Michael Gira's God Complex

I wrote a couple of articles for the University paper/website. After a couple of meetings and unreturned emails and responses that were unforthcoming, I can only assume that they've gone cold on my articles or me - or are simply snowed under with work. Anyway, here is something I wrote about Swans and Xiu Xiu. The tone is more for unfamiliar readers, but I can't be bothered changing it.

Some people love a good lyric. They have them permanently inscribed on their bodies. They whisper them to loved ones in the dark of the night. They stand in for philosophical conceits, political persuasions, and often negotiate the complex space between real feeling and articulation. Me, I usually couldn't care less; it's often just arbitrary condensed syntax that really doesn't mean that much.

Occasionally, lines will snake around your heart, or somewhere a little more cerebral, to take hold. To wit:

“I work hard for everything I own. Everything I own chokes me when I'm asleep.”
“Out of your mind with whorishness, incredibly young, incredibly filthy.”
“Break into the children's hospital screaming 'don't fuck with me! Don't fuck with me!”
“Cut out the infection. Beat up the violator. Gag him, then screw him down.”
“The oil is black and it is thick. Sex is a void filled with plastic.”
“This is the worst vacation ever. I am going to cut open your head with a roofing shingle.”

No, they don't scream 'party' to me either. They're dark, concerned with the grotesque and the violent, attempting a frustrated, futile malediction against a clustering blackness. Against the backdrop of the radio and the overwhelming banality of UK indie's proud underachievers, these are simply words that stand out; be they good or bad.



In the back catalogues of their writers (respectively: Swans, Xiu Xiu, Xiu Xiu, Swans, Swans, Xiu Xiu) these are not necessarily the best, the most novel, or potent examples of their craft. Their words are repulsive because things are awful. This is the world we live in; not that Usher and his ilk Eurodancing their way to the club are not in the same world. It's just that while the world sees Justin Bieber performing 'Baby' inside to a rapt audience, Xiu Xiu's Jamie Stewart sees the barmaid molested in the back-room, the CCTV mysteriously malfunctioning for that day only, the music drowning out the cries. Tell me that it wouldn't happen. Tell me that it hasn't happened already.

In February, Xiu Xiu released their seventh LP, entitled Dear God, I Hate Myself. Fluttering, high drama vocalisms take centre stage against a shifting palette of cold synthesiser, unsympathetic mechanic percussion and abrasive string stabs. The tension is sometimes too much to take: Stewart's vocal tightrope-act balances every track in a state of unremitting drama, a house of cards awaiting the merest zephyr to break the tension. And it never comes. There is no catharsis.

September brought the twelfth LP by Swans, My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky, an audience-funded effort to kick Michael Gira's long-running project back into gear after a decade-long absence. Gira, a singular entity in a world of indiscernibles, would take to the stage in the early '80s and order the back door be bolted and the lights turned off but for a single spotlight. The band would unleash unmitigated chaos, deafening bass thrums and atonal guitars that have more in common with the scrapyard than the stage. As their 1990 live album recalls, Anonymous Bodies In An Empty Room, just before a period of mellowing.



My Father... attempts a clever balancing act between the remorselessness of the visceral and physical Swans and some more overtly melodic, sweeping styles, mostly pulled off to great aplomb. Where Jamie Stewart is a histrionic tenor, Michael Gira is a grave and impassive baritone. If most artists were to announce that a key track on their upcoming record was a seven-minute mini-epic about their daughter, it'd be time to line-up the sick bags. The first four minutes of 'Inside Madeline' batter the listener so thoroughly that the rays of sunshine peeking through at its conclusion are easy to miss.

What is signicant here, then? That these are two albums deep into each band's career whose lyrics reveal their treacly-black auteurs to be fundamentally moralist flaneurs: maybe not Christian by self-identfication, but certainly by de facto action. Those lyrics up there: they're not for kicks or to try and play to the kind of sicko who'd get off on them. Swans and Xiu Xiu have spat naked nihilism in their audience's faces for years now and some of them still don't get it, much like semi-racist Little Englanders don't get Alf Garnett. Now they're spelling it out for us. They inhabit the same moral sphere as Justin Bieber and his exhortations to just 'love you, girl', even though against the banality of the radio, you wouldn't quite notice.

Records of the year: Sharpie Crows: Mass Grave/Golf Course

Firstly: Mass Grave/Golf Course is a phenomenal name for an album; conceptually, syntactically, juxtapositionally, comedically; it just works. It somewhat spoils the party when you understand that Mass Grave and Golf Course are the names of two separate EPs, but if you download one from their Bandcamp page, you get the other bundled in. Hence: Mass Grave/Golf Course. Besides, the artwork all but confirms it.



Cursory listens to older material show the Crows have made a leap into leftfield, swimming forcefully out of the shallows of vaguely garage-y post-punk and into a deeper ocean pitched in the weirdnesses of the San Francisco scene of the early '80s, some Texas art-trash, and perhaps the spirit of countrymen such as The Dead C and The Clean (if not their actual sound). This might sound tenuous and idiotic, but let me try this on paper: the accent and vague 'experimental' tendencies make Liars the first point of comparison, but they do not sound like Liars. However (and this is the big leap of faith) - it sounds like something Liars might attempt in a parallel universe, were they suburban rather than cosmopolitan.

When the band 'rock' they sound more than fine: you imagine that live, they would be completely unhinged. However, it is their slower, more expansive material that satisfies more completely: 'Communist Girls' is the sound of stumbling home, the air hitting the drunken in a burst of badly-directed anger, frustration and bullshit ("do you know what I did today? / I fucked a head of state today.") before arriving home and sobering regretfully. Better still is 'Country Music': airlocked, disembodied, and full of disquiet. "How can we make country music / when there's no country anymore?" they ask, sounding as if they genuinely want to know.



What the album signifies, more than its own excellence (which it absolutely is: consistently across 11 tracks) is the triumph of the democratised unsigned act. Everything is self-generated: the art, the recording, the image and thus retains 100% of its intended characteristics; the band as true auteur.* They'll probably never tour outside of their own continent, but at least we can hear them as quickly, freshly, and in context as their local fans can. The album costs about £2.30/$3.80US. Whether 'the Radiohead model' works for smaller bands is yet-to-be-proven, but at least they can compete musically.

*I know, this has happened for years - but now on microscopic budgets it sounds as good as records you buy in the shops that cost five or six figures to make, ordinarily.

4.48 Psychosis: ADC Theatre, Cambridge

Art In Macro is back with a minor redesign (a template) and some new content. Some of the old content has been axed too. Yes, because it was rubbish. There will be more frequent updates that are shorter as well as an approximately quarterly piece that threatens to stretch beneath the southern boundary of you screen

Today’s review is of the performance of 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane at the ADC Theatre in Cambridge. What immediately follows is a brief interpolation about why, in spite of minimal theatre-going experience, Art In Macro is reviewing plays. Skip the next bit text to get to the review.
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In sentient adult life I have been to fewer than a dozen plays. Why? I am exactly the sort of person who should go to the theatre. It plays to my respective enjoyment of acting, literature, immediacy, and art. So why is the sum total of my theatre-going experience as an undergraduate a performance of Waiting For Godot with Coronation Street’s Roy Cropper (David Neilson) as Lucky?

Primarily it is about expense. The days of subsidized troupes and theatres are disappearing. You have to be a particularly hardened and embattled soul if you are to regularly stump up £10+ to see something that you can’t own later, that might not be good, that could potentially offend and challenge your understanding of previously cherished text. At least the similarly-priced record and DVD have a repeatability clause built-in. And at least the large touring rock band allows the opportunity for the audience member to come alive, be semi-interactive, and to consume several flagons of draught.

There were never any regrets about those few times I did pay the requisite for a play. And whilst I don’t have the experience to fully separate what makes a production first-rate from one to hate, the weary cynicism of the post-modern/late-capitalist voracious culture-consumer with a mouthpiece (e.g. this blog) is a transposable mode. I am writing as a dilettante to speed my passage into understanding; trying to make sense of things I do not fully understand without recourse to textbooks, theoreticians, and naysayers. Anyway: on with the show.

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4.48 Psychosis – Cambridge ADC Theatre
23rd October 2010

Pitched somewhere between Beckett (formal abstraction, the decomposition of semantics, an almost percussive dialogue) and Plath (despair expressed through snakish – almost primal – monologuing, depression as anger) is 4.48 Psychosis. The director’s notes claim it is not ‘a play purely about depression’ but ‘a cry for love and human connection’. All very well and noble, but ultimately begging a question about why the protagonist (The Lover) hates everyone, including those who attempt to love her?

The Lover is depressed beyond tears, a tiger set loose to live with humans, occasionally benign and self-concerned but mostly filled with incomprehension and an inability to communicate terms which might assuage her. Nothing is ever good enough. The Partner tries anger, calmness, aping The Lover’s rhetorical devices, and just about everything he understands within his power but comes up short. The Doctor attempts to retain a professional impassivity, treating The Lover like a problem rather than a human. The Lover sees this as impersonal and dehumanizing, herself as vehicle for pharmaceutical neutralizing. The Doctor does care; when she takes off the professional mask to reveal herself, The Lover understands the necessity of the object/subject relationship, how social and professional boundaries cannot be transcended. It kills her.

The acting is good throughout. Hannah Wildsmith is perhaps too young, unravaged, and restrained to be The Lover, giving some of the angrier moments the same kind of forearm-to-forehead tendency of the period drama rather than the modernist nerve-jangler. Nonetheless, her smooth, clear-headed soliloquies highlight the patterns that repeat and fold in on themselves later, crushing her under her own rhetoric (appropriate, considering her fate). Archie Preston is similarly fine as The Partner, requiring the greatest range, attempting a light (“RSVP? ASAP?”) that contrasts jarringly with the near treacle-black of the denouement. Best of all, or at least the most convincing, is Nikki Moss as The Doctor. She is a blank page, phlegmatic in that way doctors have to be to preserve their own sanity (irony probably unintentional from Kane). Clipped and distant, yet her notes grant her omnipresence.

The direction is surefooted throughout, with minimal stage set-up to let the actors act and the words breathe. Sound and lights offer subtle tonal shifts; the overriding impression leaves you with no doubt that all concerned have extracted all they can from this play.

All said, it is the play itself that is the most problematic aspect of the production. Endless debate could be devoted to this topic, though to cut a long story short, it appears to valorize the plight of the depressed and somewhat elevate their status to nihilist-visionary. The Lover (difficult not to read as an allegory for Sarah Kane herself, in light of her suicide before this play reached the stage) laments pills and medication as curtailing the higher functions of her brain, when it is pretty clear to see that the higher functions of her brain are misfiring, her synapses prone to influencing angry, awkward bursts of dialogue that make living and supporting a person in that state totally fucking impossible to deal with. Of course, Kane attempts to pre-empt such readings, but these are the moments that feel the most forced.

Funny People and the rise of the insider film

There are films about love written and produced by some of the most loveless people you could ever hope to meet. There are films about death written by people who have never experienced it in the family or friends. There are films about racial tension written by some of the most privileged around. But when it comes to films which mock the pretensions and politics of entertainment industry insiders, I tend to believe those the most. You write what you know, and in some cases, this is all some people know.

One such film is Funny People, which depicts the life of struggling and successful people in and around Hollywood's comedy scene. This is not a bad film, so please do not read on if you are expecting a humorous panning. It is frequently funny (though notably not-so-much in the stand-up comedy scenes which deign to give the film some kind of authoritative voice) and contains a good half-dozen memorable characters engaging in a not-too-unrealistic series of events. If that isn't praise, I don't know what is.



What it absolutely is is a mess. A confused hurricane of ideas that don't all quite pay off. For instance: I like a lot of music, so when I have a band, there's not this idea of 'oh, we will sound like this or that'. We will begin as a style (let's say energetic post-punk) and then I will bring a song that sounds slow and sad and perhaps a little bit country. This may be a contributing factor toward none of my bands being successful and quite jarring. It doesn't all quite fit – but that's ok, because all I ever was was some dude in a bar. Judd Apatow was 41 with a lot of money at his disposal. There are moments in this work that are pure Curb Your Enthusiasm-style improv. That will sit next to a glossy hi-def/tightly-scripted scene of emotional outpouring. The cinematography is similarly disjointed, as is its observation of certain maxims such as the 30-degree rule, moral consistency of characters and their ability to flip between sincerity and joking.

Adam Sandler plays the version of himself his detractors hold true: a decent comic, inexplicably likeable, who has made a barrel of money playing the kook in increasingly inane and flimsy comedy films – who is now Sad and Alone (and dying). It's a believable premise. RZA, he of Wu-Tang fame, plays a man who works in a salad bar and is happy with it. It is not a believable premise. It is not a believable premise because it is OBVIOUSLY RZA and this film wants you to recognise this as much as it wants you to be familiar with Adam Sandler and his personal story. Somewhere in the middle is Jason Schwartzmann, who is believable as a smug, shallow bedder of the opposite sex, but is not believable as an actor of a desperately uncool sitcom, being the man in Hollywood who has landed on his feet the most times ever.

And as a brief aside, looking for a good female character? Well, there aren't any. There's a pretty lazy “fuck-this-chick omg-i-wanted-to-fuck-that-chick-how-could-YOU-fuck-that-chick-dude-hey-man-if-you-don't-fuck-this-chick-then-i'm-gonna” going on that is gross and weird and the more I think about it could bring the whole film down. Of the five women I can remember with speaking parts, two are 'starfuckers', one is Sarah Silverman (playing herself as comedy insider), and two are main characters – one that Schwartzmann & Rogen have the aforementioned 'dialogue' about, who fulfils the indie-film sex object du jour role well – and the girl that is the object of a tug of love between Sandler and a hilarious Eric Bana that the film can't decide whether she's dreadful and only in love with someone because of mitigating factor X – or whether she's The Woman We All Secretly Want. Ugh.

And maybe this confusion in characterisation is deliberate, a comment – but I can't see it – not when the film contains sage advice spoken by Eminem, playing a version of himself as sage giver of advice caught in the role of celebrity he never wanted. All these scenes do, with moments where we are intimate with some of the world's most recognisable people, whether they are 'real' or 'comic', is add weight to the film's status as 'insider'. That's why it contains so many men of status.



The classic touchstone for such movies would be Robert Altman's The Player, the king of insider movies, not only apes industry mores and dialogue, but pays homage to movies and directors of the past. But recent years have seen television and films that also attempt to show the inside world of 'the industry'; Entourage, Action, The Critic, The Larry Sanders Show, Moving Wallpaper, Boogie Nights, Lost in La Mancha, Man Bites Dog. A whole series of Seinfeld is given over to this; we can even stretch back farther to Dziga Vertov, Michael Powell, Hitchcock and Fellini. Even now, as I write, the episode of Glee quipped “you need to do a real investigation. I'm taking CSI-real.”

Which kind of throws contemporary television into a series of post-modern conundra – about the way that they are contained by and almost cannot exist without reference to the issues they comment on. Film is eating itself. We're not just talking simulacrum and versions of reality. We're talking about the future of art as a landscape whose entire series of reference points is simply other art.

That is exactly what Funny People is. Every scene does not simply stand for itself or its place in a narrative – but for its place outside the film as well, about its relationship to what you know about the actors and their lives, the conventions of plot, etc. And you might say “well, nothing new there, asshole – musicals are totally knowing and people just dance and know routines.” The inherent post-modernism of musical-theatrical performance at least serves to propel the plot. The post-modernism of Funny People serves to say 'Hey. We're being post-modern. We know what this is.” And it's kind of boring. And smug. And massively self-serving.



Fortunately there's enough of a film hanging out in close proximity to these instances (it's long enough) to make it worth a watch. And it's nowhere near as problematic for reality as The Hills – and it's pretty funny. But post-modern looks at the inside of things have sidelined music, movies and TV for long enough. It's time to get back to talking about things.

Crystal Antlers / Mt. Eerie live

Not together. That would be weird, right? First update for a while, this coincides with the first gigs I've been to in a while and the first tumblr posts I made in a while and the first time I stepped outside to breathe oxygen that did curl back to my face and say "do your fucking dissertation you fuck". So I did. I make no apologies. Sorry.

In reverse chronological order, Crystal Antlers. Saw these dudes at Retro Bar about a year and a half ago early in their hype cycle. Lot of thin kids, pouters, fake glasses, the weird child-like dress sense. Blog readers, basically, hypists. Second time they played I couldn't afford it - £14! OK, you get Ariel Pink and Ponytail thrown in...still, doesn't mean I had the dollar. Heard that place was rammed.

It's pretty clear the hype and memory-purge has done for CA's momentum a bit. There were about as many people there as there were as the first time, and my friend and I were the only repeat offenders. Still, can't keep a good band down. Before the review, a picture that makes them look like just another bunch of dudes spanking their planks.

Shirtless drummer! Singing bass player! Incongruously hot keyboardist! Even a Bez figure! Lesser bands would embody these terrible clichés, even revel in them. Fortunately for Crystal Antlers, their talent is so high that they completely transcend these semiotic nightmares.

So, young rock fan, pick a decade and Crystal Antlers will pay homage. '50s? They have the blue-eyed pop nouse. '60s? Chaotic garage mayhem. '70s? A double-helping of California slack and Grand Funk bass. These guys obviously have heard the Dischord roster from the '80s, and throw the whole fat lot in with the healthy post-modernism of the '90s to now.



The sum of these influences is a brave band, willing to put three-minute reverb-crazy ballads like 'Andrew' next to the depraved psych trawl of 'Parting Song for the Torn Sky'. They largely ignore their own debut LP Tentacles, which was entirely brilliant, but got insulted on blogs owned by people with no taste anyway. Assholes.

It doesn't matter, because Crystal Antlers are survivors. The new stuff pops, the old stuff rocks, and even if Sound Control this evening is doomier and whiter than Edward Scissorhands' hiding place, you can't stop a band from doing it, not when they're this good.

Mt. Eerie then. This was a few weeks ago, I am afraid I cannot recall the date. Last time I saw Phil, he was cross-legged playing fey acoustic stuff, at a time when I didn't really want that kind of stuff. His fans aren't really my kind of people either; there's always this ultra-reverential atmosphere that I can barely resist farting throughout.

His last couple of releases have certainly been interesting, and I think I recognise in him what he's trying to do: get in touch with that 'wood spirit' that lies at the heart of 'black metal', rather than the corpse-paint and spikes and the blasphemy. There are certain chords that are deep and true and quite primal and it would be interesting to see if Mr. Elvrum, famed maker of melancholic acoustic albums, could successfully find his inner metal without resorting to hideous riffola and elven lore.

Not enough rock shows are funny. They're all ultra-serious, this-is-my-art kind of events, which is wholly appropriate for some, but some dudes could just do with treading on a rake once in a while.

Mt. Eerie are funny. Not in a way that makes them novelty, or silly, or make their music less pure, maaaaaan - but funny in a way that makes lead Eerie Phil Elvrum seem like more of a human and less of a phallus-toting rock bloke.

Before we discuss Mt. Eerie's humour, let us discuss No Kids, the support band AND backing band for Mt. Eerie. Sassy blue-eyed pop nuggets played by Games Workshop nerds, a twinkle in their eyes, they create the irresistible urge to dance. They're fun and sexy, but safe for pre-teens.



In their guise as axe-wielders for Mt. Eerie, they are transformed. Phil corpses. "We're going to play 10 to 11 rock songs. Have fun." Then the first chord hits. BAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMM. It's like being sideswiped by a Ford Cortina. The half-dozen or so cute, vegan, PETA-friendly, expensively dishevelled humans on stage launch into a skewed version of metal culled from the darkest forest in Norway. I laugh. My friend laughs. Many people look disheartened. Kaufman is alive! They keep this shtick up. It's brilliant. I want to mosh but there are people typing VERY HARD into their Blackberries.

They ease off the MetalZone pedals to play some gorgeous stuff, some from the Microphones days and some just as effortlessly good as he's always been, whatever the band name. This pleases all until one last ride to Valhalla, guitar raised uncynically aloft, crashing through the enchanted night. Hilarious, man. Brilliant.

TWO BITS OF SPOON

First the album, the only record thus far that I have reviewed by listening to it on Spotify. It's probably the future of record-sending; a resource to stream music. Add in some codes and some threats about recording and the industry probably save a ton on promos.

I've been a fan of the band since I saw them in 2005, and even though I am conscious of their status as an indie vanguard band du jour, I can't help but feel they're the one band whose imminent acceptance by FM radio would be a totally welcome and ideal thing.

First, their new LP...

Spoon, Transference

That's the problem with the kids these days: no consistency. The Strokes lost their magic formula as soon as they found it. The Libertines might have done it had they not irritated Her Majesty's finest so much. Oasis and Blur; familiar stories of fighting and drugs. Thank ye gods for Spoon, as dependable and upright as the utensil they're named for, provided Uri Geller is safely outside a 50 mile radius.



Transference, the Austin quartet's seventh, continues in the mutual quest to be the best band that nobody will ever hear. Initially appearing to be their signature mix of loping, sarcastic funk, songwriting that would shame the Brill Building's finest and dubby production tricks, Spoon have subterfuge on their agenda. They invert the symbols that made previous long-players such romps; the repetition seems threatening rather than a call to party. The flickers of echo sound like madness in the dark rather than intimate or loving. There's something of the night about the whole affair.

Closest to the Spoon of old are the singles; 'Written in Reverse' struts along unimpeded, 'Got Nuffin' stomps like Northern Soul and 'The Mystery Zone' manages to leave you demanding more from a one-note bassline. Even the stuff that is a progression or a deconstruction of the previous tropes are delivered with the same cocksure confidence as ever. Even Britt Daniel's pen is refusing to fail him (“I've seen it in your eyes / there's nothing there.”).

If you've ever sat around thinking 'why isn't there some kind of mid-point between the best of indie-rock, soul music and pop, preferably something timeless-sounding without any overplaying or grandstanding emotional outpourings' then you should probably check out Spoon. They're on a helluva run, they put on a great rock show and on form like this, they don't know how to make a bad record. Transference isn't the best starting point (2007's Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga is), but it's a great place to wash up.

...and then live on the tour to support it.

Spoon / White Rabbits @ Academy 3
15th February 2010

Five years ago, the Spoon live experience was all about economy. Stripped back, no effects, they pumped out hit after hit after hit without as much as a by-your-leave. They still do the latter, make no mistake. Except now, they're more ambitous; they stretch things out, add and take away, entirely confident that at the core of each number is a Fundamentally Good Thing. And they'd be right.



Seven albums in, they're armed to the teeth with savvy indie-pop-soul-rock nuggets. Their secret? Don't do too much. No one in Spoon ever overplays. A keyboard line could be one or two notes, but they make all the difference. The bassline to 'The Mystery Zone' is one single note, repeatedly jabbed, and it's absolutely fantastic.

It'd be unfair to pick highlights, so to arbitraily pick songtitles off the setlist: 'I Saw The Light' has two parts: great and greater. 'Rhythm and Soul' is the best pop song you didn't hear in the '00s. 'Written In Reverse' will probably be the best pop song you didn't hear this decade. 'The Ghost of You Lingers' recasts German titans Neu! minus their cerebral tendencies in a fairly heartstopping performance. There are no clunkers. It's home run after touchdown after goal after slam dunk all around.

Support act White Rabbits are something of a Spoon Jr; their recent LP was produced by head Spooner Britt Daniel, and they share some of the collar-popping sang froid of their mentors. Still, it's a head-turning performance, refreshingly quirk-free, taking the spirit of the headline act more than their actual tunes.

TV GHOST INTERVIEW

Since hearing Cold Fish by TV Ghost, I've been pretty hooked. Thought I'd landed a real scoop only to find out that the NME had pipped me by giving them a brief mention. I'm still pretty sure this is their first UK publication interview though. Interesting for the wrong reasons, perhaps?

The Germans have a saying: “do not make monuments to the living, for they can still disgrace the stone.” It's a bit like our 'don't meet your heroes' line, but cleverer. Having met two heroes previously (British Bulldog: warm, solid handshake, enthusiasm. Dynamite Kid: called me a 'poof'' and yelled dubious obscenities from his knackered wheelchair), your hack opted for the side of generosity and chased up an interview with TV Ghost.



Stricken with love, according to last.fm, yr. corresp spun their recent LP Cold Fish seventeen times, most of which were consecutive. That's not including physical plays and ripping the whole thing to an MP3 player, deleting everything else in turn. Then buying the thing on import, alongside their rare-as-rocking-horse-shit debut self-titled 12”.

People call their genre 'shitgaze'. It's a stupid term, based on a joke. Now people are talking about this whole 'shitgaze' revolution. It's enough to make you vomit up a lung. How does singer/guitarist Timothy Conrad Glick feel about this?

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I dunno.”

At the time, it seems like an infuriating answer. Looking back, it was a dumb question. When has a band ever graciously accepted a genre tag? Even if the genre tag came from the dude who recorded their first 12” record?

So how would you describe what TV Ghost did to some dude or lady dude who had never heard you? “Uhhhhhhhhh. [silence].”

Looks like I'm going to have to do it for him. The Ghosters came a-creepin' outta Lafayette, IN, a “pretty crappy” rustbelt town that one W. Axl Rose used to call home. It's not riven with the crack and crime of East Coast no-fly zones like Trenton and Camden. Instead it's decaying in that mundane, late-capitalistic way, all rusted gates and abandoned lots.



The band themselves are four skinny kids on drugs and a nihilistic kick to match those dudes from The Big Lebowski. Thousand-yard stares. Remorseless stances. Nary a smile between them. You'd mistake them for complete dorks if they weren't playing some of the most vital music of the century.

There's something for everyone who hates most things. TV Ghost stick their necks up above the garage-rock parapet to incorporate telekinetic spasms of no wave, the icy-technological paranoia of Chrome and their early industrial ilk and wiry, worried post-punk. Glick howls like his bowels are being extracted through his gluteals and the rest of the band pummel away in noisy ecstacy.

Back to the interview. What's going down in Lafayette? “Oh, nothing.” It's the spiritual home of Guns'n'Roses, I tell him. Stone silence. Like his album suggests, cold fish. “There's not much of a scene here at all.”

But a lot of the recent garage/lo-fi stuff has had a lot of press coverage. Even MTV did a little feature on groups like Tyvek, Kurt Vile and Psychedelic Horseshit. “I don't know about that.” You've even played some pretty awesome stuff, like the recent WFMU festival with legends such as Teenage Jesus and Faust. “Mmmm.”

Mmmm? Mmmmm???!!! Just as rage is about to find voice, he finds enough to tell Student Direct, a propos of nothing, that Lydia Lunch thought their drummer, the improbably named Jackson Van Horn, was “pretty hot.” And then he laughs a lot, like a man who does not laugh a lot. Like this: “Ha. Ha ha. Ha. Ha.” Stop.

Which sends your writer into an inexplicable fit of laughter, capped with a pretty obvious ephiphany: those Germans were right. Whaddya expect this guy to do, come out with a Beckett play? He's a singer in a band tipped for success, not Ban Ki Moon. His defensiveness and lack of expurgation don't mean much at all when you crank the record up high.



Whatever their future status (hint: they're tipped to act as poster boys in the new US arm of the next big NME wave) they've managed to sew up a couple of high-quality releases along the way. 2010 should see them coming over here to show us what they've got. What can we expect? “Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Oh just go and see them. Far less infuriating.

"I know they were poor but those gaberdine trousers were just divine."

Class fetishism in popular music is probably worse than ever.

Joe Lean. Chirpy chirrupy cockernee barrelboy songsmith. Knees up mavver braaaahn. It's just a stage name, he raffishly admits under his artfully corkscrewed haircut; his real name is Joe van Moyland. He won't hide his middle-class background. Fact is the guy was christened Joseph Antony Bernays Beaumont. The guy is so confused about class and self-identity that I wouldn't be surprised if he auditioned for the role of Winston Smith in 1984 wearing a top hat and a silver-topped cane.



Banal caterwauling and awful poetry aside, the pout of his lips leave the exact amount of space to poke a silver spoon into. The sub-Corbijn photography, the chasing after a vacantly doe-eyed nonentity who points her feet inward and walks like a 25-year old version of a 5-year old...these tropes are so hackneyed that they're artless and weird, like a dish with a photograph of a cat on it.

It's not the fault of Lean/van Moyland/Bernays Beaumont. Rock and roll continuously and ignorantly self-mythologises so heavily as the working-class artform that I'm surprised i. that the irony hasn't been sucked out of the universe and ii. that a band hasn't yet taken to the stage in miner's lamps and pith helmets.

A few months ago I reviewed the NME compilation album of 2009 and complained that it contained a whole lot of black signifiers despite the lack of black musicians. The basic nub of the argument was not specifically that the record was racist; it was that the group of people involved in musical manufacture and receipt (i.e. artists and audience) were so scared of what constituted their own authenticity, that they stole the authenticity of others. In as far as such a thing exists anyway.



This is Esser. His song 'Headlock' is track 17 on disc one of said compilation. If you really need to hear it, it's here. I wouldn't though. Take a look at that picture. I mean, a really good look at it. Does anything strike you as incongruous?

An ersatz teddy-boy haircut with mod dress? Making music with undeniable connections to dance, hip-hop and pop? People can talk about post-modernism and the delineation of the pop-culture tribes but these only occur in groups with no discernible means of individuality. Their 'individuality' is to fetishise and magpie other vibrant forms.

I read a great line in an article in Philadelphia Weekly; it stated that 'hybridity is the new authenticity'. I believe that. There's no sense in pining for a fictional Britain/world. We're better than that. We are multi-cultural now and wiser for it.

What class fetishism and tribal fetishism in fashion and music amounts to is a form of cultural and historical tourism. So, when you spot someone who is wearing a keffiyah, NHS-of-1984 glasses (with no glass/plain glass - even worse) and a trilby, it is morally correct to thrash them within an inch of their lives. Coincidentally, it'll be the first authentic experience of their lives.

That said, it happens in higher arts too. Cormac McCarthy was born Charles McCarthy - Charles presumably no earthy enough for McCarthy's blood and thunder Americana. Playing on your own unglamourousness is funny, and it didn't harm David Mitchell, did it? The English middle-class is riven with internal conflicts. What's inauthentic about that?