of explaining the origin of his tie to everyone who will listen, which is how I came about this information.

4. Will was on the drug ‘Charlie Sheen’ before it became popular. He now only ever uses ‘Gary Busey’ and insists it is purely recreational.

5. Osama Bin Laden was actually killed by a team of mercenaries hired by Will, after he heard that Bin Laden had been ripping off the Bandwidth Sessions filming style. He let Obama take the credit as a personal favour, in appreciation of his Kanye comment.

6. Will takes a golden goblet to bars, to save himself the indignity of drinking from the same pint glasses as everyone else. He chooses, however, to drink Harp Ice, to ‘show his affinity for the common man’, though I suspect it is because he has terrible taste in beer.

7. Will used to keep a harem of concubines at home, but says he gave that up when he ‘finally matured’. He now pays to have them housed a few miles away.

8. Much like Steven Spielberg, Will no longer actually takes part in the production of his videos. He lets someone else do all the work and then just slaps his name on it, for the ratings.

9. Will does a fairly decent Tom Jones impression, but only ever does it when he is very drunk, or in the shower. I have never seen Will drunk.

10. Six years ago Will legally changed his name from Will McConnell to Will McConnell, ‘for a laugh’.

And there you have it folks. This is as much as anyone really knows for sure about Will, so you can stop writing to ask me about him. I will also no longer honour those requests for locks of his hair, after what I found in the drain of his shower the last time.

How long could this shit go on? Nights spent hunched over the bar, demanding they play Sinatra. Every following morning spent roaming the streets, looking for a crapper with growing urgency as the previous night’s Guinness completed its cycle of life. Perpetually hungover, slurping black coffee and mango smoothies by the gallon, I hadn’t written a goddamn word in days. Where the fuck was I anyway? Nothing of beauty for miles around. Just some shitty trees and a mucky looking river that didn’t appear to be running anywhere. The distant drone of traffic and a lone magpie screaming, ‘Caw!…’CAW!’ in a mockery of everything that birdsong stands for.

I came upon a small group of people but my hopes of salvation were dashed when I discovered that they were hipsters. I asked if they knew the way to the nearest bar, or even just a peaceful toilet, but they were all wearing oversized headphones and couldn’t hear what I was saying. Sensing that I was trying to communicate, one of them (who I took for a male, but wasn’t certain) took off his headphones. Somehow the music from his iPod started booming out around me, as if emitting from the heavens.

‘Jesus what is this?’ I screamed.

The magpie stopped cawing and said, simply, ‘Dubstep.’ Then it did a little dance. I turned to flee but the hipsters were waving menthol cigarettes in my face, asking for a light. I ran out into the road and only narrowly avoided being run over by performing a perfectly timed forward roll. The car skidded to a stop and my high school P.E. teacher stuck his head out the window.

‘Gymnastics is for queers Shearer! A rugby man would have stood his ground.’ Then he zoomed off, pursued by a beautiful woman on horseback. She was wearing a white tank top and I stood mesmerised by the rolling regularity of her shifting cleavage. As always, the initial thrum I felt was quickly squashed by an overwhelming sadness at the thought of all the cleavages in the world and how I would probably never have time to perv at them all. Like all beautiful dames she was gone as quickly as she arrived. So taken by the visage, though, I didn’t notice the giant fish launch itself out of the river until it was too late.

The beast socked me a good one and it took everything I had to stay on my feet. I kicked it where the bollocks ought to have been but either it was a lady fish or just even less well endowed than me, because as far as I could see, I didn’t hit anything. The big fucker guffawed right in my face and bitch-slapped me into the river, diving in after me. A badass Led Zeppelin riff started to play as I breathed in filthy water and realised I would have to fight the bugger on his own turf. I grappled with him for a while but I couldn’t get any purchase on his slimy scales and he got the upper hand, holding me under and waiting for me to stop thrashing. Just as Jimmy started to kick out some bitchin’ jams over his own goddamn rhythm track, I made my last ditch attempt and reached for his face. With the last of my strength I jammed my thumb in his watery eye and popped it out using the same motion I often use to free a testicle that has gotten caught in my boxers. This panicked him and I scrambled to the surface for air. Partially blind, he gave up the fight and tried to make a swim for it. Oh no you don’t, I thought, and dived right back in after him.

I got a hold of his gigantic tail and dragged him up onto the riverbank, flapping around like…well, a fish out of water. I ripped off my shoe and smashed his face in with it, which took a lot longer than it should have, as I had chosen to wear loafers that day. I haven’t worn the damn things in months, but I suppose that’s always the way. Once he was gone I gnawed off a section of flesh from his side, Bear Grylls style, and stuffed the bloody wad into my back pocket. When I finally made my way home I whipped up a nice beer batter and deep fried my trophy, which I ate with chips and mushy peas and washed down with a nice English ale. Then I lay down in bed with my bottle of Jack and rested my weary legs. Another narrow miss, but I made it through again.

‘The only two things in life
that make it worth living,
are guitars that tune good
and firm feeling women.’

- Waylon Jennings, Luckenbach Texas

From: Lucie Rae
To: Ian Shearer
Subject: Breakthrough Reviews

Hi Ian,

I am working on the Breakthrough mini-festival, which is part of this year’s Open House Festival. Would you be interested in doing a review of the Caitlin Rose gig for us this Wednesday?

Lucie Rae

From: Ian Shearer
To: Lucie Rae
Subject: Re: Breakthrough Reviews

Dear Lucie,

I normally would not agree to go on a date with someone I had never met before but judging purely by your name I am sure you are hot and awesome, so yes I would love to go the Caitlin Rose gig with you.

See you then,

Ian

From: Lucie Rae
To: Ian Shearer
Subject: Re: Breakthrough Reviews

Ian,

I’m afraid you have misunderstood. I was only suggesting you come to the show and write a review for us. I have no intention of going on a date with you.

Lucie Rae

From: Ian Shearer
To: Lucie Rae
Subject: Re: Breakthrough Reviews

Lucie,

I understand the need for discretion and I appreciate your professionalism. I will see you on Wednesday, strictly on ‘business’ terms, of course

Please find attached three poems I wrote with you in mind.

Love,

Ian

I spent all day Wednesday writing in a coffee shop. I had planned to have a nice pub meal before the gig but by the time 6pm rolled around I was terrified by the prospect of going on a date sober, so I chose to forego the food in favour of two pints of Guinness. I had a double Jack as an aperitif and, slightly buzzed from drinking on an empty stomach, I headed round to the Oh Yeah Music Centre, where only two weeks previous I had made a terrific arse of myself. Better try to behave myself tonight, I thought, and decided to drink beer instead of whiskey. I had arrived in time for Jonny Corndawg’s set and I was immediately stabbed by a powerful jealousy of the man’s awesome cowboy hat and badass beard. Not only do I not have either of those things but even if I somehow managed to get my hands on them, I would just look foolish. My jealously was quickly melted away by Jonny’s funny, laconic lyrics and his fantastic picking skills. As soon as he finished his set I bought his album and the poor man had barely set foot off the stage before I was shaking his hand, demanding he sign my CD. He was very gracious for such a talented son of a gun and I can’t think of enough nice things to say about him. A true gen-u-wine original.

Jonny was saved from my wittering by Will, who showed up with his camera and tried to duck past me without making eye contact.

‘Will!’ I yelled. I think I saw him mouth the word, ‘Shit…’ but he came over anyway, forcing the corners of his mouth up in a valiant attempt at a smile. I bothered him until I ran out of beer and when I got back from the bar he had disappeared into the crowd. The Lost Brothers took the stage. Don’t mention Simon and Garfunkel… Don’t mention Simon and Garfunkel… Actually I don’t really like Simon and Garfunkel and I did like The Lost Brothers. When they finished their set I bought their album too. I tried to make a joke about only buying it because I wanted the Caitlin Rose CD and felt obliged to buy theirs too, since they were standing right there. My drunkenness got in the way of my timing, though, and it came across that I was just swearing at them. After buying both CDs I broke my beer only rule, as always, and the next whiskey went down too fast. As always. My wallet was getting light so I decided to go get some cash before Caitlin started. I wandered around town looking like some poor bastard gripped by delirium and finally found a goddamn ATM but on my way back I passed The Northern Whig. Almost. I decided all my walking warranted a drink and ducked inside.

‘J&B Black please,’ I said. The barman looked puzzled, and rightly so, as no such drink exists. ‘Sorry, JD, black,’ I said.

‘Um, we have Single Barrel Jack, if that’s what you mean,’ he said.

‘No, Jesus, don’t mind me I’m just drunk. Johnny Walker. Black Label. That’s the one.’

‘No problem,’ he said.

‘Too many fucking J’s in the whiskey game,’ I muttered, and decided I better keep quiet. I would just be a refined gentleman, sitting alone at the bar sipping my scotch. Dames love men who drink scotch. Dames? Christ I’ve stood Lucie up! I slammed back the whiskey and hoofed it back round to the gig.

‘Is Lucie here?’ I asked the girl at the front desk.

‘Yeah she’s inside.’ I dashed in and stopped at the bar for a pint and some further enquiry.

‘Anyone seen Lucie?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, she just went past here…’

I stood at the back and scanned the crowd. In what was either sixth sense or dumb fucking luck, I got it right first time.

‘Are you Lucie?’ I asked, and I think I saw her mouth the word ‘Shit…’

‘Yeah,’ she said.

‘I’m Ian,’ I said.

‘Oh… nice to meet you.’

‘Yeah, you too,’ I said, and then I ran out of shit to say. I started swilling my beer like a dog that just ate a packet of peanuts…

[Editor's Note: Where do you get this shit?]

…and tried to pretend it was the fault of the plastic cup that I was dribbling beer down my shirt. Then I spotted Jonny Corndawg and suddenly decided I wanted a quote from him for this article. He made it in to the toilets before I was able to accost him and I decided it wouldn’t be prudent to follow. With hindsight I now see that waiting right outside the door and pouncing on him post-piss really wasn’t much better. He was mildly alarmed.

‘Hey man, is there any chance you could give me a quote about Caitlin? Not some corny bullshit but something cool, from someone who knows her personally,’ I said.

‘Sure man,’ he said, and he did me one better. He sat down with my pen and paper and wrote a short paragraph for me. That’s just how cool he is. And here is what he wrote:

‘Caitlin Rose is a real force to be reckoned with. I’ve known her since she was 15. Her craft wasn’t polished or quite honed in then but she was every bit as dangerous and fiery as she is today. She’s the real deal. I love her dearly and when I grow up I want to be like her.’

- Jonny Corndawg

There wasn’t a damn person in the room who would’ve disagreed with any of that once Caitlin started playing. I think everyone loved her dearly and really, how could they not? She’s a beautiful country singer who writes beautiful country songs and sings them beautifully. It’s enough to break a man’s heart, frankly. I think she’s going to be big, and I feel rather privileged to have seen her play in such an intimate setting.

When she finished playing I noticed she was signing albums and, managing to contain the urge to start screaming hysterically like a sixteen year old girl at an early Beatles concert, I got her to sign my copy. Then I managed to wrangle a VIP pass off Will and followed him round to the hotel where all the bands were staying for an after-gig pint. A pint I really did not need at that point, but it was free and I ain’t never turned down a free beer yet. I was sitting at a table with Will and Lucie when the spirit of Mickey took me.

‘I’m going to buy her a beer,’ I announced. I imagined it playing out like that scene in The Wrestler when Mickey buys Marisa Tomei a beer and they bond while discussing the finer nuances of Eighties heavy metal.

‘You should definitely do that,’ said Will. Looking back I probably should have been able to detect a note of Schadenfreude in his voice but I was too hammered.

‘I goddamn will, Will!’ I said. I bought two pints of Stella – making that a second beer I really did not need – and took them outside to where Caitlin was hanging out with her band. She was on the phone and, even in spite of my drunkenness and the spirit of Mickey, I suddenly got very shy. I explained to her band mates that I had bought her a beer but didn’t want to interrupt her call. They were encouraging, in the way an adult might be encouraging of a child who just did a really shit drawing. Eventually she hung up and I gave her the beer, babbling something about how much I enjoyed the show. She thanked me and had a drink, but they explained they weren’t staying and had to leave for the after-party at the Duke of York, so they passed the beer around and gave it back half full. Or half empty, depending on your outlook. I staggered back into the lobby waving the beers around in celebration.

‘Aren’t you pleased with yourself,’ said Will.

‘Yes actually, I am,’ I said. ‘Because that officially qualifies as the coolest thing I have ever done. Probably the coolest thing I ever will do.’

‘Great. You should write about it in your usual self-congratulating tone,’ he said.

‘I goddamn will, Will!’ I said.

And I did.

Check ‘em out:

Of course Will has already done a fucking Bandwidth Session with Caitlin. You can also check her out on MySpace or her official website.

The Lost Brothers MySpace page.

Jonny Corndawg’s MySpace page. And 2 free songs on Bandcamp!

The Open House Festival website.

You’ve already seen John Deery of John Deery & The Heads and Skip Moses, now Sons Of Caliber covering Fleet Foxes.

The Open House Festival runs to the weekend Sunday and will featured Laura Marling, Villagers & Fleet Foxes amongst others.

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast June 2011.

Last week we brought you John Deery of John Deery & The Heads – today it’s Jonny Black of La Faro and Skip Moses, performing a track by fellow locals, Sons Of Caliber.

The Open House Festival begins on Wednesday and runs through Sunday.

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast June 2011.

I was sliding off my barstool when the drinks began to take hold. Then Betty Draper walked in. At first I saw only the blonde hair and mistook her for one of the promotional models who had been roaming the bar flogging Magners, but when I stole a sly glance at her arse I noticed she wasn’t wearing hotpants and I realised that although she may have been selling something, it wasn’t cider. Not that she wasn’t wearing anything on her bottom half, of course. She was wearing a lovely summer dress and looked as angelic as ever, which was lucky because right then an angel was just what I needed.

‘Thank God you’re here Betty. Is Don around? I really need to borrow some money.’ I had just spent the last of my money buying a drink for a petrified waitress who had just finished her shift, and paid for it almost entirely in 20p coins, which the barman appreciated even less than my sleazy tactics with his co-worker.

‘I’m not Betty,’ she said, sipping her Gimlet. ‘I’m January.’ I had no fucking idea how she got a Gimlet in The Kitchen Bar.

‘This is important,’ I said. ‘I’m in big trouble.’

‘Yes, you are. But I’m here to help.’

And then we were in the Oh Yeah Music Centre.

I was leaning across the bar with a plastic cup of Bushmills, asking the barmaid for one of the tiny beers I had seen a bunch of people drinking.

‘We don’t sell those,’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they got them.’ I grinned, pleased by the fact that I wasn’t the only person who had brought booze to the damn thing. I threw back the whiskey in one.

‘Another one of these then!’ I said.

‘You should slow down on the drinks,’ said Betty.

‘Betty! How rude of me. What are you having?’

‘I’m not Betty,’ she said again. ‘My name is January.’

‘It was a very good year…’ I crooned, doing my best Sinatra.

‘That doesn’t make any sense Ian.’

‘No I suppose not.’

We moved over to stand beside the piano and I necked the whiskey again, realising I had lost track of how many I had drank. Fuck it, I decided, and poured myself a measure of Jack from my hip flask.

‘Why are you drinking so much?’ she asked.

‘What are you talking about? You and Don drink like fish. Fish? Fishes?’

‘There is no me and Don, Ian. You are thinking of a character I played, and if you remember Betty leaves Don and he almost ruins his life with alcohol.

‘I thought that was all just a horrible dream,’ I said.

‘No this is a dream,’ she said. ‘That really happened… on TV anyway.’

‘So none of this is real?’

‘Actually a lot of it did happen.’

‘Did I really hassle that waitress?’

‘Yes.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Don’t curse Ian.’

‘Sorry Betty.’

‘January,’ she said.

And then there was a band playing.

‘Are you going to write about this on Friday?’ she asked.

‘I have to.’

‘Are they going to get a good write-up?’

‘Yeah, they’re pretty damn good.’

‘What are they called?’

‘I don’t know…’

‘You should find out before you try to write about them,’ she said.

‘I know. That’s Cara Cowan and Katie from Katie And The Carnival singing with them. I know that much.’

‘Lucky guy huh?’

‘Well he’s a rockstar, it’s to be expected. He even looks like Kurt Cobain.’

‘He is quite sexy.’

‘You better hope Don doesn’t hear you talking like that.’

‘Betty isn’t with Don any more. She’s with Henry.’

‘I thought that was all just a horrible dream too.’

‘Concentrate Ian,’ she said. ‘You have to write about this.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll just pull something out of my ass at the last minute and it will be awesome.’

‘That won’t work.’

‘It always works for Don.’

‘You’re not Don, Ian.’ Of course I knew that, but hearing her say it hurt like hell.

‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said, and had a drink straight from the flask.

‘You can’t expect real life to be like Mad Men,’ she said.

‘That’s easy for you to say, you’re just like Betty.’

‘Well I am Betty.’

‘But I thought you said…’

‘Never mind Ian. If you stop drinking now I’ll go home with you tonight and maybe you’ll be able to remember enough to write something for Friday.’

‘Betty I’m shocked!’

‘January.’

‘I could never do that to Don!’

‘Oh, fuck it!’ she said, and then she left. My flask was empty.

The rest of what I know about that night I learned through detective work when I woke up. My phone told me I called a taxi at 10.45pm – which means I had managed to get myself into that state in about three and a half hours – and the carnage in my kitchen told me I made a fish finger sandwich when I got home. The rest of it might as well have happened during the dark ages. And anyone who was in the Oh Yeah Music Centre last Saturday for the Katie And The Carnival single launch, and happened to notice the drunk guy, knows that more of this is true than you would first think.

You can listen to the single here: Went To The Fair. It’s really good.

Bonus tip: Check out Betty…

[Editor's Note: January.]

…in X-Men First Class. It is, well, first class.

First up, John Deery of John Deery & The Heads, covering the Villagers‘ track “That Day”

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast June 2011.

On that note of reflection, we turn to Morning Claws, a group formed from the ashes of a band called Cutaways – and also containing elements of another band called Before Machines.

This is a track called ‘Slack Magic’ – it’s a single and you can buy it from their bandcamp – it’s also the catchiest thing I have heard from anyone in years.

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in Dromore Co. Down, June 2011.

So there I was in my local coffee shop, trying to psyche myself up to ask one of the baristas if she would like to go to the And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead (only thing more annoying than having to type that name is having to say it) gig with me. Problem was, I wasn’t sure if Will had set up a date for me or not. Things haven’t been the same between us since I pawned his DV cam to buy myself a ticket to see Rob Zombie. I have since learned that DV cams are worth quite a bit more than the £33 I got for it and I had to sell my body to medical science – after trying unsuccessfully to sell it on the streets – to get the bloody thing back. I’m glad I did though. Frankly I had grown tired of checking Cara Cowan’s MySpace page every day and finding no updates, so the new In Stores Now featuring The Salt Flats provided some much needed new… material.

[Editor's Note: It is truly amazing what Ian can get away with saying about people he could so easily bump in to, safe in the knowledge that no one reads this shit.]

Anyway I sent Will a text asking if he had arranged a date. ‘Yeah’ was all his reply said. Downhearted, I gave the barista a shy smile and went back to reading Dita Von Teese’s book on fetish photography.

I decided not to get drunk at the gig since I had work the next day. And I have grown weary of the terrible, undefined shame that comes with every hangover. So I only had a couple of warm up whiskies before I headed out. I got lucky with the buses though, and ended up in Belfast way too early, so I went to The Kitchen for a pint. There was a smoking hot dame sitting at the bar by herself, so I did what Don Draper would do and positioned myself a few seats to the left so I could look at her cleavage reflected in the mirror behind the bar. A little while later her friends showed up and one of the silly bints ordered herself the wrong drink – unable to remember whether she liked sweet or dry Martini with her lemonade. The barman, knowing I am a filthy wino, gave me the drink she turned down for free, but I had to drain it in one because it was fucking repugnant. I finished off my pint and headed for Katy’s.

‘Jack Daniel’s, no ice please,’ I said to the purple haired barmaid. And she gave me a Jack Daniels with white lemonade. And ice. This has happened before – the loud bar environment coupled with my tendency to mumble sometimes makes ‘Jack Daniels, no ice’ sound like ‘Jack Daniels and white.’ I pine for a bar where I can order a ‘JD, neat’ but the only bar I have ever been able to do that in is The Northern Whig, and since having a whole fleet of incredibly professional (and natty, I must say) bartenders doesn’t make up for having a clientèle made up exclusively of wankers, I’ll stick to the places that play AC/DC and have barmaids with purple hair. Anyway, that made two weak ass white lemonade mixers in one night, neither of which I wanted, so I decided to stick to beer for the rest of the night to save any more confusion.

I had completely forgotten about the whole date thing until I noticed someone standing close to my table, trying to make eye contact with me. When I looked up I was gripped by a fierce testicular nausea, when I realised I couldn’t figure determine if it was a dame that looked like a ten year old boy or a dude that looked like a lesbian. Play it cool, I thought.
‘Ian?’ it said.
‘Yeah…’
‘Oh thank God,’ it said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘I would have been so embarrassed if you were the wrong person.’
I laughed nervously. The name! The name will give it away!
‘What’s your name?’
‘Oh sorry, I’m Sam.’ Damn it! Think quick…
‘Have a seat. What would you like to drink?’
‘Oh, I’ll have a Corona, thanks.’
Ha! Settled. Definitely a dame. Which was lucky because I was kinda digging the whole short hair look.

At the bar I immediately broke my beer only rule, decided work could go fuck itself and slammed back a whiskey to put some fire in my belly and hopefully take the sting out of the small talk.
‘So what do you do?’ I asked.
‘I’m in my final year of uni.’
‘Oh, what are you studying?’
‘I do Gender Studies.’
‘No shit,’ I said, thinking what an incredibly convenient piece of anecdotal trivia I could use to flesh out my article. And so it went, until it was time to go in to The Limelight.

I was gripped by blind panic for a full thirty seconds when, at the door, I claimed I should be on the list and the girl couldn’t find my name. This is another problem I face in life – more often even than the Jack and white one – caused by my inability to say my own second name. This problem sometimes brings me to add clues, such as ‘Shearer, like the footballer,’ which makes me sound like a wanker, or ‘Shearer, like a sheep shearer,’ which makes me sound like a fucking lunatic. Finally, and without the need for clues, she found my name and let us in. My nervous hunch immediately transformed into a smug swagger, as if I had just been allowed into the VIP suite at a Kid Rock gig accompanied by three strippers. The support act were already on but the place was still relatively empty, so we got a good table in a nice dark corner.
‘This is a good spot!’ I shouted.
‘Yeah, wanna have sex?’
‘WHAT!?’ I screamed.
Yelling in my ear, ‘Do you want a Becks?’
‘Oh…’ I said, incredibly disappointed. ‘Yeah, thanks.’

I have not been able to find out who the support act were, and I really wanted to because they were fucking excellent. I even went to askjeeves.com and tried asking ‘Who were the support at at the And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead gig in Belfast?’ but it won’t let you ask a question that long. Fucking stupid band name. Anyway, in a world full of indie pricks who think ‘jun jun jun jun’ is a riff it was awesome to see a band that still knows how to play a proper goddamn guitar lick. I’d love to tell you who these guys were so you could look out for them, but if you know of a search engine more powerful than Ask Jeeves I’d like to bloody hear it! During the gig some dude came up and asked if he could take a picture of us for some godforsaken magazine.
‘Absolutely not!’ I yelled, and he went away. The confrontation put me on edge though, so I bought four beers and tried giving him the stink eye every time he lit up the room with his gigantic goddamn flash, but I don’t think he noticed.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead play fucking loud. In fact this might be the only time when even my wildly exaggerated account of events can’t quite convey the true magnitude of reality. They were so loud my beer – which was on a table near the back – was rippling like there was a fucking Tyrannosaurus disco next door.

[Editor's Note: Worst simile ever.]

It was so loud I was genuinely concerned about the possibility of shitting myself. In short, it was balls out magnificent. I didn’t know much about them before the show and I admit, I was expecting something quite generic. What I got was one of the most original sounds I have ever heard – a sort of alternative, industrial, metallised-punk played like they were road testing Motorhead’s amp stack. I gave myself over to it and, despite the sensation that the throbbing bass was going to throw my heartbeat out of rhythm, I loved every second. Sam, it seemed, did not.
‘Got something in my shoe,’ she said, getting up.
‘WHAT!?’ I screamed.
‘Going to the loo,’ she yelled back, and I checked out her ass as she left. I toasted the sight with a swig of beer and went back to headbanging.

She was gone a long time, and I noted that even tomboy chicks take fucking ages in the can. When she came back she was talking to some prick. They hugged briefly and he shot me a shit eating grin before pissing off. When Sam sat down her face was all screwed up which, being an expert in female psychology, I knew meant she wasn’t having a good time.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, it’s just the taste of cum is making me feel sick.’
‘WHAT!?’
Yelling in my ear, ‘The bass drum, it’s making me feel sick.’
‘Oh… Yeah, me too. It’s fucking awesome!’ And that’s all we said to each other until the gig was over and we were outside.

I was drunker than I first realised and all I could hear was a high pitched whirring.
‘Listen!’ I screamed, inches from her face, ‘This was far too loud for a first date. How about we just get a coffee some time?’ I couldn’t make out what she said, but she was nodding so I took it an an affirmative. ‘Bring it in,’ I said, holding my arms out for a reassuring hug. And there, with Sam’s considerable package nestling lovingly with my own, I realised I had made a terrible mistake.

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of The Dead official site and MySpace page.

*Update: My sources tell me that the support band was Desert Hearts. Check ‘em out, they are the balls.

Thank you one and all to members of the GoodWill Facebook group and the citizens of Northern Ireland who so generously threw a fundraiser for Bandwidth last night at Auntie Annies in Belfast, to help me back on my feet after I was robbed a few weeks ago.

It’s such a testament to this amazing country, the amazing city of Belfast and its music community – and it will be an honour to be back working with you all in the cause of creating beauty for the love of music.

Thanks to Rachel Austin, Colly Strings, Prolapse and The Snoodles for playing. Thank you everyone for coming and donating at the door. And thank you everyone, some of whom were also there last night, who gave again via Facebook. For some great photos of the night check out Colm Laverty’s blog, from whence this video sprang.

Thank you.

Take a pinch of Mark Gordon from DJ/Remixers/Label/Live band Skibunny, a splash of Ewan Gordon (not his brother) of Coney Island Sound, stir in Katie Richardson (minus The Carnival) and simmer for 20 minutes with Cara Cowan. Erm, well, you get the idea.

Anyway, where better to place this musical wünderbeest than the natural history section of the Ulster Museum, in amongst the weird stuffed animals and pretty rocks.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed in The Ulster Museum, Belfast May 2011.

I had been sent to The Black Box to cover a blues gig, and I was late because I had made a warm-up stop at my regular. This made absolutely no fucking difference, of course, and I was the first person to show up, as always seems to happen when I go to The Black Box. I am like Peggy Olsen in a room full of Don Drapers…

[Editor's Note: What?]

…mental note: look up Mad Men themed gangbang porn.

‘Ten pounds please,’ said the nice lady at the door.
‘Ten quid? Jesus, who’s playing, the ghost of Robert Johnson?’
‘Um, it’s in aid of Friends Of the Cancer Centre,’ she said. Of course it is. God damn it. I humbly paid the ten, then bought some raffle tickets, to prove I wasn’t a cheap swine. Then, naturally, I hit the bar. With a double in my hand I stood at the back of the room, swarthed in a burka-like shadow, not wanting to take up a whole table to myself. After half an hour only one other person had shown up and I decided I wouldn’t be causing a major inconvenience by sitting down. So I got another drink and took a table. The drink had given me the munchies, so I started idly grazing on the crisps that had been laid out on the tables. As people finally started to trickle in I was eyeing the table next to me, which had crisps AND roasted peanuts. Why didn’t I sit at that table, I thought. Can’t move now, that would be abusing the hospitality. So I just got another drink and finished all the crisps on my table. Finally the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, my stomach didn’t, and my neighbouring snacks were calling out to me. Have to play this cool. I took a pull of beer, steeled myself and, standing up slowly, I sidled over to the next table and as nonchalantly as I could, I swiped the plate of peanuts.

‘Excuse me,’ said a female voice from behind.
Bugger it all, they’re onto me, I thought, turning around. She was the most delicate specimen of female beauty I have ever encountered. Vaguely gothic style, in a short skirt and fishnets, with surprisingly great tits for such a skinny broad.
‘Yes?’ I said, cradling my nuts.
‘Are you Ian?’
‘Yeah…’
‘I’m Starlet. Your, uh, “date”,’ throwing quotation marks around the word date.
‘No fucking way,’ I said, my defences entirely dropped in a moment of shock. I didn’t even realise Will had set me up this time.
‘Way,’ she said.
I just stood gawking for a second. Then, offering the plate, ‘Peanut?’

She declined the nut but took me up on a drink. A gin and tonic, to be precise, which I found slightly arousing, for reasons I still haven’t ascertained.
‘Is your name really Starlet?’ I asked.
‘Yep. Why?’
‘It’s an unusual name, made all the more unlikely by its absolute pertinence.’
‘You’re drunk,’ she said, smiling.
‘No ma’am, merely struck giddy by your beauty,’ I said, waving the beer bottle in her face like a lecherous old fart having a football argument. I caught myself and put the bottle down. ‘Okay, I’m a little bit drunk. You should count yourself lucky though. When I’m sober I’m just as ugly and twice as boring.’
‘Is that an unsubtle way of trying to get me to tell you you’re not ugly?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Bad call.’ Damn, I like this dame. I upended my drink, and she did the same.

I did my best at making idle chit chat, and tried to keep a handle on my drunkenness. Then Jon Bon Jovi went and fucked that up for me. All of a sudden he appeared on a giant screen in the corner of the room and started singing Always – the greatest song of all time – live.
‘This is the greatest song of all time!’ I said, a bit too loud, and started half-assedly playing air guitar.
‘Not really my thing,’ she said, obviously enjoying my sheer arsiness.
‘Oh really? And what sort of music do you like?’
‘Well I’m really into Lamb Of God at the minute.’ Ladies and gentlemen, please hold the fucking show.
‘Are you real or have I fallen down and hit my head and imagined I just met a heavy metal angel?’ She laughed at me, and somehow it was okay. ‘Lamb Of God are fucking awesome!’ I said, ‘But this is still the best song of all time… Allllllwaaaaaayyyyys.’ I knocked back the whiskey in one, very pleased with myself.

Then the song was over, and the band came on. A band called 3-Play, which is a name I just noticed is quite a funny reference to quality toilet paper. They are three older dudes who play bitchin’ blues rock. I can’t remember any of the songs they played, only that after every one I clapped a bit too loud to be appropriate in such a small crowd, and their manly brand of lonesomeness got to me, as the blues often does. Then it hit me, cold and hard, like Vinnie Jones with the flu. Friends Of the Cancer Centre… pale, skinny dame… no interest in bar snacks. My God, she’s a patient! Of course I would go and fall in love with a chick who was on her way out, it’s practically the story of my life.

[Editor's Note: Ian has never been in love with a woman who passed away.]

I waited for the band to take a break before I made my move, then I hit another whiskey. Somewhere, deep in my soul, Always was still playing.
‘Listen, Starlet, let’s just get married.’
‘Um, what?’
‘Look it’s obvious you don’t have long left. Let me make an honest woman out of you. You can live out your final days with someone to cook breakfast for.’
She was laughing, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The cancer. Where is it? God, tell me it’s not the tits,’ I said, getting a little emotional.
‘I don’t have cancer,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘But you’re so… gaunt.’
‘Oh thanks!’
‘No, in a good way,’ I said. ‘Like I’d have be gentle in case I shattered your pelvis during lovemaking.’
‘Oh my God, you’re nuts!’ she said, but luckily she was still laughing. The mention of nuts made me hungry again, but I had long ago eaten them all, so I just had a drink of beer and wallowed in the blues. When the band went back on I was sure I could identify with every word, but I suppose that’s always the way with good music.

After the gig I apologised for being a drunken fool.
‘Don’t worry, I knew what to expect,’ she said.
‘Okay, well, all the best,’ I said, and she started to walk away. I watched her only-just-there ass as it disappeared into the night. ‘Starlet!’ I called after her, and she turned around. ‘A cheeseburger wouldn’t kill you, ya know.’
‘Oh I love cheeseburgers,’ she said.
Me gusta!
And then she was gone. I went home, poured another big drink and started listening to Lamb Of God, but I got emotional during ‘Blacken The Cursed Sun’, and I had to turn it off.

So here is a session with them.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

See more session tracks with them here and here.

Filmed by Will McConnell in Moira, February 2011

This is Fake DIY blogged the results, one track a day, leading up to the album launch last week.

Here it is on Bandwidth in its original unadulterated form. Enjoyez-vous.

Camera: Will McConnell
Recorded in Start Together Studios, Belfast March 2011

Listen up motherfuckers. This is some real shit. I’m about to spit some truth all up in your grill. So much so that there won’t be any room left for burgers or sausages and you will go hungry.

[Editor's Note: Many other lame gangster rap references about the truth herein have been removed. Ian has been watching The Wire and he is very impressionable.]

So here’s the deal. I just finished work and I made a promise to myself that I would spend tonight supping delicious Guinness in The Kitchen Bar by my lonesome self. So I have the time it takes me to drink this coffee to write this thing so I can get home for a feed and a quick John Wayne sink scrub before I head out. For this reason, this article will contain no fabrication or embellishment.* Just this once.

So a few weeks ago I was browsing the Belfast Film Festival website when I came across a screening of Casablanca. In motherfucking Harlem Cafe. Period dress encouraged. My mind was immediately flooded by images of me sauntering around Harlem Cafe in a white dinner jacket, sipping a champagne cocktail and coldly ignoring the inevitable advances of the beautiful waitresses in Forties dress. I ordered a ticket, poured a large whiskey and combed enough Brylcreem into my hair to wallpaper the Titanic Quarter paint house. Realising my limp locks simply don’t have the body to pull off Bogey’s sophisticated swept back style, I settled for the common ‘Adolf’ and sat down to get drunk. I soon fell into a slumber peppered with dreams of romantic drives through Paris with a beautiful woman, with just enough gun play to keep the gents happy. My mum woke me up, asking me what time I was starting work in the morning. I sat bolt upright, my divine dream shattered.
‘Nine!’ I screamed, and lay back down.
‘If you’re going to sleep on the sofa at least close your robe,’ she said before she left. I took a slug of Jack and settled back down, hoping to fall into the same dream. But instead I dreamt that a snake bit me in the face and I had to choke it to death. When I woke up my penis was aching, my feet were freezing, and I had half an hour to get my shit together and get to work.

CUT TO:
Casablanca night. I had told one of my mates about the screening and he had bought a ticket, but just a couple of hours before it started he cancelled via text. I phoned him in tears, asking how he could be so cold, and before he hung up I swore I heard another girl’s voice in the background. I had a couple of serious drinks while I put on my suit, and then I took the bus in to town. Good thing I left early, too – I got the best seat in the house – right next to the bar, with a perfect view of the screen. Never mind that I was alone, pretty soon the place would fill up with women in evening dresses, with their hair all done up, and that would give me something to look at until the movie started. That is, the best goddamn movie of all time.

Casablanca really is my favourite movie. Or it became my favourite after someone told me the video for The Outsider by A Perfect Circle technically doesn’t qualify as a movie. Humphrey Bogart is a true hero of mine, and it causes me a great deal of grief to know that even at my peak of awesomeness**, I wasn’t even half as awesome as Bogey. I still made an effort though. I had nice shoes on, and a black tie, and even though I was drinking for a good hour before the thing even started, I made a conscious effort to take it easy, lest I make a fool of myself. People trickled in, took their seats and ordered dinner, which looked and smelled fabulous. The only reason I didn’t eat was because I ate right before I left the house. And I’m a degenerate fucking alcoholic, who doesn’t like food getting in the way of the liquor sloshing down my throat. Anyway the place was just about full when seemingly out of nowhere, this dame approached me. I quickly stopped picking my nose and pretended I was just scratching it.
‘Hi,’ I said, with what I now know was an embarrassing level of optimism.
‘Excuse me sir, will anyone be joining you tonight.’ In my head I heard Bogey: ‘You tell me dollface. How about it?’
It was unusual that she called me sir, but for some reason I still didn’t peg her for a member of staff. From my mouth I heard, ‘Um, no…’
‘Can I take this seat then?’ she asked, motioning to the empty chair sitting across from me.
‘Uh, yeah, no, I mean no there’s no one sitting there. You can take it.’ And only then did I fully understand what exactly was happening. There was obviously a shortage of chairs, but the staff had to wait a reasonable amount of time before asking for mine, to determine that it wasn’t going to be used. In other words, they thought I was on a date and had been stood up. I knew she thought this, and she knew I knew she thought this, which only made it more awkward. Dressed to the nines and drowning my sorrows in whiskey, I couldn’t look more pathetic if I had brought flowers. I made eye contact with the barman and lifted my empty glass. He understood the gesture…

If there was ever a more perfect movie. So I sat and watched Casablanca and got a bit drunk and listened to William Crawley give a surprisingly good talk on the film, and I actually had a bloody good time. Even despite the nagging feeling that everyone felt a bit sorry for me. I don’t mind hanging out alone – prefer it in fact – but only when it’s clear it’s my choice to be alone. The collective pity of those around me just defeats the whole purpose. I won’t tell you how awesome Casablanca is though. You already know it’s awesome, and if you don’t think so, you’re a silly twat. What I will do is give another shout out to Harlem Cafe for:

A. Hosting the night.
B. Serving awesome food.
C. Staff who are nice to me even when I regularly forego said awesome food for an espresso, or in this case, whiskey.
D. Playing Frank fucking Sinatra, the Humphrey Bogart of music.

And now my coffee is all gone, I’m going to wrap this up and go drink at the bar by myself. Who knows – maybe of all the gin joints in all the world, Sasha Grey will walk into mine… Now that would be a fucking movie. Literally.

* Not a guarantee.

** At a childhood Butlins holiday I booted a football with pre-metrosexual-celebrity-David-Beckam-like accuracy through the ‘top prize’ hole and won one of those giant teddy bears.

This March however, was a very special occasion, with the event moved to 17th, St Patricks Day – and the headliner one Foy Vance. This marked somewhat of a return for Foy who – though he lives and works in London now – comes from Bangor Co. Down’s sunny shores – and here he talks about what it’s like to be back in his birthplace, and he plays a few new tunes too.

[Download Video]

Filmed by Will McConnell in Belfast, March 2011
Thanks to MASH & Graham Brown

If you haven’t already, have a listen to Iain’s magical album ‘To The Pine Roots’.

Iain plays Belfast this sunday at Communion Belfast in the Black Box.

[Download Video]

Thanks to Rachel Anne Coulter, Nicola Jordan

Not to be put out, A Plastic Rose took to the stage to lift the room’s spirits (with a 4-piece orchestra in tow, no less) and the resulting effort captured really all that’s good about the Northern Irish music scene – friendship, devotion, passion and balls-put rock riffs.

Since then, things have only gotten bigger and better – with a mini album ‘The Promise Notes’ released last week on DiDiMau Records – and a supporting tour – A Plastic Rose have gone from strength to strength and are getting stronger.

Watch out for much, much more from them in 2011.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in The Mandela Hall, Belfast in January 2011

One for the golfers: An eagle with a bogey.  Huh? Huh?

In February I went to see Mogwai play Mandela Hall. They played on a Sunday night. Two days before was The Hold Steady, which, if you read the review, you know involved me getting shit hammered. I went to work with an epic hangover and then on Saturday night I went to a house party. I got home about 4am, and went to work again on Sunday with the cumulative effects of two nights too much whiskey and not enough sleep. After my shift, I just wanted to go to bed. I sat down in my office chair with a whiskey and seriously considered skipping the gig. Going out would mean spending what was left of my money on beer and taxi fare and after two consecutive nights of just that, a third seemed a bit much. Sitting there I got very comfortable, and when one is comfortable, comfort seems very important. I thought maybe a lifetime of comfort wouldn’t be so bad, and I started to daydream…

I could get a proper job. It might not inspire me creatively but it would offer benefits like security and a regular income and a routine that, once I succumbed to it, would remove the pesky question, ‘What should I do today?’ because the answer would always be the same. Wake up too early, put on a shirt and tie and go to work. Hell, that’s what Don Draper does every day. Of course I wouldn’t be as wealthy as Don so my suits wouldn’t be as nice. And I’m not as handsome as Don so I wouldn’t get a woman as beautiful as Betty. But I could have some version of it, and damn if that wouldn’t be nice. I poured another one, a little more generous this time, and it really started to look like I would just skip the gig. I recalled a scene in Mad Men when Betty angrily confronted Don and, seeing that he was somewhat distraught, halted her anger long enough to tell him to sit down while she poured him a drink. I could have a woman to pour my drinks! Even if she wasn’t quite up to Betty’s Grace Kelly-esque magnificence, it would still be pretty cool. I put my feet up, enjoying my little fantasy. If I had a full time job and a wife, I’d need a house. My own house with my own rules. Maybe even my own crapper! A luxury I have longed for for years now. I’d have a second one, of course, since the woman would probably want kids. That would be okay. They tell me you never really appreciate what it’s like to have kids until you actually have them, so maybe I would like them, even if right now I hate the little snot nosed bastards. If I had a wife and kids and a job to go to on Monday morning, a Sunday night gig would be out of the question. I wouldn’t be having this dilemma. Life would be easy – like this – sitting in my chair with my socks off, sipping a drink. Man, that would be lovely. Who wants to be jostled by a bunch of students on a Sunday night anyway? I poured another drink and went to my desk with an aim to tear up the ticket and settle in for the night. Then I noticed how much I had paid for it. £25! I can’t afford to throw money like that away, I have a wife and kids to feed! I shotgunned the whiskey, pulled on my boots and hopped on the next bus into town.

For the first time in my many visits to Mandela Hall, there was no queue outside. I put it down to my wasting time on indecision, but decided I still had time for a drink in The Parlour. It’s dark and they serve Maker’s and when it’s not hiving with freshers I actually kinda like it in there. On the quiet nights it has the sort of atmosphere a settled down family man like me can appreciate. One drink turned into three, and by the time I actually went over to the Union, the roadies had the stage set. I thought about trying to get my hands on a pair of the earplugs everyone seemed to be wearing. Nah, it couldn’t be that loud, I thought. Ten minutes later Mogwai came on and after a very polite ‘Hello’ they melted my face with the most elegantly heavy music I have ever heard.

Standing at the very back, I wondered who the hell could be bumping me from behind. I turned, and found it was just the wall I was leaning against pulsing like a fucking cheap sub woofer in some spide’s electric blue Corsa. I found myself glad I hadn’t eaten a big meal, as I was sure the bassist came dangerously close to the infamous brown note on several occasions. Not that the volume was the only impressive thing. Go to the Limelight on a Saturday night and stand too close to the speakers and you won’t hear the sermon the next day in church. The volume was just unusual. Unusual for the level of musicianship on display. Here was music – real, proper music – not a three chord riff over a four-four beat, played at bone liquefying levels. Like an orchestra with a Marshall stack. Like a Motorhead version of a Pink Floyd song. To put it simply, and in Eighties parlance, it was mega.

The next day I went to a coffee shop to write a This Is Not A Review about the gig. I had forgone the shirt and tie for a t-shirt and a leather jacket that has been dropped on too many bar floors, deciding that being forgiven for terrible dress sense is one of the (very few) perks of being a writer. As I sat pondering how to start the article I looked around at all the old folks drinking tea and eating scones and the frazzled mums with their large latte caffeine fixes. One such lady lifted a little bugger out of his pram and very matter-of-factly sniffed his arse. Then she just nodded solemnly at her husband, sitting across from her. As they packed their things and headed for the nearest changing facility I had one of the epiphanies I love to tell you about. I hope I die long before I ever find myself whiffing some toddler’s arse in public, like that’s not FUCKING DISGUSTING. And I hope that before I do croak it, I see a few more gigs even half as good as the Mogwai one. The only reason I didn’t write about it sooner is that I was mildly embarrassed that I had only recently discovered them. I was sure all you switched on, tuned in Bandwidth followers would already be well aware how ‘mega’ they are. If you didn’t, now you do. And as for me, I’ll just keep pouring my own drinks and being broke all the time as long as I can still rock the fuck out on a Sunday night. Because as Mogwai taught me, hardcore will never die, but I will…

For this promo we wanted to do something different – don’t adjust your sets – it’s a stop motion piece made out of approximately 10,000 individual photographs, hand drawn over.

Yup.

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell

This session, recorded shortly before Chris went into the studio with his band Paper Boats, constitutes the first *proper* recording session he had been in and is the first (as far as we can tell) times he’s ever played music to video.

So it’s quite an honour. For this this one, as with previous sessions, we’re trying out something new, or a new direction at least: making the In Stores sessions into proper little gigs, getting people involved, inviting fans down. We’re proud to report it went very well this time – and thank you to everyone who showed up and stuck around in the rain. Speaking of which, Chris knew a very picturesque place to shelter:

[Download Video]

From here we half had the idea to jump a train up to Belfast and play some more there – but happy as we were for shelter, we stuck about Helen’s Bay train station, on the platform. Then we found a picturesque little driveway opposite the station entrance – there was no one in to seek permission from, but we guessed that they would have said yes if asked. The neighbours seemed friendly enough anyway.

[Download Video]

Chris has an amazing variation of songs, and is as impressive as a solo artist as he is with his band. Feeling slightly guilty for asking 15-20 guests to hang around for a few hours in the rain without feeding them, we let everyone go, and caught an extra 10 minutes with Chris. As I’ve said before, this is usually when the best stuff comes out – we found a nearby field – the rain held off for just long enough – and it was magic. This guy’s one to watch. Watch out for his EP and a tour in the next few months.

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Crawfordsburn Co. Down, March 2011

Tracks
(Part one)
1. The Inability To..
2. Distance Broke Me Down
3. Lovin’s For Fools (Bon Iver)
(Part two)
4. Impressions
5. The Final Farewell
(Part three)
6. Let Me Rest
7. Her

Thanks to Thingsthatlooklikepenises.com for the images

Here is a little known fact about me: I am something of an expert on film. When I was eighteen I undertook a long and arduous pilgrimage to South Belfast, where I studied under the tutelage of the Arts and Humanities professors in Queen’s University. Most of my studies were done under the influence of one too many lunch time pints, which made it hard because the Queen’s Film Theatre seats are really comfy and some of the films are boring as shit, so just staying awake often required serious effort. I soldiered through though, after discovering that if I filled my bladder just so, I would wake up about five minutes before the end of the film. If I was then asked to comment, I would just say that the ending was poignant. This tactic backfired the first time I tried it because I had only ever seen the word poignant in print and didn’t realise it isn’t pronounced ‘po-ig-nant’. I got out of that one by feigning an epileptic seizure and simply never going back to that class. How much could there really be to Film Sound anyway?

Anyway it has come to my attention that some people do not believe that the study and analysis of film is an exact science [Editor's Note: It's not.] and so by means of persuasion I have decided to reveal the process for all you philistines out there by analysing the last film I saw. That film is Hall Pass, in cinemas now, and here is my analysis…

One Big Sex Joke: How The Farrelly Brothers Perpetuate Gender and Racial Stereotypes Surrounding the Modern American Male.

You might think that short, snappy titles – like the ones you have come to expect of my articles – would be best, but as a general rule, academics like their titles unnecessarily wordy.

Next, start with a quote from a famous person which vaguely relates to your subject.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said ‘white middle class American men are just a bunch of little bitches.’ (1)

Always reference quotations in full at the end of your essay, numbered for ease of use.

This quote is particularly poignant [there's that word - get it in early!] when considering the works of the openly political film makers The Farrelly Brothers. It should come as no surprise where their sympathies lie, considering that they describe themselves as ‘brothers’. Are they even black? I don’t know, I’ve never seen them. But even if I had I couldn’t tell, because I am colour blind. [This is true - it makes shopping for underwear particularly tricky.] Unfortunately the same cannot be said of these so-called ‘brothers’ who, with their latest film, have jumped on the ‘white middle aged men are flabby and stupid’ bandwagon. This after their film Stuck On You, in which the image of conjoined twins is used to imply that all white men are the same, and their smash hit film Dumb And Dumber, the title of which says it all. Hall Pass follows the same trend, once again taking two white men as its main characters. In fact the only two black men in the film [The only two I noticed, anyway.] are the confident, jive talking member of the group, and a heavily muscled man with a massive penis. To reinforce the racial stereotype we all familiar with, the penis in question is framed right next to Owen Wilson’s face. On the surface, this creates a direct reference point for the viewer who is able to see clearly that the penis is in fact the same size as Wilson’s entire head. The subtext [Subtext is gold!] of the shot, though, is much more subtle and much, much more nefarious. The framing of the penis on the left of the screen with Wilson’s head just to its right is a visual metaphor for the common insult ‘dickhead’. The implication being, of course, is that all white men are dickheads. The Farrellys do not confine themselves to racial prejudices though. The emasculation of the American male by his female counterpoint is, if anything, an even more prominent theme in the film.

The film opens with Wilson flicking through a photo album with his children. After establishing via photograph that he has been physically wasting away over the years, we are introduced to his wife, played by Jenna Fischer. Fischer, as we all know, is the most beautiful woman in the world. But rather than using this fact to suggest Wilson’s manly prowess in having married her, he is portrayed as unappreciative of her beauty, implying idiocy, and subservient to her demands that he help out with the children. This suggests that far from having ‘bagged’ a ‘total hottie’, he has been chosen by a dominant female to provide for her financially, after she has made use of his seed. The similarities here to black widow spiders should be self evident.

Even outside the home the men in the film are depicted as being ‘under the spell’ of beautiful women. This is summed up quite succinctly in a scene in a coffee shop in which our two protagonists are turned into bumbling brutes by blonde barista booty. [Alliteration is generally frowned upon in academic writing. I, however, think it is the balls.] The suggestion is that this behaviour stems from weakness of character, which scientific studies have proved is bullshit. (2) [Profanity is also to be avoided, unless you can do it with class, like me.] This sort of femi-Nazi man bashing is typical of the men who brought us There’s Something About Mary. I’ll tell you something about Mary: (deleted for reasons of libel).

I say its time Hollywood started allowing men to appreciate the female form by openly gawping at chicks asses, without fear of ridicule. What next – no friendly groping in the work place? It is political correctness gone mad, and it has no place in sex comedies. The Farrelly Brothers, as fore runners of the genre, have a moral obligation to start portraying white middle class men in a more positive light. The men in their films drink ‘iced coffee, two Splendas’. This only a few decades after the John Ford films in which John Wayne drank his coffee still boiling, fresh from the campfire, so as to burn the top layer of skin off the back of his throat, allowing for maximum caffeine absorption. I guess Hollywood just can’t cope with that level of man any more. The type of man who didn’t ‘work on his tan’ but simply allowed himself to naturally burn in the key areas. The two main characters in Hall Pass don’t simply have white skin, but pallid, unhealthy looking skin. Success, it seems, is once again linked to skin hue as not one, not two, but three! [Throw in some bad punctuation now and again, to keep the reader wary.] heavily tanned men are depicted as wealthy, studly, and caring, respectively. For more on the Farrellys fascination with skin colour, go back to the start of this essay and read it all over again.

Finally, draw some conclusions by repeating everything you just said, but more concisely and without the word padding of the body text.

In summation, The Farrelly Brothers hate men. Not just any men, though. White men. They have fashioned an entire career out of the emasculation of the white American male and their latest offering ‘Hall Pass’ continues in the same vein. It would seem that feminism and civil rights finally won. But who could have predicted that their victory would have been secured by the subtle and genius application of fart jokes?

Footnotes:

1. Charity website supporting the rights of white supremacist prisoners to racial segregation when behind bars.

2. University of Ulster Sports Medicine study 2003. Results showed that nervous behaviour in men when confronted by a sexy ass woman is actually the result of amazing mental concentration, thought to be caused by the suppression of an erection.

I hope this exercise has been enlightening for you and you now see that film analysis, though complex, actually works to enhance one’s enjoyment of a film, as well as providing interesting talking points for late night drunken debates. Here’s a good one: would you rather spend one night with Jenna Fischer, or be Superman?

Answer: Be Superman. Spending a night with Jenna Fischer is an entirely unreasonable wish.

(..and thanks to all who helped in the making of it)

Made by:
Rachel Austin, Will McConnell, Katie Richardson, Alexandra Moore, Ben Behzadafshar, Korny Devenney, Susan Duncan, Jamie Langston, Lindsey Mitchell, Michael Sampson, and Shauna Tohill with help from Dave Frecknall, Sean Duncan, & Ricky McQuillan

Er.. no.

We’re about going to the music and finding it out where it lives, the dirty oil-filled garage or untidied bedroom where it was born, filming it as it’s meant to be.

And in that spirit, Gascan Ruckus are kind enough to just get the rock out, in a garage in Co. Armagh, with a bunch of select fans.

Don’t worry – there’s an acousticy bit too, when after much sweaty moshing, they swapped their guitars for banjos and beer bottles and played into the night (with the appearance, unexpectedly, of a Quarrymen cover).

Now that’s more like it.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Sound Mix: Ryan McCann
Filmed in Co. Armagh, February 2011

Illustration by Emma Majury

REM were my favourite band.

And as favourite bands go, they’re a good one to nail your colours to. They have impeccable heritage, they had an unbelievable run of world-beating albums, and always seemed like a band you could really connect with, three pretty regular guys with a substantial record collection, and one artsy, weird guy who made it cool to be an outsider.
Then the drummer left, and it all fell to pieces.

But let’s not start there, let’s go way back to the start, which is a very un-REM-like thing to do, which – in turn – makes it a very REM-like thing to do.

Starting as a bar band in Athens, Georgia, a fairly sleepy American college town, these four guys – Peter Buck, Mike Mills, Bill Berry, and Michael Stipe – began to really enjoy the reaction their band was getting, and hopped in a green van to explore the American south. And so begins a real American underground success story, filled with hard work, sweat, grit, and determination. And no small amount of magic.

After an obscure single release, the first real taste of what the band were capable of came in the shape of 1982’s Chronic Town ep, a five track release with a weird, blue tinted photograph of a gargoyle on the cover. The contents were no less beguiling, subverting every notion of what punk and new wave had been building to. Guitars chimed, rather than chugged, and the rhythm section did everything to avoid just being the rhythm section.

And then the singer opens his mouth to sing, and the entire thing goes into the realm of the mystic. When Michael Stipe opted to mumble his cryptic utterances, could he have known that he would be enshrining his band’s place in rock and roll history? Or was he just nervous? Either way, Stipe added a layer of unforced mystery and enigma to the music that had hitherto been unheard of in contemporary music. This stuff was really strange, like it had come from another planet, and instantly attracted an audience of people who were searching for something new.

Murmur followed in 1983, and as far as debut albums go, it’s difficult to think of a more confident opening statement. In my humble opinion, it’s not understatement to say that Murmur is flawless, one of the most perfect albums ever recorded. Each song reveals its secrets to the listener, building on the previous track, whilst leading the way towards the next. The cover image of the Kudzu vine perfectly captures the sense of something being hidden and oblique that permeates through the record, an old world encroaching on a new one. In 1983, no-one sounded like this.

And from there on in, REM could do no wrong. Albums like Reckoning (1984) and Fables of the Reconstruction (1985) built upon this success, and added new layers to the band, fully exploring what they were capable of. Relentless touring had honed the band into a streamlined indie-rock monster, before such a term even existed. When it hit the stores in 1986, Life’s Rich Pageant reflected how tight the band had become, bringing a newfound sense of clarity to the proceedings.

And then a miracle happened. 1987’s Document brought the band into the big league, and REM suddenly became cool. But this wasn’t because they changed their sound, or sold out on any level; REM made the mainstream come to them. They were still weird, they were still strange, but now they were totally accessible, and had become the thinking rock fan’s band of choice. Green (1988), Out of Time (1991), and Automatic for the People (1992) turned the band into art-rock heroes, then proper popstars, and finally the biggest band in the world.

Monster courted the grunge fans in 1994, and New Adventures in Hi-Fi was a welcome return to weirdness, back in 1996. Nothing could go wrong, and they’d just re-signed to Warner Bros for an astronomically large advance, reputed to be $9,000,000 dollars or something (a figure they have since disputed).

I’d loved them for years, ever since hearing ‘Losing My Religion’ on the radio at the start of the 90s. In my childish wisdom, I thought the lyric was really controversial, and it had a cool, confusing video. ‘Shiny Happy People’ came out shortly afterwards, and I was impressed by the bassist’s glasses and happy face. That was enough for me back then, and Out of Time promptly became the first CD I ever purchased. I passed on Automatic, never having been overly fussed on it, but came back just in time for Monster, and by 1994, they were firmly ensconced as my favourite band, my collection of cassette tapes largely consisting of REM albums, and self-made REM compilations.

And my love of the band spread to the bands that had influenced them, taking me on a journey that would eventually lead me to Husker Du, The Velvet Underground, Television, Wire, Patti Smith, Mission of Burma, The Replacements, The Soft Boys, The Dream Syndicate, The Minutemen, The Beat, The Byrds, Big Star….the list is seemingly endless. They were music fans, and encouraged the teenage music fan in me to dig that little bit deeper to find the good stuff. The fact that I do what I do now is largely due to my love of REM preparing me for the big, wide world of strange music that was out there.

REM – Orange Crush

Then Bill Berry left.

I thought they’d split up, to be honest. They’d always seemed like a band of brothers (later reading revealed that they weren’t *quite* as close as I’d always been led to believe), and the loss of Bill would surely be the end of it. And with New Adventures still only a recent memory, it was good to go out on a high.

But for some reason they decided to continue, and strange reports started to filter out that the new album would be full of strange experiments, and all the songs would be performed on crisp packets and empty tins or something. This proved not to be the case, and when it arrived, Up was a lovely collection of songs that gently pushed and pulled the band in different directions. It’s not an out and out triumph, but it’s an unjustly overlooked wee gem.

Then the true horrors started. The band took the plunge headfirst into mediocrity, and started releasing records that said nothing, and did so in an unsatisfying and boring way. Reveal was lazy, but Around the Sun was insulting. This band that had been so vital to my life, who had literally soundtracked my life and my most important moments, were now reduced to going through the motions in glossy videos, struggling to appear ‘artistic’, and speaking out about “causes”. In the 21^st century, the most exciting thing about REM was Peter Buck’s court case where he threw yoghurt at an air hostess.

So we parted company. It was more or less painless, to be honest…the kind of breakup where it’s happened long after it should have, and any love you had left has slowly ebbed away to be replaced with mild embarrassment and quiet resentment. I walked away from them, and never looked back. The old albums began to acquire dust on the shelves, and the jangling 12 string guitar was naught but a distant memory.

Then I heard the re-mastered version of Murmur, released a few years ago. With crystal sharp clarity, this album took me right back to when I first heard it, back to the days when I was probably a better person, and viewed the world through eyes of hope, rather than as a cynical old hack. It was like I’d never even been away. The re-issue of Reckoning did exactly the same thing, as did the one for Fables. I belatedly came round to Accelerate, having not even noticed it coming out, and found it to be…pretty good, actually.

So as we stand on the threshold of a new REM album, for the first time in 10 years, I find myself brimming with excitement. When New Adventures came out, I queued outside a record store in the rain, such was my enthusiasm. I’m at that point for this one. I want it, and I want it NOW. The singles have been tantalising. The videos aren’t embarrassing. It’s all looking good.

It’s like finding out that a lover you once spurned has shaped up, underwent that swan-like transformation, and is still interested in you. It’s all looking too good to be true.

And then you find it is too good to be true, and whilst they might look good, that personality defect that put you off in the first place is still there.

So, I’ve made a date with REM. They’re looking good, I feel fine, and I have high hopes. March 7^th will show me whether it’s truly time to rekindle our love affair, or whether to finally get that divorce.

My head says “NO!”, but my heart says “YES!”

» Steven Rainey is a self-confessed music lover, blogger and broadcaster. He hosts a late night music show on BBC Radio Ulster which you can listen to here.

» Emma Majury is an illustrator with an amazingly impressive stationery, illustration and gift site Longshot Press.

» R.E.M. is an American independent rock band formed in Athens, Georgia in 1980. They’re not currently touring but you can listen to some of their music here.

State Intervention is a collaboration between Bandwidth and State webzine in Dublin. Flash gigs in Dublin’s shops, bars, parks and street corners, promoted purely online through State’s Twitter and Facebook profiles. Details are announced on the day, so keep up to date and find your way down.

People of Ireland North and South beware, State Intervention has escaped Dublin and crawled north to the sunny climes of Belfast. No one is safe – so expect a State Intervention in your town soon. And in that event, you know what to do. Why turn up and dance of course!

For the tenth turnaround, Bandwidth and State collaborated for the first time with the really wonderful Sean Duncan at RedCap Productions to bring you the actually funky Republic Of Loose in the totally whacky Viva Retro on North Street. *Phew!*

Many thanks to all who came down.
Subscribe to the State Twitter feed and watch out for the next gig.

Read the original article here on State

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Camera: Sean Duncan

Photo taken at the gig.  Filter added for extra ‘Sheen’.

So this week my presence was actually requested at an event. Some dude from a company called Amazing Media emailed Will to let him know about a super cool party at the Black Box, and asked for Will’s best writer to be on review duty. Steven Rainey was busy though, so Will called me. At this point I had holed myself up with three days supply of beer and I was studying the teachings of the prophet Charlie Sheen. As you can imagine, I wasn’t pleased to be interrupted.

‘How’re you doing Ian?’ asked Will.

‘Winning,’ I said.

‘Ah, great. Got an assignment for you.’

‘Not interested.’

‘What? How come?’

‘I’m cured man.’

‘What do you mean cured?’

‘I closed my eyes and in a nanosecond I cured myself.’

‘Okay, that’s cool,’ he said. ‘But I’ve managed to get you on the list for a pretty exclusive gig. Want to do a This Is Not A Review for it?’

‘On the list huh?’

‘Yep.’

‘So if I showed up with two smokin’ hot goddesses I’d just get right in?’

‘Um, yeah I guess so.’

‘I’m in. But there’s one thing you should know.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve got magic. I’ve got poetry at my fingertips,’ I said.

‘Oh I get it, you’re just regurgitating Charlie Sheen quotes at me.’

‘Yeah…’

‘Great. Black Box at 8pm tonight dude. Have fun.’

‘Wait a second, just a quick question.’

‘What?’

‘What is a seven gram rock and where can I get one? I’d like to bang it.’

He hung up and I made it to the gig on time, but I couldn’t find any goddesses to go with me. There were a couple of bouncers on the door, but I had a swagger in my walk because I had one up on them. I was on the goddamn list.

‘Hey man, I’m on the list. Ian Shearer.’

‘Can’t come in without ID,’ he said.

‘Can’t is the cancer of happen.’

‘What?’ he said, as three hipster fucks dandered past the other bouncer flashing student cards.

‘Never mind,’ I said, and showed him my driver’s license. He took a good goddamn look at it and let me in without checking any list. Inside the door they put a wrist band on me and gave me a free handbag. Red flag number one.

‘Um, thanks,’ I said, and headed for the bar.

I suppose I should explain what this event was before I go any further. It was one of several live music events around the UK hosted by Topman CTRL. If you have any idea what the fuck that means, you’re one up on me. The thing was supposed to be hosted by a dude called Huw Stephens from Radio 1, who I’ve never heard of. And the two bands playing were Frankie And The Heartstrings and The Alice Kona Band. Neither of whom I’ve ever heard of. After ordering a double and surveying the (still fairly empty) room, I started to wonder what on earth I was doing there. I considered asking someone for a seven gram rock, but all the beautiful people were making me nervous. They just kind of stood around looking fabulous, but there wasn’t much too them. I didn’t understand their movements. Then I realised what it was. All around the room were posters for ‘Topman CTRL Student Parties’. It was a student party. They were students. That was what was so wrong about it all. I finished my drink too quickly and ordered up another.

I’ll say this fairly bluntly. I fucking hate students. Now if you’re a student and you’re offended by that, let me quote Charlie: park your nonsense. But if it makes you feel any better I am so diplomatic in my hatred of students that when I was a student, I even started hating myself. The problem is that once I graduated I wasn’t able to stop. Enter Mr. Daniels. Anyway, I’m sure you’re a bloody nice person, but I still hate students, as a collective. And here I was at one of their parties. Second drink gone. Make it a whiskey and a beer this time, doll, and keep the change. I found myself standing quietly in a darkened corner next to a strange booth of some sort, and I didn’t figure out what it was until The Alice Kona Band told me.

The bands were introduced by a talking head on a TV screen mounted at the back of the stage. This was Huw Stephens, who I was expecting to actually, you know, be there. I didn’t really understand why he was talking at me via a TV screen and it angered me in a way that I couldn’t quite define. I started hoping that video really would kill the radio star. Another whiskey, so I’d have something to pick up when I put my beer down, and the support act went on.

The Alice Kona Band are actually kinda cool. They’re all in dire need of a hair cut and I probably wouldn’t drink out of a teacup in their house, but they seemed like nice chaps and their heart was in the right place. And they played pretty fucking loud, which was cool. Lots of energy, considering the place really hadn’t filled up much, they’re kind of like The Strokes playing Nirvana covers. Now how’s that for an up-my-own-arse music critic comment? During their set they pointed out that the booth I was standing next to was a photo booth. For getting your picture taken and the like. Jesus. Red flag number two. Drink number… I’ve lost track, and I’m sober right now. Kinda.

The place finally filled up a bit in time for Frankie And The Heartstrings, who were the main act. By the time they came on my drinking had lost its novelty with the bartenders and I became aware that I was perceived as liability/drunken fool. I was dropping tips with every drink, though, and aside from some not-so-subtle breast glances, I don’t feel I was being unreasonable. This didn’t help much, and to combat my feelings of inferiority I started drinking a little bit harder. The music commenced. People seemed to be enjoying it. As much as students can seem to enjoy anything, behind their vacant, aloof stares, idle hair adjustments and catwalk posture. Maybe it was because the band had kind of the same deal going. I really wasn’t paying much attention, until I had a moment of clarity towards the end of the set when I realised I just wasn’t digging what I was hearing. I’m not going to tell you they’re a shitty band because I’m not a dick. I am a crotchety old fuck of 23, though, and I just felt ‘oh, this is what the kids listen to these days’. Mixed with the sort of superiority that comes from knowing I listen to bands who fucking rock, whereas these hip fuckers are lucky if they ever accidentally roll. My mood took a bad turn. I ordered another whiskey and she put ice in it and I would have been annoyed but she was Katie from Katie And The Carnival and she’s awesome so I forgave her. And I took my whiskey to the queue for the photo booth. Oh dear. Any time I voluntarily have my photo taken you can be sure of one thing: I will regret that decision the second I see the photo. See: photo at the start of this article.

After they wrapped things up I got my shit together and hit the road. Walking to my usual taxi pick-up spot, I started digging around in the goodie bag they gave me on my way in. I was disappointed to find nothing more than a couple of stickers, a bottle of water and a 10p mix up. In protest of this hipster nonsense I chewed up a sherbet filled spaceship and gobbed it out onto the road. My protest was in vain, of course. I showed up at a student party, hosted by a high street fashion retailer, and complained because the place was filled with fashionable students and the music wasn’t to my tastes. I truly am an over the hill old codger. Now I’ve picked on students maybe next week I’ll head to The Venue and complain about kids these days…

[Editor's Note: They closed The Venue ages ago. How fucking past it are you?]

‘Go back to the troll hole where you came from.’ – Charlie Sheen

Wow. That’s epic. (also Charlie Sheen)

If for some reason you want more information on Topman CTRL, check out the website.

Tony also plays guitar in another band – but that’s another story.
VerseChorusVerse is playing Crawdaddy, Dublin on 5th March in support of The Danger Is.

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, February 2011

We’ve had many many great acts in the the history of this series – it’s truly been an honour to work with so many talented musicians. As a treat to all of you, here’s 3 tracks from the mighty Cashier No.9 in perhaps the greatest store yet.

Sail on In Stores Now.. you’re a good ship, and you’re sailing to new harbours this year – stay tuned…

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, December 2010

People sometimes ask me why I’m not religious. I usually tell them it’s just the way God made me, with a smile that shows just how clever I think I’m being. It’s just a cover though. The real reason is much more profound. When I was about fifteen I went along to a friend’s church youth group. Don’t ask me why – I did a whole bunch of stupid shit when I was fifteen. Anyway this evening I went along they piled a whole bunch of us into a bus and took us all the way to fucking Kilkeel of all places, to meet up with a bunch of other church groups for one mass night of fun and games. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t play games, and I fucking hate fun. But I did what I always do – I stayed quiet and tried not to attract any attention to myself. And it worked. It worked right up until the last game of the night. It wasn’t much of a game, really. They played some music, two people would dance, the music would stop, two more people would join in, and so on until everyone was up dancing. The catch was every time the music stopped the girl changed partners, and guys could only start dancing once a girl chose to dance with them. You know where I’m going with this.

I didn’t get picked. Every fucker in the room was up dancing and I was sitting there, the social equivalent of the fat kid in PE class. But it gets worse. As an award for being the most rejected person in the room, the leader of the group produced a broom, which he insisted I dance with for the last dance. This is like someone buying you a shot of Jager when you already feel like puking. If you don’t drink it you look like a party pooper, if you do drink it you may end up being an even worse kind of pooper, and everyone will laugh at you. I chose the getting laughed at option. I danced with the fucking thing. And while I was twirling that broom around I thought two things. First I wondered which Slayer album I should buy first. Then I thought, at least I’ll never feel this rejected again as long as I live. And that’s the way it was right up until Friday, when I called Will.
‘Hey man, have we got a candidate for the gig tonight?’
‘Um, no, actually we don’t.’
‘What, you still haven’t picked one? You’re leaving it kind of late man.’
‘No I mean no one applied.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah, no one wants to go to a gig with you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Really?’
‘Okay so I do believe you. I suppose I just got my hopes up.’
‘Yeah if I were you I wouldn’t do that any more in life,’ said Will, and I didn’t know how to respond. I hung up and couldn’t help the image from popping into my head – me at the gig, swilling a pint of Guinness, with a shitty old broom propped up next to me. I opened a new bottle of Jack.

I put a pretty serious dent in the bottle before I left the house and by the time I got to Spring and Airbrake I was pretty well buzzed. Then, standing in the queue, I suddenly started to worry that there might have been some sort of miscommunication and my name wouldn’t be on the list. I’d look like a damn fool trying to waltz in without a ticket. I thought about running away to a bar to get drunk. Then I thought about running away to New York to be an ad man in the Sixties, and I realised I was a lot drunker than I thought. I couldn’t possibly afford a flight to New York. But the boy who danced with the broom still lives somewhere inside me, and these days he has the advantage of being a pisshead. I ventured forth, and I got in no problem. Like a boss, in fact. To celebrate my boss-like qualities I ordered a shot and a brew and took a seat. The problem is after that I wasn’t content choosing between whiskey and beer, and every trip to the bar meant one more of each. Then single measures weren’t enough, so my order became a double Jack and a bottle of Stella. Over and over.

Then even a double and a bottle wasn’t enough for me, and I decided they ought to be combined. Hell, I was drinking for two, and celebrating the fact that I’m a legitimate music journalist and I don’t even pay for tickets any more! So I mixed up a boilermaker and drank it down. It sat fairly well, and I went back to drinking my whiskey and beer separately. Then came the second sign of trouble. On my way back from the can, two drinks still at my table, I decided I shouldn’t pass a bar without stocking up, so I bought another double just for the hell of it. And that’s when I lost track of what I was drinking. The third and final sign of impending doom.

By the time the music really got going things are fairly hazy. I can’t even remember the name of the support act, but I remember making a mental note to recommend them. If you can find out who they were, check ‘em out. The Hold Steady, whose name I did manage to remember, were fucking awesome. Unpretentious, straightforward rock n roll played with tonnes of enthusiasm. Surprisingly good drinking music also, if my performance that night is anything to go by. You should get your hands on a Hold Steady album and listen to some rock music played by guys who still enjoy playing rock music.

After the gig things go from hazy to a complete blank. I know I went next door to Katys and I know I got another double, acting purely on drunken instinct. After that, I don’t remember shit until I woke up the next morning feeling like I had been licking the open sores of a bubonic plague victim…

[Editor's Note: Jesus!]

…and I decided not to drink ever again. I also decided it was a blessing in disguise that I was on my own because I have no idea just how much of a tit I made of myself, and frankly I don’t want to know. So yeah, I’m getting all defensive and saying I’m glad none of you wanted to hang out with me! Now excuse me, I have a date with a rather fetching Dyson.

[Editor's Note: Excessively obscene fellatio joke removed.]

Today’s aptly timed Coronal Mass Ejection, comes in time to promote KR’s new single (likewise named). Just ahead of their single launch on 24 February at the Queens Union Radar night, we crammed 30 or so people into an empty office of Botanic Media in Belfast, and made eruptions of our very own.

In heaven all IN STORES NOW are like this.

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Sound: Clark Phillips
Filmed in Belfast, February 2011

State Intervention is a collaboration between Bandwidth and State webzine in Dublin. Flash gigs in Dublin’s shops, bars, parks and street corners, promoted purely online through State’s Twitter and Facebook profiles. Details are announced on the day, so keep up to date and find your way down.

No articles on Bandwidth for 2 weeks then two come along at once. Here’s the latest State Intervention. Want to get Interventions organised in Belfast, Cork and Galway soon, so drop your comments below on who you’d like to see.

Subscribe to the State Twitter feed and watch out for the next gig.

Read the original article here on State

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Sound/Mix: Ian Maleny

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed at The Black Box, Belfast in January 2011

‘Look man I’m having trouble attracting women.’ I had sought out advice from a friend of mine who, should he keep up his current seed-dropping rate, is on course to surpass Gene Simmons’s record by the age of 31.
‘How long has this been a problem?’ he asked.
‘Nearly twenty four years now,’ I told him. ‘I think my problem is I’m too much of a nice guy.’
‘No that’s definitely not it,’ he said. ‘If anything you’re a bit of a prick.’
‘Well surely that should help! I though women loved assholes.’
‘No, no, that’s a rookie mistake. Women like bad boys. Not the kind of guy who will boycott a cinema just because the screen was out of focus once.’
‘What, you’re telling me that doesn’t piss you off?’
‘Look you have to cultivate a new image. You gotta be a badass, with a kind heart that you finally reveal during the most intimate moment.’
‘Why that moment?’
‘Because that’s when they’ll give up the pussy man!’
‘Ah, gotcha. Good plan dude. Any other quick practical advice? I gotta get going – Nigel Slater’s Simple Suppers is starting soon.’
He gave me a disapproving look.
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Try not shaving for a few days. Chicks dig stubble.’
‘Yeah, good idea man.’

I decided to try out my new persona at the Guns 2 Roses gig at The Empire. I know what you’re thinking – I reviewed that band before and I’m getting lazy. Well you would be wrong on both counts. I’ve been lazy for years, and this is actually a new GNR tribute band, borne from the ashes of two recently disbanded groups. One of whom I have indeed reviewed before. Anyway since it was a Guns N Roses tribute I decided to draw some inspiration from the one and only Axl Rose. If there is one thing I know about women, they fucking love Axl Rose. So I bought a bandana. Four days of beard growth later I headed over to the Bandwidth offices to meet my date. I got myself a bottle of Jack on the way and strutted into Will’s office swigging it like John Wayne with a toothache. As usual Will was lounging on his sofa with some piece of ass. I made a mental note to ask him how the hell he managed it, then I squashed myself in between them on the sofa, slinging an arm around the dame’s neck.
‘So man, who’s this pretty young thing?’
‘This is my girlfriend Ian. You’ve met her at least twice before.’
I took a drink, thinking of a good cover.
‘Shit I’m just kidding man. I know who she is, it’s just my new sleazy rocker persona.’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘What’s my name then?’
I took another cover up swig.
‘Baby as far as I’m concerned your name should be sugar.’
‘Jesus,’ said Will with a sigh. ‘And take your fucking arm off her already!’
‘Okay, chill my man,’ I said, getting up and settling myself into his office chair with my feet on his desk. I repositioned my bandana.
‘What the fuck is wrong with your face?’ asked Will.
‘I grew a beard,’ I said. ‘To be more badass.’
‘A beard?’ he said. ‘I could count the hairs on your face. From here.’
His girlfriend sniggered.
‘It’s like Homer Simpson’s head upside down.’
She giggled again.
‘Alright man…’ I said.
‘You look like a fucking Chernobyl victim.’
His girlfriend was outright laughing in my slightly hairy face now.
‘Okay man, come on…’
‘You look like you just went down on a fifty year old Chinese woman.’
‘Jesus man, cool it with the facial hair jokes!’
‘You are a fucking facial hair joke!’ he said.
Then she came out of Will’s en suite.
‘Oh Ian, this is Alice,’ said Will. ‘She’s your date for the gig.’
Holy crap.
‘Hi Ian,’ she said.
‘Oh, uh, hi. Hey. Baby.’
‘Take care of her,’ said Will’s girlfriend. ‘She’s my best friend and she’s never been to a rock concert.’
‘Well they are a tribute act to the most dangerous band in the world, but I’ll look after the little lady,’ I said, standing up and realising how much taller than me she was. I finished off my whiskey in one long drink.
‘Have you got a recycling bin man?’ I asked.

I decided I had to do as much bad boy stuff on the way to the bar as possible, to make a good first impression. I crossed the road before the green man appeared. I passed a bum and told him I had no change, even though I had loads. I bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked one. I told a racist joke a little louder than was really necessary. By the time we got to the bar I was exhausted from being so badass, but I was pretty sure I had impressed her. Just wait till she hears me belting out Rocket Queen, I thought.

You wouldn’t expect a tribute band made up of members of two former tribute bands to be very good. Or maybe you would. I didn’t, though, I’ll be honest. The band I saw before (UK Guns N Roses) were really quite authentic and I couldn’t imagine the new line up topping what they did. You can imagine my surprise then, when halfway through the show I found myself screaming at Alice, ‘Holy shit, they’re even better than the other band!’ Of course she had no frame of reference and had no idea what I was talking about, but she seemed happy that I was enjoying myself. And enjoy myself I did. The enjoyment reaching a pinnacle when the opening chords to November Rain started and I let out an almighty ‘Fuck yeah!’ Until that night the only people to hear my rendition of November Rain were my dog and my next door neighbour. That night the entire Empire Music Hall was treated to my impersonation of a man impersonating Axl Rose. I knew my performance was epic because Alice was smiling with tears in her eyes.

[Editor's Note: She laughed so hard she cried.]

This was the band’s first UK gig together and they fucking rocked. If you’re a fan of Guns N Roses and have a chance to check them out some time, don’t pass it up for anything. Not even the ‘real’ Guns N Roses, headed up by the real Axl. That’s right, I said it.

After the gig I felt imbued with pure rock n roll attitude, and I asked Alice if she wanted to head to another bar for a drink. Unfortunately when we got there, there were a few loutish lads outside who made some unsavoury comments about her as we passed. I was going to let it slide, then one of the motherfuckers snapped a photo on his camera phone.
‘No fucking photos!’ I screamed, diving at him.
I came around a few minutes later to find that the guy had hit me so hard my bandana came off, and the police had arrived.
‘Where’s Alice?’ I asked the nearest cop.
‘Oh she went off with the group of fellas you attacked,’ he said.
‘Fuck,’ I said, standing up. ‘Dames really do like assholes.’
‘Jesus what happened to your face?’ said the cop as I was fixing my bandana into place.
‘I got punched. Obviously.’
‘No I mean that weird hair growth,’ he said. ‘You look like an old gypsy woman.’

So farewell then, The Good Fight.

The world turns, and the seasons change, and only the good die young. Such it is with the Good Fight (who are not literally dead, I should stress…only metaphorically) who have decided to draw their brief, but stellar career to a close on Thursday 27th January.

The Coleraine four piece have always been well regarded in the local scene, and have made small, but significant inroads outside of Northern Ireland, but – as Dr Eldon Tyrell once said, “The light that burns twice as bright, burns half as long. And you have burned so very brightly!”

For many of us (ie. Me), we first became aware of the band when the won the 2008 Across the Line Rock School television programme, singing their way into the hearts of the nation. Things went a little bit quiet after that, but when the band finally exploded back onto the scene, they did it in style, with the fabulous ‘Kick Start’ single (a split release with A Plastic Rose on the Di Di Mau label).

Accompanied by a fabulous video courtesy of the folks here at Bandwidth, the song was a real calling card for what the band were capable of. An anthemic chorus, but with just enough genuine emotion to prevent it from becoming stadium rock fayre, ‘Kick Start’ was that rare beast; an indie ballad that didn’t make you want to stick your fingers down your throat and vomit all over yourself.

A few more releases followed, with more and more people falling under the Good Fight’s spell, and it seemed like everything was moving onwards and upwards. But, alas! it was not to be. Life stepped in the way, and the promise of future greatness has been cruelly snatched away. Perhaps everyone involved will go on to some kind of greatness, so we shouldn’t fret too much. Indeed, maybe this won’t be a permanent goodbye, and rather it’s just a farwell?

Either way, au revoir, The Good Fight. It’s been fun.

See The Good Fight perform for the last time ever tonight, 27th January at the Mandela Hall Belfast.

The band in store is Colly Strings – and if you like what you hear you can see them playing the Mandela Hall Thursday 27th January with A Plastic Rose and The Good Fight as part of the final in the series of ‘You Are’ gigs – and if you manage to miss that you can also see them supporting Feeder at The Spring & Airbrake on 4th February.

Sit back, enjoy!

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, January 2011

You may have noticed that we are currently running a free ticket giveaway for an upcoming This Is Not A Review gig. If you hadn’t noticed, I just very cleverly worked it into this article, so now you do know about it. Anyway the reason for it all is that we have been digging for new candidates and our last idea failed miserably. In theory, it was genius. In practice, it was not. The idea was that Will and I would stage a Britain’s Got Talent style audition day, where candidates could demonstrate their musical ability. The winner would not only accompany me for to the next gig, but would get their very own Bandwidth sessions video. Not too shabby, you might think, and you would be right. It just didn’t work out though. Auditions started at noon and I was drinking because the whole thing made me nervous. The only thing I could find in the office was three year out of date crème de menthe, so I was struggling it down, and had drank about half the bottle when the first guy showed up. You might know him in fact. He sometimes busks outside Castle Court, playing a half-fiddle, half-horn contraption and grinning at everyone like his job satisfaction is through the fucking roof.

‘Sorry mate, you’re not quite what we’re looking for,’ I said.
‘Excuse me?’ He looked confused.
‘We’re looking for a different style,’ said Will.
‘More buxom,’ I added, by way of explanation.
‘I just wanted to use the toilet,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘One or two?’
‘I’m not comfortable answering that.’
‘That means two.’
‘Can I use your toilet please?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Your teeth are green,’ he said, and went to the john.
I turned to Will. ‘Fuck it man, we’re wasting our time.’
‘It’s only twenty past twelve dude,’ said Will.
‘It’s useless!’ I shouted. ‘I give up.’ I gathered up my coat and my crème de menthe and I sulked off to the bar.

I found out the next day that about fifteen minutes after I left a local cheer-leading squad showed up and performed an elaborate musical number for Will. I didn’t even know we had cheerleaders over here. Anyway Will claims he had a moment of clarity during the panty-flashing acrobatics and has vowed he will never again film an acoustic session without at least some cheerleader involvement.

I had my own moment of clarity later that day. Staring into a toilet full of green sick, I realised that somewhere along the way I had taken a wrong turn. I vowed there and then to change my life for the better. Nothing but bourbon from then on, and no more gimmicky articles about failed romantic conquests. Just lucid, insightful articles about local music so balls-out inspiring that people would positively shit from the overwhelming magic of them. Fuck yeah, I’m gonna rock this shit, I decided. Then I boked up some more green stuff and went to bed.

The gig I was going to was actually Eilis Phillips’s launch party for her album. Don’t worry, I know I already reviewed that. It’s the other singers who played at the party that I am concerned with now. I Draper-ed myself up in what I think passes for stylish clothes and combed my hair over to one side. Then I combed it the other way, because I had only succeeded in highlighting my thinning hairline. Finally content that I didn’t look bald, I hit the bar for a few warm up whiskies. I may have had one too many because, in most un-Draper-like fashion, I was both nervous and early. Once the buzz took hold the nervousness had subsided and I had succeeded in making myself late. So that’s how it’s done, I thought, making a mental note for future. I dandered round to the launch party, hoping Eilis had remembered inviting me and I didn’t look like a strange, loner, party crasher.

Eilis did remember me, but as it happens I might have fitted in anyway, because the room was full of guys who looked like strange, loner party crashers. Either these people had caught sight of Eilis’s giant Soviet hat and mistaken the gig for one of those bullshit socialist sympathiser events Queen’s students love so much, or Eilis’s fan base was 50% men who acted like groupies and looked like roadies. They were a good group all the same – whooping it up and giving generous applause after all the songs. I had walked in half way through Junior Johnson’s set, and his stuff was going down pretty well. I won’t go on about Junior too much, because you can check him out right here on Bandwidth, in the In Stores Now video Will filmed for him last year. Anyone who bought a copy of Eilis’s album got a free copy of Junior’s EP along with it. I got Eilis’s album for free…

[Editor's Note: We know. You told us.]

…and very craftily picked up Junior’s EP along with it. It’s really good. I mean really, really fucking good. After Junior Johnson was Siobhan Day, and she played a whole set of music you just can’t not like. I understand when someone tells me Pantera isn’t their thing, you know? They’re just a pussy, and that’s fine. Just kidding. Some music won’t be to everyone’s tastes, but music as simple and effective as Siobhan’s is universal, in a way, because who can’t listen to a nice voice and simple chord progression, right? That’s not a very enthusiastic endorsement though – just as anyone can listen to music like that, just about anyone can make it too, and it’ll be fine. Average. Boring. What is interesting is when someone comes along who does it well, and that’s what Siobhan does. Nothing fancy. Just good old fashioned folk rock but performed with a power and confidence that only really comes about in naturals. That’s how I would describe Siobhan – a natural. A natural singer and a natural songwriter. Plus, she lists Guns N’ Roses as one of her musical tastes. In other words, she’s awesome. I’m looking forward to the release of her EP and I’m hoping to see her live again soon. You should do the same.

Now all that remains to be seen is whether or not Will’s cheerleader fixation has affected his illustrations as well as his videos… Fingers crossed.

Siobhan’s ReverbNation page.

At a recent board meeting Will asked for ideas on how to make Bandwidth even cooler than it already is. I don’t go in for shit like that so I finished my cigarette, got up and left without a word. I went back to my office, had a large whiskey, banged my secretary on the desk and headed to the bar for lunch…

[Editor's Note: There comes a point when Ian's Mad Men delusions stop being cute and actually become a cause for concern. That point was about 4 months ago.]

The following day my secretary brought me a memo with my cup of coffee. She was looking at me strangely.
‘Yes?’ I asked.
‘Oh… nothing,’ she said. She spent the rest of the day crying at her desk. I assumed there must have been a death in the family and said nothing. The memo had my full attention anyway.

It outlined a proposal whereby future This Is Not A Review articles will be advertised a few weeks in advance, and give Bandwidth readers the chance to win a free ticket to go to the gig with me. Will told me to draft up a notice about this, and that’s what you’re reading now. For selected This Is Not A Reviews I will post something like this a few weeks before the gig giving you all information on the gig. Anyone who wants to come to the gig with me can email nude photos to us…

[Editor's Note: No. Just no.]

…okay you can email us (briefly) outlining why we should give you a free ticket to the gig. We’ll pick the best, or – more likely – the only, response, and the lucky winner will get to come with me. I might even buy you a drink, depending on how sloshed I get. Importantly, though, all applicants should be aware that they will find some version of themselves worked into the article I write, so anyone lacking a sense of humour should steer clear.

The first gig to include this option is The Hold Steady at Spring and Airbrake on Friday 11th February. You can see full details of the gig (or buy your own tickets, if you have no interest in going with me) at this site:

CDC Leisure.net

Contact us at ian@bandwidthsessions.com to win your free ticket.

- Ian

PS – I should make it clear that this competition is not exclusive to women. If you’re a dude and you want to go a gig with me, that’s cool. In fact, I am 100% less likely to stare at your chest if you are male. Having said that, I will treat this the way account executives in Mad Men treat auditions for underwear models, complete with lecherous comments.

Headline act Lee Mitchell was sick with flu, but we still got to enjoy the sounds of MJ Vincent, Leah McFall and Dave McNair (aka Monoline), along with a special guest DJ slot from Two Door Cinema Club.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed at The Black Box, Belfast in December 2010

Eilis Phillips – Oh Captain (Official album artwork)

This is technically the third time ‘Captain’ Eilis Phillips has featured in a This Is Not A Review. Those of you who actually read this shit – rather than just checking out Will’s super-cool and often-sexy artwork – might remember that last year I told you about her in this article. What no one could possibly have known, though, is that she actually featured as a character in one of my stories, way back in ’09. No, folks, I was not lucky enough to secure a date with her. Rather she was known simply has ‘the hottie in the red dress’ in this article.

[Editor's Note: Let the record show that I am currently face-palming.]

Since back then I didn’t have the balls to approach her, and last year I did, one might be forgiven for thinking I had made some progress as a human being. And you would be right. My alcoholism has indeed progressed considerably, and when I bumped into her during her set in The Kitchen Bar one boiling hot Sunday, I did introduce myself and despite my drunken rumblings (huh? Huh?) she was very nice to me. After our meeting, convinced I should spread the word, I got up on my soapbox and in between restaurant recommendations, I summoned up these words of wisdom: ‘I was honestly impressed by Eilis, even though it’s not usually my sort of music, I think she’s going places.’ Man, the banality is painful. Made all the more so when Eilis immortalised the words on her Reverb Nation profile. By God, she deserved a more enthusiastic recommendation than that! Not only does it make me sound like a boring fuck, it’s the sort of compliment that sounds vaguely patronising. Like telling a fat chick she has a nice rack, because you have to say something nice. And hell, it’s true. This is a wrong I have been meaning to right for some time, and recently, I got my chance. You see, I wasn’t just ‘honestly impressed’ by Eilis – she knocked my fucking socks off. So here, just for a change, this is a review.

There were a number of highlights of 2010 for me. Like that day I found a fiver, for instance. I’d say one of the top ones, though, would have to be arriving at Eilis’s album launch party and getting a copy of her album Oh Captain for free, because I claimed press credentials. I recently wrote to Lemmy, citing the same credentials and requesting a free copy of the new Motorhead album, but I haven’t heard back yet. Anyway since this will probably be the closest I ever come to feeling like a half-legitimate writer, I’m going to hang on to it like a starved cat with a wounded pigeon and so folks, this is my attempt at a real music review, since it’s the least I can do.

[Editor's Note: If I were you I'd quit now and just send Eilis a cheque for the money owe her.]

You know that part in the film High Fidelity when the really cool singer gives John Cusack a copy of her album and it totally rocks his world? That’s been me for the last couple of weeks. Seriously, I even started wearing questionable sweaters and making top five lists of everything. See, I’m just not good at staying up to date with new music. That’s strictly Will’s territory, and one just does not invade Will’s territory. That’s why they call him ‘The Jaguar’.

[Editor's Note: That's not why they call Will 'The Jaguar'.]

[What? Well then why do they call... Oh. Ohhhhhh! Now it all makes sense.]

Anyway The Jaguar keeps his finger on the pulse of new local music, and does a damn fine job of it. I, on the other hand, think I’m a music buff because I have Springsteen’s Tunnel Of Love album. So there is a natural excitement for me when I luck upon a really cool indie artist who is clearly on their way up. It’s like staying up all night to catch a movie you’ve never heard of on Channel 4.

[Editor's Note: Sometimes you accidentally end up seeing disturbing European soft-core porn?]

It’s rewarding because not only does it remind you that there is a whole world of awesome music out there beyond the stuff you’ve heard of, and because there is some sense of accomplishment in having ‘discovered’ it. If you have ever talked to someone who was listening to the Chili Peppers before Under The Bridge, you will have witnessed this in their smug, smug smile. I’m not quite hip enough to ever cultivate a smile that smug, but just this once let me be the cool guy turning you on to a really cool new album you probably haven’t heard of.

Eilis doesn’t just have a fantastic voice. And she’s not just a super-versatile Dave Grohl-esque musician. She’s also a kick ass lyricist with a whole bunch of really clever songs, whether she’s singing about space and time, or just some unusual character, it’s about as far from cliched song-writing as it gets. The subject matter would seem out of place on a more textbook singin’ and strummin’ album, but the whole sound is entirely original, with some unusual phrasing – both musically and vocally – and just enough pop sensibility to prove she knows a thing or two about crafting a song. The result is that most elusive of creatures – an album with a true and original voice that isn’t swallowed in the din of same-sounding indie music, nor hidden by the cloak of inaccessible folk.

[Editor's Note: The cloak of inaccessible folk? Second face palm.]

But to quote one of the songs on the album, I’m beginning to sound like a broken record. I’m just no good at this academic critically writing (just ask any of my former uni tutors), and I can’t think of sufficient hyperbole to do the album justice, so I’ll just give up on the bullshit and say it the way I normally would. Plain. Fucking. Awesome.

Now there’s an endorsement worthy of her homepage.

[Editor's Note: Pity your language makes it essentially unusable.]

Check Eilis out here:

www.myspace.com/eilisphillips
www.reverbnation.com/eilisphillips

And you can buy her album here:

www.eilisphillipsmusic.bandcamp.com

To ease us in, here’s an archive piece – filmed waaaay back in 2009 backstage at Auntie Annies – its an amazing band from Saaffend, England called Baddies – and if you’re in London they’re playing a heavier version of what you see here at the Queen of Hoxton on Feb 11th.

Happy 2011!

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed backstage in Auntie Annies, Belfast in October 2009

First up, the lads have two original tracks recorded indoors by the fire, a Listen To Me and a speically written Christmas tune called Celebrate This Christmas.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

After the festive sweaters and eggnog were taken off and wore off respectively, it was time to venture into the cold snowy air of Carrickfergus, determined to find a Seasonal Winter Tree and sing some carols. I had some suggestions, but a traditional hymn won out.
We’ve seen some stinkers of trees on the TV news recently, so we were determined to find something pretty looking. Carrick didn’t disappoint. It really is quite lovely, prospective shoppers.

And after that, where else to head but the famous castle itself – for a heart stopping track Brother.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Napoleon launch their EP at Belfast’s Out To Lunch Festival on 28th January in The Black Box – where they play with Bandwidth veteran Nathaniel Rateliff. Be sure to be there.

From all at Bandwidth and from Northern Ireland, have a very happy Christmas and New Year wherever you are..

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Carrickfergus, December 2010

Your Granny may say that Christmas has become too commercial and that people have forgotten its true meaning. Well, to our mortification, we do seem to have forgotten its original meaning in Japan. Oh, please make sure your dear Granny will never read this! What do many youngsters in Japan expect from this festive season? A Christmas date– It’s time for relatively shy Japanese youngsters to ask someone out for a romantic date for the first time in their relationship history. Not religious at all but that’s at least fairly romantic? Ahem, can I interest you in a wee tour of Tokyo?

Itinerary for Boys:

You are supposed to have saved enough money to buy your girlfriend a decent dinner at an expensive restaurant as well as a sophisticated gift that has to cost you enough to convince her you are serious enough but not too serious—as she doesn’t really like to be the only one—just as yet! Having just the right touch is crucial to your success. You are also expected to be ready to take her to any of the famous Christmas spots nearby, so prepare yourself well ahead of time; it is not very stylish to consult your map on site!

The most known and popular one would be the Christmas illumination show at Tokyo Midtown, a multi-storey shopping complex in Roppongi (above), where the garden gets lit with 250,000 LED bulbs and you may be lucky enough to spot a LED shooting star that is to appear three times in 15 minutes. (Have a look at this video)

Tokyo Midtown’s Christmas slogan this year is “We’re Santa Clauses for one another!” by the way. Bring a fat purse if you can…

Itinerary for Girls:

While boys are busy saving money and being flooded with waves of information about Christmas spots, restaurants and trendy gifts (and for some ambitious ones hotel room availability as well), you girls need to concentrate on yourselves. Are you entitled to buy something new to wear for the night? Of course you are. Better try lots of new makeup stuffs? Of course! It’s Christmas!!! Shop till you drop, girls! If you like it that way, you can change the whole gigantic capital city to a costume party venue. Whatever you decide to wear, make sure it be a great craic for yourself (and optionally for your boyfriend) but not for other boys. No need to try to look sexy; that’s one of the privileges of being a Japanese girl and so far it has been working well in a strange way to impress people overseas –apparently.

Cute (or ‘Kawaii’ in Japanese) ones may always win in Japan, but “on this night, on this holy night, as long as you are a super-cute girl, you’ll be a winner, and you know that” – the advert of a big department store encourages you openly (see left image).

Hang on – actually you don’t need to go out at all. You can buy anything ON YOUR MOBILE PHONE as you always do, from cosmetics to trendy fashion items and fancy dresses. Don’t forget to bring your mobile phone to your Christmas dinner and to take as many photos to please your boyfriend.

Oh, did I tell you this already? We don’t have Christmas Holidays in Japan.

This week I wrote a restaurant review and the editor rejected it without even showing it to Will.

[Editor's Note: You wrote a four hundred word review of the Subway sandwich you had after a night on the piss and the most insightful thing you said was 'not enough pickle'.]

So the next day I woke up to a text telling me to be at the Ulster Hall as 1pm and be ready for a proper gig review. I am always suspicious when the bastards don’t give me any details but I was in no mood to argue, so I just popped a couple of Alka Seltzer in a glass of water and had some private time with an episode of Nigella’s Kitchen.

Even after another nap I still made it to the place with fifteen minutes to spare, at the expense of a shower and shave combo which, to be honest, I really could have done with. The guy at reception must have thought I was an insane person, shambling in looking like Sid Vicious and asking if there was a ticket reserved for me. There wasn’t, of course.
‘Okay I’ll just pay then. One please,’ I said.
Then a dame tapped me on the shoulder.
‘Ian?’
My first thought was shit, I’ve met this chick while drunk and now I don’t know who the hell she is. Okay that was actually my second thought. My first was holy jumping Jesus look at the tits on that. The scenario didn’t add up though, because this chick was stunning, and I would never have the balls – even when loaded – to approach such a creature. This chick wasn’t even a chick – she was a lady. How in the name of shit could I possibly know a dame like that? I was fucking petrified.
‘Yes?’ I said, hoping for a clue.
‘My name’s Charlotte. I’m a friend of Will’s.’
‘Oh…’ I said, waiting for my brain to start working again. ‘How did you know who I am?’
‘Oh Will said to look out for a grumpy looking short guy, dressed like shit. I thought he was joking at first, but he says that’s the only way he knows how to describe you.’
‘It is fairly accurate, I have to admit that.’
The guy at reception cleared his throat, obviously tired of listening to our conversation.
‘Make that two,’ I said to him. I turned back to Charlotte. ‘What is this gig anyway?’
‘Um, the Ulster Orchestra…’
And she wasn’t kidding.

‘It’s really nice in here,’ she said as we took our seats.
‘Yeah this is one of my favourite venues. I was supposed to see Airbourne here last week but they moved it. I had a balcony seat at the very front reserved and I ended up standing at the back of fucking Mandela Hall all night.’
‘That sucks,’ she said.
‘Not only that, I wasn’t allowed to drink in the concert hall. Fucking filthy heathens.’
Everything went quiet as the orchestra started to filter on to the stage.
‘I hope they play that one from the Levis ad,’ I whispered. ‘That one is badass.’
Charlotte screwed her face up, and I wasn’t sure if it was because I had said something wrong, or because I hasn’t brushed my teeth.

After the concert I asked her if she wanted to hang out a while longer and she surprised me by agreeing.
‘I can’t stay too long though,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting someone at three.’
‘No problem,’ I said, and we got a table in Harlem Cafe. I ordered a bottle of wine.
‘And what would you like?’ I asked.
‘Just a cup of tea, please,’ she said. ‘I really can’t stay long you know.’
‘That’s cool, I have to write this article when you go anyway. I like classical music but I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say.’
‘I’m sure you’ll think of something,’ she said. And then there was silence, punctuated only by my slurps of wine.
‘So what do you do?’ I said finally.
‘That’s a boring question,’ she said. ‘Ask me something interesting.’
‘Hmmm…’ I mumbled, tapping my face and looking very thoughtful.
‘Don’t think too hard now,’ she said. I was trying to think hard, but my concentration kept getting lost in her cleavage.
‘I often find it is the answer, not the question, which is truly interesting,’ I said philosophically.
‘So you can’t think of an interesting question?’
‘Nope.’
‘Well what did you like about the concert?’ she asked.
‘I liked how punctual they were. Rock bands take an awfully long time to come on. It’s like a tradition of the genre to be late. It gets old.’
‘Wow, that is maybe the most irrelevant aspect of a concert anyone could possibly single out as enjoyable,’ she said.
‘Okay, well, what do you like about the music?’
She thought for a moment and took a sip of tea.
‘I like the fact that most people couldn’t organise a pissing competition in a public toilet, but the orchestra of fifty people manages to play complex music that is not only perfectly in time, but beautiful and emotionally affecting. I like that it’s not just a ditty that sticks in your head, it’s an acquired taste that you have to work at to fully appreciate it. It’s a rewarding music. The more effort you put in, the more you get back from listening. They don’t shove it down your throat or play it so loud you can’t hear for days afterwards, because they don’t have to. There’s no stage theatrics or music videos or band merchandise. It’s just music. Music minus the bullshit. And, most importantly, it sounds so magnificent that the same song can send shivers down your spine one minute, and lull you into an almost hypnotic peacefulness the next.’
She stopped very suddenly.
‘Are you staring at my tits again?’ she asked.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t.
‘No, why would you think that?’
‘Your mouth was hanging open.’
‘That’s because I am literally in awe of you.’
This comment actually flushed a little rouge into her cheeks, and she smiled.
‘Seriously, can I write down everything you just said rather than trying to review the concert myself?’
‘Sure,’ she said. Then she looked at her watch. ‘Oops, I gotta go.’
‘Okay, can I ask you a question before you go?’
‘Are you going to ask if my breasts are real?’
‘No, that’s not it.’
‘Did you finally think of an interesting question?’
‘Depending on your answer it might be very interesting indeed.’
‘Okay go ahead.’
‘Okay, are you an incredibly intelligent and beautiful high class prostitute, hired by Will as a sort of Christmas present for me, as reassurance that despite my patchy and repetitive output, he still kinda loves me?’
She smiled and got up to put her coat on.
‘Yeah, I would say that about covers it.’
‘Shit. All I got him was a bar of novelty soap that says ‘face’ on one side and ‘arse’ on the other.’
‘You could always hire me to show him a good time,’ she said.
‘How much would that be?’
‘A lot more than an afternoon at the opera,’ she said with a wink.
‘Never mind, I’ll stick with the soap.’
‘Okay, good luck with your article.’
‘Hold on, can I ask one more question?’
She turned back.
‘Yes Ian, they’re real.’
‘Awesome!’

This was the last lunchtime concert of this year, but it will return in 2011 and I would urge you all to check it out. It’s a bloody nice way to spend an afternoon. You can find details of all Ulster Hall events here.

We had 20 minutes to spare in between soundchecks and doors opening. Fortunately, backstage at the The Empire in Belfast is.. cavernous to say the least. Cavernous and, paradoxically, crowded, as you’ll see, its easy to run into the same people more than once..

[Download Video]

Frightened Rabbit were on a short UK & Ireland tour – they’ll probably be back next year with more shows and more heartache. In the meantime, enjoy this gem..

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Sound: Joe Laverty
Filmed at The Empire, Belfast in December 2010

Boy & Bear – Rabbit Song
[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed at The Black Box, Belfast in November 2010

As you know, Bandwidth has been following Communion Belfast over the past few months, as it brings the best new music to The Black Box in Belfast city centre.

Communion Records first started this night, hand and glove with the Brighton folk-scene – and its influence stretches far and wide. Check out footage of the first ever Communion Belfast gig here and the second ever one here.

First up, a Bandwidth veteran, Andrew Davie. Check out his absolutely sensational Bandwidth session from when he was last in Belfast in September. And this time we actually got to chat with him too.

[Download Video]

Now a local lad, Gareth Dunlop, who I’ve been waiting to film for absolutely ages, and quite frankly I was disappointed in myself that I hadn’t thus far. Anyway, here he is.

[Download Video]

Now to the main attraction, Oz’s very own Boy & Bear, and could you believe it, their very first musical performance on UK soil – except for the session I filmed with them earlier of course..

[Download Video]

And.. a wee bonus. The kind thing this night is all about.. and amazing cover of a Bon Iver track…

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed at The Black Box, Belfast in November 2010

As it turns out, a show didn’t transpire for this stop of the tour – so this, as far as I know, is the known sole recorded performance of the duo in Belfast. And quite an honour too, because they are absolutely magnificent – and its crying shame that Belfast missed out on them (until now that is).

So it was a foggy cold winter day when I went to meet Sarah and Thomas at the apartment they’d found on a couch surfing website. In the kitchen we chatted about country music, movies and Minnesota’s surprising contribution to popular culture (Bob Dylan, Prince, Low, Bon Iver and, in the film realm, The Cohen Brothers). Maybe it was something about the arctic weather made them feel at home – because they seemed to channel all these musical greats over the course of that day – starting with this brace of tracks, one from Thomas and one from Sarah:

[Download Video]

Then it was from leafy Belfast suburbia to the even leafier Lady Dixon park, a few miles out of town, for a bit of ramblin’, tree spotting and some wonderfully appropriate music:

[Download Video]

Deep within the grounds of Lady Dixon there’s a Belfast version of a Japanese Zen garden. I’ve visited this garden in sunnier climes, and believe me its impressive – with water pools, lilly pads and cherry blossoms. On this muted wintery day, it was a dark dead place – and all the more dramatic for it really, not least when a gust of wind caught all the dead leaves and they all seemed to fall at once into the water during Sarah Pray’s once-in-a-lifetime ‘End Of The World’, which evoked Low in my mind again. It really did feel like the end of the world, and if I were more in touch with my fem side I would freely admit that it brought big man tears to my eyes. But yeah aye it was just a speck of dust, honest.

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, November 2010

So literally the day after the Pocket Billiards gig I awoke with a heavy head and weary legs and a mind to do nothing but have a cup of coffee and a sausage sandwich and retire back to my bed. Then I remembered I’m a bum and there was fuck all to stop me doing just that, so I did. I woke late in the afternoon and only remembered then that I had another gig to go to. And no date. The whole date idea must be getting a bit old now, but it provides 85% of the content for these things and I’m just not talented enough to give it up, so I poured my first Jack of the day and got to thinking about girls who might like country music.

They had to dig country, you see, because I was going to see Ryan Bingham. He’s a sort of modern day Steve Earle character, blending country and rock into a truly potent cocktail of musical brilliance. This is not even my usual hyperbole – this guy already has an Academy award for the song ‘The Weary Kind’, which was featured in the awesome movie Crazy Heart. I know what you’re thinking: the guy already has an Oscar and worldwide critical acclaim – surely a This Is Not A Review is kind of redundant at this point? And you would be right, but it’s all I’ve got right now okay? It was either this, or a review of new Northern Ireland based sketch show ‘LOL’, but much like the show, I just didn’t have enough material to fill the space. Don’t tell The Blender I said that.

Anyway I scanned through my contacts list in my phone and realised I only have one girl’s phone number, so that narrowed it down pretty well. I sent a text:
‘Hey mum, do you know any girls who like country music?’
A few seconds later I got one back:
‘Lol no one likes country music.’
Damn it. I poured another drink and realised this was probably going to be a lonely night, crying in my whiskey with some live country music for a change, rather than my Willie Nelson box set. Then I had an idea. A crazy idea, sure, but an idea nonetheless. Though I have never experienced the phenomenon myself, I was fairly sure men sometimes went to bars and talked women into going out somewhere with them. I had seen it done in movies, at least. In fact, I have seen it done a whole bunch of times in the best TV show of all time – Mad Men. I put the DVD on, settled down with my third drink, and tried to absorb a few tips, thinking I could just go to the bar and get a date there. Fifty minutes later I had worked my way through 3 stiff drinks and I can honestly say I have never felt so bad in all my life. There is no one in the world quite as emasculating as Don Draper, and rather than gain any insight into the world of charm and sex appeal, I had simply realised, somewhat painfully, that I would never be a resident of that particular world. I put on some George Jones and got lonesome.

I hit Katy’s around tea time and had a Guinness for dinner. I was in a proper country mood by this time, kitted out in my old faded blue jeans and my boots, and I didn’t give a shit if I found a woman or not. That’s what country music is all about, damn it. Pining for a warm body in the bed next to you while you’re out on the cold, dusty trail. I wasn’t on the trail, but it was pretty cold that night. My balls, in fact, were freezing. I was mildly alarmed by this, but decided that maybe they had simply shut down from lack of use. A warm body would have really sorted me out. Preferably a body in the shape of Gretchen Wilson. I woke out of my cowboy fantasy and decided I was tired of the alternative music, so I headed for the jukebox and looked through the country section. I picked Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show and stopped at the bar on my way back to my seat. I was about to order up a nice whiskey when some dame pushed in between me and the old geezer sitting next to me, and the bar man served her first. Normally this would have pissed me off, but by God she was singing along to Old Crow Medicine Show, and I found it hard to be angry at her. Then she did it. She grabbed my arm, noticing me for the first time, and started apologising profusely for pushing in front of me. My only half-finished pint had thrown her off, assuming I had been served. I forgave her for all the wrong reasons. And being rather tipsy, I managed to say something.
‘Don’t worry about it. You like this song?’
‘Oh yeah,’ she said.
‘I put it on,’ I said, deliberately acting very chuffed with myself.
‘Good choice,’ she said, as the bartender set her drink in front of her. I knew at this point I had maybe 3 seconds to act. Before she could hand him the note I waved my ten in front of his face and told him I’d get it, if he would get me a whiskey first. Double, if he didn’t mind. She seemed very impressed.
‘Thank you,’ she said, blushing a little bit.
‘My name’s Ian,’ I said, trying my best to channel Don and hoping that guy would hurry up with my whiskey, because I was just about running on fumes.
‘I’m Gretchen,’ she said.

[Editor's Note: Fuck off!]

Okay so her name was Tracy! I was taking certain artistic liberties to enhance the story.

[Editor's Note: You would need more than artistic liberties to enhance this fucking story.]

I managed to coax Tracy away from her friends and sat a table opposite them. I took a swig of whiskey, put my boot up on a stool, and right then realised I wasn’t channelling Don at all. I had gone full John Wayne. Her friends were a couple of hipster chicks with their (also hipster) boyfriends, and none of them seemed very impressed by me. They kept glancing over and snickering behind their hands. A bouncer walked past and told me to take my boot off the stool, which I did. Partly because my balls were still cold and the exposure wasn’t helping, and partly because he looked like a fucking silverback.
‘Listen,’ I said, getting right down to brass tacks. ‘I have a spare ticket to see Ryan Bingham in like twenty minutes. Do you want to come with me?’
She looked unsure.
‘I don’t think I know him,’ she said.
‘He’s brilliant. You’ll love him, I promise.’
‘What songs does he do?’
‘The most famous one is The Weary Kind.’
There was no recognition on her face.
‘What does he look like?’
‘Um, youngish. Kinda dresses like a cowboy. Annoyingly handsome. Beard.’
She perked up a little bit when I said that.
‘He has a beard?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure he has a beard.’
‘Hmm, okay then.’
I didn’t really understand why the beard swung it for her but by hell I wasn’t going to argue with it. She ditched her friends and we went next door.

We got a table and for a little while we talked about country music, but mostly I just let her talk, sipped my whiskey and slowly fell in love. She didn’t drink that much though, and pretty soon there was an obvious disparity in our levels of intoxication. This didn’t bother her as much as I thought it would, and pretty soon she was ferrying whiskey from the bar to me, even when she wasn’t getting a drink herself. By the time Ryan went on the place was nicely packed out and I was pretty hammered.
‘Wow,’ was all she said as we clapped him on stage.
Then right after the first song she leaned in again.
‘He’s awesome!’ she said. I smiled and I decided, sometimes life is good.

She was right, of course, he really is awesome. Despite only being 23 I already act like a curmudgeonly old fuck, complaining about music just not being the same any more, but this gig was all the evidence I needed to realise country is still going strong. It’s not strictly country music – more like country rock – but it’s still cool to see a young guy working his way up, and making good, writing country influenced music. When you hear him sing you realise there was nothing else in the world he possibly could have been, other than a singer/songwriter and despite all the young talent around, that’s still a fairly rare thing. Ryan Bingham’s voice is special, and he backs it up with some magical songwriting. On top of that he – and his band of course – really know how to rock. They balanced out the slower songs with some serious ass-kicking licks, which I admit I wasn’t expecting. I always wondered what it must have been like to see Bob Dylan play some of his early shows in the Village in New York in the Sixties, but I say without any hint of bullshit, now I probably know what it was like. I’m not predicting that Ryan Bingham will become an icon like Dylan, but the experience of hearing a fresh, ultra-talented voice in just the right setting, at just the right time is a fucking special experience, and I felt privileged to have been there. The vibe in the room left me with no doubt that everyone there shared my feelings, standing in awed silence during every song and erupting into lengthy whooping applause between every one. Were it not for Seasick Steve, Ryan Bingham would be the clear cut winner of my gig of the year, and coming from me that is high praise indeed.

About halfway through the gig, as a blissfully chilled out daze settled over the crowd, Tracy excused herself.
‘I’ll be right back – just going to the front for a better look.’
About twenty minutes later she hadn’t returned and, looking around me, I could see only tables with other lonely men sitting at them. Obviously all the other women had the same idea. I stood up and had a look towards the stage where, indeed, stood a collective of dreamy eyed women all swaying gently, transfixed by Ryan’s husky vocals. I didn’t see Tracy, but I knew she must be amongst them, so I gave it up and went back to my table and my whiskey. I finished off my drink and hung my head, realising for the second time that day that some guys have got it and some just don’t. I thought about how his having a beard seemed to be an important factor for her. It was while I was wondering how long it would take to grow a beard, I finally noticed the hole in my jeans, right between my legs. My cold balls all of a sudden making sense, I shrugged it off with typical drunken Zen-like acceptance, realising it made sense that all the women were gathered around Ryan and not me. Not only was he a cool singer, he probably wasn’t the type of guy to walk around with a fart-vent somewhere between the crotch and arse area of his jeans. I decided not to bother trying to grow a beard.

We promised to update this post every fortnight to bring you 3 amazing sessions tracks recorded earlier this year at the Safehouse Gallery in Belfast’s Cathedral Quarter.

So here it is in 3 marvellous parts:

First up, the appropriately titled Touch Of Cold:

[Download]

Here is the magnificent Watching The Stars.

[Download]

And finally, the rather epic Gloria:

[Download]

Camera: Will McConnell
Filmed at the Safehouse Gallery, Belfast, 2010

The band aren’t necessarily just quiet – even though they’re as shy and retiring as 4 early-era-Michael Stipes – but the sound they create is, in one word delicate.

It must be obvious by now that I’m totally intrigued by this band, and shall be watching their progress closely. I, as ever, urge you to give them a listen and a look.

I had the feeling listening to those demos of a still moment in the middle of a hurricane – of a whole world of shit swirling round these intelligent wee guys, and their reaction being very… quiet. That, and the fairground was in town.

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, November 2010

A popular vote will decide who receives £50,000 – so basically, between 9am and 12noon TODAY ONLY, 24 November, Oh Yeah are trying to get as many people as possible to ring a dedicated number an register their vote. With the money they’re going to build two learning suites with fancy computers in them, so a whole generation of Belfast kids can learn to be great musicians.

We owe a lot to the Oh Yeah Centre, and wouldn’t really have gotten started without them – so we got together with a lot of great locally based musicians and made this Live Aid Style video. Hopefully it gets the message across:

** TO SUPPORT OH YEAH, RING THIS NUMBER: 0871 6268 106
YOU CAN PLACE UP TO TEN CALLS – THAT’S TEN VOTES – PER PHONE. Calls are 10p from a landline **

I walked into the Bandwidth office excited at the prospect of the ‘surprise’ Will had promised me. I was sure he must have finally found the shoe I had misplaced a few days before. I was getting pretty tired of hopping around all the time.
‘Tell me you found my shoe!’ I said, breezing into Will’s office without knocking. But I wasn’t talking to Will. Will was nowhere to be seen, and there was someone new behind his desk. A little bowling pin of a man – bald as a rock and with too much fat sitting atop his little legs. He was smoking a cigar.
‘I don’t know anything about a shoe,’ he said, ‘but you’re just the man I wanted to see.’
‘Oh yeah, who are you?’
‘I’m Harold. Will’s on holiday.’
‘I’m not sure I like this,’ I said.
‘Take a seat. You’ll like it.’
I sat down and put my shoe-less foot up on his desk.

In the interest of brevity…
[Editor's Note: Ha! You?]
…I’ll just give you the gist of what had happened up until this point. Harold is some big shot businessman. He decided to buy Bandwidth off Will, whom he had sent to Maui for the week so Harold could ‘acquaint himself with the staff’. The motherfucker was weeding us out.

‘Now don’t think of this as a job interview,’ he said. ‘I just want to see everyone at work. See if there are any… changes that need made.’
‘What do you mean see me at work?’ I asked.
‘I mean I’m going to go to a show with you and see how you cover it. I want to see you in action. There is an art to writing good reviews, you know. And a business.’
‘So you’re going to be my date for This Is Not A Review?’
‘Oh no I had something much more fun in mind.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I have a couple of ladies lined up for us. You pick the show, I pick up the tab, and we’ll see if you’re up to scratch. How does that sound?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘I don’t kid, kid.’
‘Well then, Harry, I think you’ve got a deal,’ I said, and we shook on it. ‘You know Harry if you’re looking to do some streamlining, my editor is really just dead weight…’

[Editor's Note: Prick.]

The gig I chose was Pocket Billiards, at The Empire. I first saw Billiards last year at the New Moon Showcase. They closed the set, by which point I was utterly pished and ready to boogie. I don’t believe I have ever danced as vigorously as I did that night. And since then I have been hoping to catch them again, so I could do a write-up and tell you all how great they are.

I told Harry I would meet him downstairs in The Empire before the show. Since I am always early and he was fashionably late I was on number four when he finally arrived. I took one look at him, wearing what looked like a Simon Cowell Halloween costume. Then I took several looks at the two women with him, wearing what looked like clothes bought from Baby Gap. I put my drink away in one.
‘Evening Ian,’ he boomed. ‘I believe this belongs to you.’ He handed me a plastic bag. My shoe!
‘Thanks,’ I said, quickly pulling it on, hoping the women didn’t notice I was wearing my Saturday socks on Thursday.
‘Ian this is Stephanie,’ he said, motioning to the one with the big tits. ‘And this is Danielle,’ motioning to the one with even bigger tits.
‘Oh, hi,’ I muttered, trying to make eye contact and feeling like I was watching the sun set over the Mourne mountains.
‘Hi Ian,’ they said, harmonising perfectly, but somehow they didn’t sound friendly.
‘What are you drinking Ian?’ Champagne?’
‘Oh no, I don’t like champagne. I’ll just have a Jack. Double. Neat.’
‘All right,’ he said, ‘you keep the ladies company. I’ll be right back.’ And he was off for the bar. Bugger.

I looked at them both sitting there and I wondered what people ever talk about in situations like this. What exactly is the right thing to say? Am I the only person in the world who doesn’t share this skill?
‘So uh, do you know this band?’ I tried.
‘No…’ said Stephanie.
‘No…’ said Danielle.
Bugger.
Then Danielle took out her phone and started texting. There was nothing left in my glass, but I took a sip anyway. Where is he with the fucking drinks? Danielle finished texting. Then Stephanie’s phone beeped, and she started. I knew intuitively they were texting each other nasty things about me. It was horrible. I thought about pretending to text as well, but I have a really shitty phone and I didn’t want to add fuel to their judgemental text fire. Then I thought about maybe running away, but finally Harold came back with the drinks. He put my whiskey down in front of me. There was ice in it, and it clearly was not a double. Cheap motherfucker, splurging on bubbly for the dames and trying to con me out of whiskey. I must have been staring at my drink.
‘What’s the matter Ian?’ he bellowed.
‘Oh, nothing. I just don’t take ice, usually.’
‘Ah, a sophisticated man takes ice in his whiskey,’ he said. ‘Only cowboys and hobos drink it straight.’ I looked down at the scuffed boot I had just gotten back as he poured three glasses of champagne, then I put the drink away in one. All of a sudden I didn’t like this dickhead, and his pornstar lookalikes were boring me. The whiskey was obviously starting to work.
‘So Ian, say something funny. I didn’t bring these two lovelies to bore them.’
‘I’ll be right back. I’ve gotta take a piss.’ I got up before they had a chance to respond.

On my way back from the can I got myself a double, no ice, and a beer. I was in the mood for something bubbly. When I sat down they stopped talking about whatever they were talking about.
‘So Ian one thing I was thinking is your reviews are very sparse. How about taking a few photos on your phone – liven the look of the page up a bit?’
‘My phone doesn’t take photos,’ I said. There was a moment of stunned silence.
‘Oh, no problem. I’ll hook you up with one of these,’ he said, flashing his phone. ‘Shoots video too. You could put up some video clips, so people aren’t just looking at a wall of text.’
‘That’s okay, I like my phone. I’m not really in to taking photos anyway.’
‘Are you sure? This thing does everything. Sat Nav, Facebook…’
‘I’m not on Facebook,’ I said. There was a longer moment of silence.
‘Seriously?’ he exclaimed. ‘Get with the times. It’s an excellent resource for promoting yourself, getting your name out there.’ He took a sip of champagne. The girls were texting and snickering again. Maybe they were updating their Facebook pages. I poured my beer into my whiskey and took a long gulp. That got their attention. I smiled. Maybe this could be fun after all.

When I finished my drink Harold suggested we go upstairs. They had only had one glass each.
‘Aren’t you going to finish that bottle?’ I asked.
‘No, we’ll get another one up there,’ he said, and they stood up. I shrugged, grabbed the bottle and chugged as much as I could in one go. Then I burped as long as I could in one go.
‘Let’s do this shit,’ I said, and we headed for the stairs. Halfway up, I wobbled a bit.

The place wasn’t too full but Harold pushed his way to the front of the queue and started snapping his fingers at the barmaid.
‘Yo, yo,’ he kept saying. The silly twat. That annoys me almost as much as it annoys bartenders. When he finally got his champagne I got another shot and a brew and tipped, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I was with him. I joined Harold and the ditzes at their table and he insisted I take a photo of him with the two dames kissing his face. I imagine that had he requested they kiss his ass, they would have obliged just as willingly. And the photo would have come out looking about the same.
‘This article is going to be a cracker!’ he shouted. ‘Probably your best one.’ I had no idea why he thought that. My drinks were going down much faster than theirs, though, and the champagne had gone to my head. After only two glasses he was getting handsy with both dames and I was getting grumpy. I decided to have some fun with them.
‘Hey Harry,’ I slurred, ‘which one of these two do you want?’
He laughed. ‘Now you’re starting to come around, kid. I’ll have Stephanie.’
‘Which one is that?’
He pointed to Stephanie.
‘Excellent. Give me Darlene’s number.’
‘Danielle,’ he corrected me, and gave me the number.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I said, and went outside. I texted Danielle the following poem:

My darling Danielle
Your big tits are swell
But no amount of titty
Will ever make you pretty
And the truth of the matter
Is you’ll get older and fatter
Ain’t life a drag
When big boobies sag

[Editor's Note: Don't give up your day job dude.]

I went back in and sat drinking quietly. The barmaid came around collecting glasses and Henry snapped his fingers at her again.
‘Excuse me darling, could you get me another bottle of champers?’
‘Actually you’ll have to get it at the bar,’ she said.
‘Aw come on darling. With an attitude like that you’ll never make any money,’ he said, and handed her a bunch of twenties. She rolled her eyes and took them.
‘Third bottle Harry? You decided to do some real drinking?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s Danielle. All of a sudden she’s pouring it down.’
She did look quite dejected, and I almost felt bad. Obviously not a poetry fan.

The barmaid came back with the champagne and set it down without a word. As she walked off Harry smacked her on the arse and gave me a wink. I didn’t wink back. I took a drink and tried not to lose my patience. Then Pocket Billiards came on stage and ripped into their first song.
‘Oh they’re like Madness!’ he shouted in my ear. And that did it. I don’t know why because it’s not an entirely unreasonable thing to say, but I lost it. I stood up and grabbed him by the shirt.
‘Madness?’ I said. ‘This. Is. REAL SKA!’ And then I booted him in the chest, knocking him clean off his chair.
Naturally my little outburst attracted some attention, but the bouncers didn’t throw me out. I was confused at first, then I noticed the barmaid having a word with one of them, and somehow she convinced them to turf Harry out! As they dragged his bloated carcass off the two dames were suddenly very interested in me.
‘That was hot,’ said Stephanie.
‘Sorry tits,’ I said. ‘Not interested’
I headed over to the bar to get a drink and to ask the barmaid if she would let me buy her a drink some time.
‘I’ll have another Jack, please. No ice. And uh…’
She looked at me expectantly.
‘Uh, I’ll have a Becks as well.’
Well shit, this isn’t some crazy fantasy world I’m talking about!

As a white man, I can’t dance for shit. I enjoy anything that helps me forget this fact. Like whiskey, or being asleep. Sometimes, though, all I need to forget is music so good, whether or not I’m any good just doesn’t fucking matter. To quote Aerosmith, you gotta move, man. Pocket Billiards play that sort of music. Blisteringly upbeat, happy sounding music which fucking requires that everyone in the room pogo up and down and kick their feet. And that is just what everyone in The Empire did. It’s a rare thing, and a pure joy to be a part of. Locked off from a world that has no knowledge of this little room full of sweaty people dancing the night away. The sort of crowd where even a dopey eejit like me can join in without fear of ridicule. Once it started it didn’t stop, save for the occasional swig of beer to keep the buzz going. I can’t urge you enough to experience it for yourself. Pocket Billiards are fucking awesome. You could buy the album – it’s excellent – but you really should see these guys live. It’s about the most fun you can legally have in a public place.

Harold hasn’t been heard from since. We are assuming the deal to take over Bandwidth is off, after he deleted Will from his Facebook friends list.

So I thought it would be appropriate to resurrect an old Bandwidth Session once thought lost, one that always reminds me of those surprising, late, Belfast summers. It was in late 2009 and the legendary King Khan (really Arish Ahmad Khan to biography fans) was in Belfast, at the Black Box, fronting King Khan & The Shrines.

We originally recorded 2 tracks with him, one a lullaby he recorded as a tribute for his kids, and the second a cover from Mississippi John Hurt. And the perils of live recording meant that I didn’t realise until I got to the edit suite that a mic lead must have been lose or something, because no useable sound had been coming through. So that one went in the ‘IN’ pile and inevitably got buried in more pressing issues.

But a good track is still a good track – and there was one good track in there – a rare and sweet session with Khan, playing a beautiful track, again a lullaby, by a country blues legend, called Aint No Tellin.

So here it is in all its glory:

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed in Belfast, October 2009

Communion Records first started this night, hand and glove with the Brighton folk-scene – and its influence stretches far and wide. Last month, Communion came to Belfast for the first time – check out our footage of that gig here.

First up, Stephen E. Caswell of Lowly Knights fame.

[Download Video]

Rams’ Pocket Radio‘s Peter McCauley:

[Download Video]

Maguire & I

[Download Video]

Camera/Edit: Will McConnell
Filmed at The Black Box, Belfast in October 2010

‘Cash rules everything around me
Cream, get the money
Dolla’ dolla’ bill ya’ll’

C.R.E.A.M – Wu Tang Clan.

I am not a film snob. This should come as no shock to anyone who read my ravings about Piranha 3D, but I still feel the need to assert this point, because people so often mistake taste for prejudice. I don’t dismiss a film, or anything for that matter, for being low-brow. Low-brow is just fine. And so is high-brow. And so are brows of average height. Despite this though, I do have opinions about movies and literally until today, I could never quite generalise what it is about the movies I don’t like that makes me… not like them. And then it struck me. Lightning, that is. Zapped me clean out of my fucking shoes and deposited me in the gutter outside a bar. When I came around my face was charred and my hair was standing on end and by God if there was ever a time when a man’s nerves needed calmed, it was right after every nerve ending in that man’s body was just jangled loose by a few thousand volts from the sky. So I went in to the bar and sat down. The bartender gave me a funny look, which I put down to my looking like I just tried to dig a piece of wheaten bread out of a toaster with a fork.

‘What’ll be be?’ he asked.
‘Give me a Midleton. Double,’ I said. I figured a near death experience justified a little extra expenditure. Plus I still wasn’t sure that I wasn’t going to die at any moment, and I wanted my last drink to be something good. He gave me a look that said he was impressed and poured it for me. I took a sip and smacked my lips. Lovely. And that’s what did it. That’s when I realised what it is that sets some things apart from others.

Midleton is a rare Irish whiskey, which retails at about £90 a bottle and and it is, to be blunt, the dogs bollocks. But expensive is irrelevant in matters of quality. If the only thing that mattered about movies was how much they cost, James Cameron would be the greatest director of all time. As you can see here, I don’t think that at all. And the fact that it’s rare isn’t the thing either. Sure, there are lots of films that no one has ever heard of that are awesome, but there are lots of movies as ubiquitous as my beloved Jack Daniels, and I love them just as much. What it is, I decided, is intent. Maybe motivation is a better word. Whatever the ‘thing’ in question is, the aspect that most dictates its quality is the motivation, or intent, of the person making it. This is not a revelation I am willing to take full credit for, since what I’m essentially getting at is the well known idea that commercialism never produces anything of quality. I will take it a little further, though, and say that even if the motivation is not monetary, it might still produce shit. When Paranormal Activity 2 came out I did not think ‘Cool, there’s a sequel to that movie I liked,’ I thought ‘Oh look, a cash-in on that movie I liked. Bet it’s not as good.’ And I was right. The sequel is actually well-made. It’s not a travesty. But the magic is gone, and it’s just not as good. And the reason is, the motivation for that movie was, simply, money. When the studio saw how much money the first film made, we were GUARANTEED a sequel because they were GUARANTEED to make money off it. That’s called cashing-in, and as much as I hate it, I accept it as a way of the Hollyworld, and try not to let it annoy me too much. It’s the same reason Tesco value scotch is fucking horrid and Johnny Walker Black is delightful. Intent. Motivation. Sure, Johnny Walker wants to make money selling his whiskey, but his intent when making the whiskey is to make a good whiskey. And he knows if he succeeds, people will buy it and make him money. Tesco doesn’t give a shit about making good whiskey. Tesco just wants to make money. And Tesco knows there are enough people out there who either have no sense of taste, or are too flat broke to be concerned with buying good whiskey. They know if they just make it cheap and sell it cheap, people will buy it. Well studios in Hollywood are very similar to Tesco. They control almost everything, and most of the people working there are fucking idiots.

[Editor's Note: Says the guy who works in a chocolate shop.]

However, this premise does not cover the films that are not made just to turn a profit, and still suck. Again, it comes down to intent. Think about all the times you have seen someone try to be funny and fail miserably.

[Editor's Note: Let me just scan back through the This Is Not A Review archive.]

Chances are, the person was ‘trying too hard’. Really what the person was doing was saying something in the hope that by making people laugh, those people would like him/her. The person’s intent was wrong. If the person tried to make the joke good, the way they try to make good whiskey at Midleton, the joke, like the whiskey, would speak for itself. Same goes for movies. If the people making a film are accomplished but ‘trying to hard’ – to impress people, or to win awards, or whatever – the film will probably suck. And this is the revelation that came to me: the intent is what dictates the outcome.

[Editor's Note: I hate to sound like a nine year old but, 'Duh!']

This is not actually as obvious as it sounds, but it explains so much. It explains how people with great voices can go on X-Factor, win legions of fans, sell millions of records, and never once come close to performing – much less writing – a good song. It explains why established, respected actors and directors very often make terrifically shitty movies. It explains why nearly every time you go to see a sequel you come out thinking ‘It just wasn’t as good.’ Of course there are exceptions, as people so often love to point out in these cases. I can almost hear some motherfucker shouting ‘what about Godfather Part 2?’ but the rule holds for so many examples it would be hard to argue against. It even explains why there are so many people who are total fucking assholes and yet, lots of people seem to like them. They are liked because their intent is to be liked, not because they are genuinely good people. Movies like Saw 3D get to be number one in the box office, not because they are genuinely good movies, but because they were made with the intent of selling lots of tickets.

This revelation, like so many I have, boils down to one simple, irrefutable fact about life: people are fucking stupid. The majority has no fucking taste, it’s a fact. Dickheads have friends and shitty movies make lots of money. There’s no changing it. But don’t add to the problem. Don’t be like these people. Mediocrity sails a ship flying red flags and if you learn to spot them you can avoid the crap and go straight for the quality stuff. Next time you see a movie trailer, take a second to think about the intent. Eight times out of ten you will realise the only motivating factor for the film being made was to sell you a fucking cinema ticket. The other two times though, that’s when someone just might have set out with only one goal in mind – to make the best movie he/she possibly can – regardless of how popular it will be.

That’s when the magic happens, folks, and when it does, it makes all the soulless, commercial horseshit bearable. Even soulless, commercial horseshit of this magnitude…

No matter what they tell you, the people who made this film were NOT trying to make a good documentary. At best they were trying to make money. At worst they were trying to make people like me find a shotgun and take the easy way out.

Babysweet Sessions’ very awesome documentary about Two Door Cinema Club has been on the band’s site for about a week and a half now.

Babysweet is of course the superhero alter ego of Gregg Houston and Hannah Vincent. The documentary is called You Think You Know, You Don’t Know and it was shot in Paris in February 2010.

I was honoured to collaborate on the shooting of it, and followed Gregg and Hannah over to France where we took a lot of photos and I ate a heart shaped brie. I even have a cameo in there.

So Kick back and enjoy:
http://www.twodoorcinemaclub.com/documentary/

This is our 3rd collaboration, after the highly appreciated 2008 video for Evening Angels Gather Here, and 2009′s Valentines Day Session, which kind of started this whole Bandwidth Session business off really.

Oh and there’s the small matter of the Christmas 2009 Bandwidth mix tape – which was curated by Deci Gallen, the JBs frontman. So. Go and check that out please.

So, yes, The Jane Bradfords, Judicial Duel – the best song ever written about the struggle to recognise civil partnerships. Really.

[Download Video]