A shame on our city…..

The G20 summit brought with it the usual concerns – would the day be hijacked by anarchists? Would those groups wanting to ‘hang the bankers’ really do it? How would the disparate groups be kept in one place safely? Would the protests really have much resonance across the world? But many of the press before the event nervously questioned the police’s insistence that they would turn violent. Yes, there were elements in any anti-globalisation demonstration that would be bound to hijack it for their own skewed means, but the talk up to the event seemed like it was a self-fulfilling prophecy: violence would need strong-handed police, which would result in trouble, justifying their actions.

No one would’ve guessed the events of that day would turn out as they had. While violence did erupt sporadically, and the symbolic destruction of a branch of RBS (bailout money to fix the windows, how poetic, and pointless) fed the news frenzy, one tragedy appeared almost a footnote to the day’s events. Ian Tomlinson, a newspaper seller, had died of a heart attack in the early evening in the backstreets around the Bank Of England. Seemingly unconnected to events, statements from the police called it a ‘tragic accident’.

But over the last 24 hours, as eyewitness reports of the events started to tell a different story. And a video shows most of the attack as it happened, pouring cold water on the police’s version of events. The man – not even a protester, and on his way home, and came across the remnants of a police line ‘kettling’ protesters away from the Bank of England. Walking away from a line of police, hands in his pockets and quietly, he appeared to be struck, first by a baton, then pushed from behind by the same man, falling and apparently hitting his head on the pavement. Dazed, he appears to talk to the police, who do nothing to aid him, before being helped up by bystanders. Three minutes after walking away groggily, he dies on a pavement of a heart attack.

The storm that’s been played out today, with the IPCC’s enquiry mercifully having the City of London police removed from it (would we face more ‘inquiries’ the like of which have seen no policeman from the capital convicted of any violent offence against a protester in the last 50 years?) we may yet see justice for a man whose only crime was to head home, through an area he used daily, and walk away from a line of over-zealous police. It’s hardly the scandal from Genoa, but it’s the final straw in a city and country where we should pride ourselves in our democracy and our civil protectors, but we face an ever eroding set of liberties, sacrificed to the ‘war on terror’ and the police with ever-increasing reign to ‘protect’ us. We have a right to protest, and yet even that seems to be diminished now. From Stockwell to Forest Gate, I have little faith in their ability to deal with truth any more, and the skewed statements, denying any contact with Ian Tomlinson before his death, sounded like the echo of Sir Ian Blair all over again. We haven’t learnt, it seems, a single thing.

Indeed new footage uncovered by Channel 4 news tonight gives further evidence that the officer struck Tomlinson forcefully before he was pushed to the ground. And the officer who was involved has gone to the IPCC – no doubt to tell them of his provocation. There are glimpses of hope, that process can be followed, and that the police can be held accountable, but we’ve heard it many times before, only for it to ebb away in a sea of misadventure, of ‘cannot recall who was at the scene’ or ‘details have been lost’. I hope for once they can do the right thing. If the protester had struck the policeman, we all know he would be in court before his feet had touched the ground, and it’s high time the police were treated with the same ‘respect’ we are by them.

Slow progress…..

The human body is an incredible thing. It’s made up mostly of water, but it’s constructed around a brittle skeleton of calcium-based bone. When it breaks, it’s a gruesome sight and feeling, and it’s an amazing feat that it can blend itself back together, even if it’s with a little help from the NHS.

My jaw was broken 12 days ago, by two cowardly, thieving little fucks, and put together expertly a mere 18 hours later by the undervalued, and underpaid members of the NHS that work at Whipps Cross Hospital. So, here I am, down the line, trying to rationalise the slow, ponderous process by which the human body mends itself. My jaw is struggling to fit together as it once did, stitches holding it together, covering plates underneath. I try to bite and can’t get my front teeth together, and worry is seeping in. I reassure myself that things will be ok, that I’ll speak to the hospital, and that everything is taking its natural course, but it’s only human nature to think the unthinkable.

I walked down the dimly lit road it happened on for the first time today. Unlike the night it occurred, this was bathed in sunlight. It was daytime, and it’s going to be a long time before I go down that route after dark. It’s not a matter of kicking myself that it was somehow my fault, but there’s no point in prodding fate once more. I’ve been fairly placid about the whole affair until now, but I was in minor turmoil as I headed under the bridge and along the long, straight path again. I’d be daft to think it wouldn’t affect me, of course not, but I don’t want to let it do anything more than that. I need to convince myself I’m strong, and that it’s not beaten me, and I’m fine with that at the moment.

Maybe it’ll hit me, it’ll all come tumbling down like a pack of cards. I hope not, and I believe not. I like where I live, and I feel an affinity to it, even though I’d never been there before I moved. And I don’t want to be forced out. I live in the best city in the world, and I’d no intention of changing, even if I’ve suffered as I have. Instinct tells me to confront the feelings, and not push them to the back of my mind, to resolve them and not hide them. I remind myself on a daily basis that it could’ve been worse, and maybe should have been. No possession is worth dying for, and even if I’ve confronted my own mortality in the last few weeks, I’m a comfortable distance from it still, and I intend to be for a long time yet.

So, it’s not all plain sailing for hedge funds

I read in the ever impressive and entertaining blog of BBC’s Robert Peston that Hedge Funds have taken a rather mighty kicking over VW in the last few days. When much of the ire (and now much of the fallout) has been directed at the murky financial behemoths over the last twelve months, it’s refreshing to see some short selling take them the other way for once.

In fact, it’s a staggering 18bn loss in just two days after speculating on Volkswagen. Germany, not known for its predeliction towards funds, will no doubt be chuckling to itself (as will many of the public) but it remains to be seen which funds have taken the hit. I’ll be keeping an eye on this. Some schadenfreude for once, amongst the gloom.

A break from the city…

I can’t think of a better way to unwind from London’s grind than a weekend away on an island that’s better known for its hedonism than it’s history. But there’s a lot more to Ibiza than simply Spare Terrace or the West End. It’s rich history of worship (pagan, catholic, you name it) and social tapestry make it a place full of surprises and steeped in folklore. From the caves in Saint Miquel to the mystery of Es Vedra, and the impressive D’Alt Villa to the fantastic beaches at Sa Caleta and Calla San Vicente there’s more than enough to relax the mind as much as there’s temptation enough to expand it.

But having the ability to hole myself for 2 days in the north of the island (I wish it were a week) was the best option I had to unwind from the stresses and strains of financial meltdown and the bustle of the City. While the irony of having flu when you’re in 20 degrees isn’t lost on me, there’s no better place to recover. I just wish I was here longer. The clubs may be on the wane and the government seemingly willing to tread on and crush its hedonistic element, but it’s still a place of magic and majesty.

The lost art of the frontman…

Rock and roll may still be with us, but where are all the frontmen these days? And when I say that I don’t mean screaming, diving into the mosh-pit, swearing your way through an hour of music. It’s about connection with the audience, those masses that have paid their way to be enthralled by the delight of live music. In days where album sales are dwindling, and the live circuit is an ever-more lucrative, bands that rise above the rest can make their fortune as well as securing their musical legacy. And one such act that is firmly head and shoulders above the mass of soundalikes and NME next-big-things is Elbow. With a solid trade in down-to-earth observation and sardonic northern wit, their music has been a beacon of soaring and atmospheric emotion for nearly two decades. They are a band that can make alcoholism, death and depression sound appealing. It’s as a live act that they truly set themselves apart.

And at their centre is Guy Garvey. The hang-dog expression is familiar, but there’s humour behind the sadness, despite the often bleak subject matter. And their current UK tour, following up their latest (and Mercury-winning) album The Seldom Seen Kid stopped off at the Roundhouse for three nights in October. Live, Garvey comes into his own. The often-gravelly voice is a note-perfect nucleus to Elbow’s soundscapes, from current favourites Mirrorball, Starlings and Some Riot, to a walk through their back catalogue, revisiting Forget Myself and Leaders of the Free World with tubthumping vigour, and dedicating Newborn (and leading the audience to change ‘corpse’ to ‘duck’) to a pregnant fan sat in the circle. It’s as much between the songs as during them that you realise why Elbow are so loved by fans from first timers to those that have been around since the late 90s, when Asleep At The Back (arguably their best album and a more worthy of the Mercury than their current offering) surfaced.

From quips and question-response banter with the floor, to dry sarcasm, Garvey’s skill is making everyone in the room feel like you’re simply witnessing a jam with him, his mates and a few members of the public down the pub. It’s only at the end of each song that you remember you’re in amongst a couple of thousand people, applauding to the rafters. It’s only the music that snaps you out of it eventually. And, for all their image as quirky and introspective northern charm, their music is towering, simultaneously feeling at home up against any bands of the last ten years and also comfortably away from any other pigeonhole the press would care to invent. It evokes emotion, and the concert feels like much more like a communal moment of happiness as much as it does a band onstage for close to two hours.

And for me, who only came to them when their last album, the Leaders Of The Free World, came out, I scratch my head and wonder why I never cottoned on before. It wasn’t for lack of being prompted. Sometimes though, it’s good to be able to discover so many great records years down the line and make them part of your life. And, like most of Camden that night, wish you could go for a beer with Garvey and Elbow, because, if they’re as thoroughly likeable and entertaining over a beer as they are onstage, it’ll probably be the best night out you’ve had for a while. And to think Johnny Borrell is still getting away with all-white ensembles and tired iggy Pop (in his eyes) pastiches. He could take a few lessons from Elbow, and realise he’ll never get close.

The End is nigh…

As if the body blow of losing Turnmills, The Key, The Cross and Canvas wasn’t enough in 2008, the news that the End would close for good on 24th Jan 2009 was probably the worst of all for the capital’s clubbers. In its 13 years it’s played host to some of the best-loved DJs, with residents from founders Layo and Bushwacka! and Mr C to Danny Howells, Laurent Garnier, Steve Lawler, DJ Marky, Andy C and stalwarts like Chew The Fat, DTPM, Milk’n'2 Sugars, Simple, Olmeto, Cocoon, Circo Loco, not to mention a list of guests that reads like a who’s who of dance music, it’s a tragedy that it’ll finally, along with its little sister, the AKA, close its doors. The centre of town is now more barren than it’s ever been.

With times tight, it’s not impossible to understand that the last in a long line of offers for the premises would be too good to turn down. The team has been there from the start, and 13 years is a long time in clubland. When time for change came, leaving it to anyone else to run wouldn’t see right, when it’s something so close to all of them, and especially when the future years, and the desire to continue ad infinitum, must be weighed up. But for those that have gone time and time again it’ll be a huge loss to the capital, as it’s surely the light that’s shone brightest in the past two decades in a capital with nightlife that is the envy of the world.

But, as they say, all good things must come to an end. And, over the past thirteen years, we’ve been spoilt. Personal memories are so many, some hazier than others. From early visits for Underwater, Missdemeanours, Be As One and Riot! to midweek carnage of record launches (Digweed and Howells’ Choice Ones were the stuff of legend) and Sunday nights misspent at Clandestino, and Mondays at Trash, maybe the least-known but most lauded residencies the club has seen. The one thing that run through it all was how easy it was to have a good time in those two hallowed rooms. The club was (and still is) run so well, with nothing more important than the clubbers and the music, that, for the uptight reputation that the capital has, it could’ve easily been Manchester or Leeds. It was a pocket of friendliness and cool that seemed to sit outside the confines of the city.

I’m not 100% sure when I first set foot in the club, it would’ve been around the end of the 90s, but I remember queueing for ages, which, back then, proved it must’ve been an experience worth repeating. And despite the changing times and clubbing climate, very little changed downstairs. It didn’t need to. The main room, with its raised central booth perfect for both worship of and performance from the DJ, and the lounge, as much for chatting, catching up, and boozing as dancing, were an example to many others on how simplicity really was the best watchword. I’ve lost count of the many times I’ve stood up the end of the bar buying shots or more beers, whether it was the fun and games of Riot! on Sundays gone by, where so many of my current friends were met, or Cocoon, taking a break from the pounding main room. It won’t seem right not having that familiar spot to take a breather, or add to the hangover of the morning after. I’ve been lucky enough to get behind the decks. It may have been only once, in the Lounge at Riot! (sadly the 2nd last in 2006) but I’m able to say I played my favourite club, and I’m not sure how many could say that.

So, what of the future? Despite all the wailing and gnashing of teeth, there are still 4 months left to give the club the send-off it deserves. Plans and line-ups for the final weeks are as yet still unreleased, but it almost doesn’t matter who plays, it’ll be the last chance to say goodbye to the place with the people that matter. Much like those gone before it, it’ll be hard to get used to walking from Holborn to Tottenham Court Road and glancing down West Central Street and finding that famous view no longer there. But like other legends before it, we can at least say, without a hint of smugness or ego, that we were lucky enough to spend many a lost weekend in its confines, and look back over those memories at the fun we had. The clubbing map is always in a state of flux, and while, 2 years ago, if someone had told me five of the capital’s finest nightspots would be lost to developers, i’d have laughed and also prayed. But we can only look back and think how lucky we were that the people behind the End gave us all those years, not be angry that it’s gone. Its significance can only be understood even more once it’s finally closed its doors. And I’ll be there when it happens, you can count on that. Monday the 25th January will be a black day in more than one way, but I’ll be taking holiday. I think I’ll need it….

For a minute…. I lost myself

At the risk of sounding stale, and conformist, a certain band from Oxford happily turd from a great height on nearly everything else around, still, ten years and more on. Despite mild derision for green credentials (good on them, fuck all other bands give a toss), or middle-class roots (so what), and the usual criticism for staying to the same musical path (variations, imo, on a wonderful theme), they are still one of the most important bands on the planet. I can’t think of many others that have consistently produced interesting, edgy music over such a long period of time, and through changes in style and method that would’ve alienated many others fans to nothing.

And seeing them live is the pinnacle of the experience. I was lucky enough to catch them at V in 2006 (though sadly, not Glasto in 1997) and the anticipation with which I greeted their return to London in Victoria Park this June. There was the backdrop of the ‘free’ album (I bought the box-set, of course) and some lukewarm reactions to the album (it’s a grower, and as good as anything that’s about at the moment), they mesmerised for over two hours, two encores, and a set that dipped into tracks all the way back to the Bends (My Iron Lung, The Bends…. still magical).

They really are an ethereal experience live, Yorke’s voice somehow being otherworldly, not fitted to his slight frame or meek appearance, but onstage, he, and the others, become more than the sum of their parts. Playing Karma Police was a personal highpoint, bringing goosebumps to the neck and tears to the eyes, (too many memories and people to go into really) and finishing with Paranoid Android capped it all off almost perfectly. If it hadn’t taken 2 hours to get home then it’d have been 10/10. So, it’s a 9.9 instead.

I may be in my thirties and middle class, but then I’m their perfect demographic, so no-one’s going to tell me they’re anhything but the best band in the world. And anyone that disagrees, they’re just plain wrong. Cool beans, eh?

Buffoon

I can hardly bring myself to say it, but Boris fucking Johnson…… he’s running my city. Let’s wait for him to just backtrack on everything he promised and be the Tory fudge that he is. It’s only millions of us that will suffer. Joy. 

Who needs a kitchen really?

 

Ok, so yes, I know that I’m already deep in middle-class urban improvement quagmire having my flat redecorated, and in an ideal world it’d have been done while I was on holiday, but that’s only partly the case. Having endured 24 globe-spanning hours in air-conditioned, pre-packaged and reheated airline drudgery, I arrived home dreaming of shower, food, and collapsing in front of the tv. This all went very well until I glanced dustsheets on my sofa as a gazed down the hall having staggered in clutching my bags. 

Well, let’s start with the positives: my new kitchen is, at least, taking shape. 

That’s it really. 

Not only did I not have a kitchen, insofar as it’s an empty room with a few pipes sticking out of the wall, that’s fine. Even tolerable that the contents of the kitchen is in the lounge, and the contents of the hall were in (well, thrown all over) my bedroom. But not so good that the water was off. So no shower, no drink, no nothing. And this was capped by finding 2 days worth of waterless, workman-filled toilet. Oh the joy. 

Now of course I shouldn’t complain, of course, as in 7 days I should have a spanking new kitchen, but this wasn’t exactly what I planned in my tired homecoming fantasy when I walked through the door on Tuesday. And until the weekend I’m confined to my room, scared of entering the bathroom at all, and until the end of next week, I’m living on sofas and in gyms whilst trying to study for job interviews and longing for a meal that doesn’t come wrapped in plastic. I never thought I’d long for a microwave meal….. 

And while I’m here…. I’ve been back 3 days and not a workman in sight. Hmmmm.