Punk In Africa.

Punk In Africa - film review

By Kevin Robinson
(Louder Than War, June 2012)
http://louderthanwar.com/punk-in-africa-2011-film-review/

Punk In Africa (2011)
Director: Keith Jones, Deon Maas
UK premiere: Open City Docs Fest, School of Oriental and African Studies, London

Saturday 23rd June 2012
 

 

"Louder!” shout several voices from the rear of the lecture theatre as someone battles heroically with the controls of a DVD player. It seems a reasonable request. This is punk after all, just a chapter in its history which has, until now, remained untold. Just as punk in the UK grew out of social deprivation and disillusionment and led to the proliferation of a DIY ethos, in Southern Africa the first multi-racial punk bands formed in the chaotic aftermath of the Soweto Uprising, their very existence risking possible imprisonment and brutal torture. These musicians were inspired by their African identity and indigenous musical traditions, as well as their Ramones and Sex Pistols bootlegs. Punk In Africa documents a growing subculture during eras of apartheid, civil war and oppression, when opposition to institutionalised racism and resistance of totalitarian regimes could have violent repercussions (“They could make you disappear,” as one interviewee chillingly describes).

The first rumblings of a punk scene in the so-called Dark Continent emerged in the form of underground rock acts like Suck, an early '70s politicised protopunk band, who were banned from performing after their concerts provoked rioting. They are included on this terrific compilation of vintage South African garage, psychedelia and township funk.
 

 

The film’s archive footage is assembled in a way which matches the scrapbook visual aesthetic of punk. Appeals from the film makers via social media, predominantly Facebook, unearthed a bewildering amount of artefacts in the form of photos, flyers, 7" sleeves, taped interviews, home movies and fragments of live recordings. In addition, there are fresh interviews with the prime movers from the late 70’s/early 80’s period, astonishingly as much of a fertile ground for musical experimentation across Southern Africa as it was in the West.

 

Wild Youth from Durban were amongst the first punks to play shows, release material and tour the country. They took inspiration from Iggy's 'Raw Power' when most of their peers only listened to the Eagles or John Travolta. National Wake were a dissident band of multi-racial composition formed in Johannesburg who mixed primitive rock, reggae, and African percussion into their sound, and defied the authoritarian state's laws of segregation by rehearsing and living together in an illegal commune and touring with fake documentation. There were Asylum Kids, whose anti-government stance led to gigs being tear-gassed and broken up by police. Power Age were a pivotal band of the 80’s hardcore scene who railed against apartheid, as well as white supremacist and neo-fascist organisations like the AWB, and the vocalist managed to rile the authorities with a pink Mohawk. The Genuines were a Cape Town based ‘goema punk’ band who played traditional Cape Malay music in a punk-inspired style as fast as was humanly possible. The Kalahari Surfers fronted by enigmatic dub artist Warrick Sony were pioneers who used sampling with Shangaan basslines on protest records such as ‘Bigger Than Jesus’, which was subsequently banned or being too politically radical. Other equally fascinating participants included House Wives Choice from Cape Town, The Safari Suits, Koos, Screaming Foetus, Gay Marines and Leopard.

This mix tape features many of the artists featured in the film:
 

 

Finally, the film follows punk’s evolution and the rise of more celebratory, 2-Tone influenced ska bands through the democratic era of the 1990’s to the present day. These include Cape Town’s ska-punks Hog Hoggidy Hog, Johannesburg’s Afrocentric Swivel Foot, the dub influenced Mozambican band 340ml, the surf and skate culture fixated Sibling Rivalry, Evicted - a Zimbabwean band who mix elements of grunge, hard rock and traditional chimurenga music, Fokofpolisiekar, Fuzigish… the list is seemingly endless.

This is an enlightening film which goes some way to giving these brave, rebellious men and women long overdue recognition. Despite incessant surveillance and harassment from the authorities, they used music to convey their anger, frustration and determination for political change. This music, broadcast only via a network of fanzines and tape-trading, helped pave the way for a youth revolution, leading to rules and regulations gradually being relaxed, and eventually the collapse of the apartheid regime.  

Follow: @kevinrobinsondj

Lovebox 2012 - Sunday review.

Lovebox 2012 (Sunday): Victoria Park, London E9 – live review

17^th June 2012
(Louder Than War, June 2012)
http://louderthanwar.com/lovebox-2012-sunday-london-live-review/

Words by Kevin Robinson

Pictures by Daniel O’Connor

 

 

On Friday, Disco was kept locked outside the main gates. On Saturday, she was allowed in but forced to just hang around at the back and keep herself to herself. Today, however, she's punched everyone else out of the way, stormed to the front of the queue, kicked the doors in, demandedchampagne, adorned herself with boas and glitter, and is currently thrusting her gusset into bemused faces belonging to a passing stag do to the tune of ‘I’m Coming Out’. A couple of years back, Lovebox proudly announced it was to become“a freewheeling, groundbreaking, no-holds-barred, non-stop polysexual party." Since then, Sunday has become affectionately known as Gay Day. It couldn't actually be any gayer if a group of moustachioed gentlemen straight from an orgiasticAmsterdamleather bar in assless chaps stood on a brightly lit rainbow and began singing about fisting. And let's face it, had Holly Johnson not cancelled, we might easily be watching that. Welcome to the day of “fierce”.

 

Of course, the relationship between gays and disco goes back over 40 years to when the Stonewall Riots heralded a new decadent era of rampant hedonism and the doors of flamboyant dancenightclubs were flung open to predominantly gay, black and Puerto Rican revellers, free to party without harassment or inhibitions. You can trace its history through The Loft, The Paradise Garage, Studio 54, Saturday Night Fever, Moroder, Cowley, Orlando, acid house, all the way through to Daft Punk and DFA’s productions (James Murphy is in the house today). And to think that some rock critics dismissed it as throwaway. This disco-themed day is tinged with sadness though, following the cancer-related deaths of both Donna Summer (rumouredat one stage to have been in negotiation with promoters to headline today’s event) and Robin Gibb in recent weeks.

It’s not all glitterballs and bare buttocks though. It's early afternoon, and Niki and The Dove are making veryKnife-sounding noises. From a distance, Niki herself appears to be shaking what looks like a yellow and pink dyed Komondor, but hopefully isn’t. The Rapture’s set has a celebratory feel, particularly the piano-laden ‘How Deep Is Your Love’. Patrick Wolf enjoyed getting down and dirty with his fans so much he forgot to check the his flies were done up (they weren’t). Mika, as always, yelped and shrieked incessantly over the sort of infantile dross that made the Scissor Sisters sound like Throbbing Gristle.

 

Dressed in pure white, Chic have the unenviable task of transforming an overcast East London park into a raging disco inferno, but they succeed with an unimpeachable back catalogue of lushly orchestrated pop anthems. Nile Rodgers insists that "Chic is not a covers band" before delivering a selection of, well, covers. Detractors could easily argue that claiming the likes of Madonna's 'Like A Virgin', Bowie's 'Let's Dance' and Duran Duran's 'Notorious' to be your own is a bit of a cheek, Chic, but in truth these barely scratch the surface of the exquisite and immensely successful body of work that Nile has composed, produced and influenced. Yowsah, indeed.

 

By early evening, at one end of the site we find soul diva Chaka Khan in fine voice through a gold-plated microphone and tight denim catsuit. At the other end, a considerably more restrained Lana Del Rey appears. So intense has the level of scrutiny been regarding her authenticity (as if stage personas have never existed before) amongst accusations of callous marketing and fabrication, that it's almost disappointing to find her looking rather ordinary in a plain white top, peach skirt and white trainers, and not some pre-programmed monstrosity constructed entirely of Play-Doh.

At times it's as if she's never navigated her way across a stage before ("Can I stand on these? No?") but she's far from being the tuneless, awkward mess that some are keen to portray her as.

She beams a smile halfway through 'Video Games' into an audience which seems to be willing her on, singing every word back at her.

"Well, there's really no words are there?" she asks as the song finishes, visibly overwhelmed by the crowd's enthusiasm.

It's all over in 35 short minutes, her laconic delivery reciting tales of destructive romance, but it's a very fragile, compelling triumph from an enigmatic star.

 

"Are there any French here?" the ultimate diva demands to know, sipping red wine through a straw whilst slipping her masculine frame into something less comfortable, prior to a soaring rendition of 'La Vie En Rose'. Typically, it's a breathtakingly bananas Grace Jones performance as lavish outfits and headdresses are changed with each number. Joining the dots between post-punk, disco and Jamaican reggae, she spits out the words to 'Private Life' and then writhes and humps her way through 'My Jamaican Guy'. She dominates a stage like no other performer. She appears to have a large vagina attached to her forehead. She pole-dances. She becomes a human mirrorball in a bowler hat. She eats lazers.

"Ain't nothing new," she chuckles, hula hoop in hand, reacting to the cheers as she returns for a ten-minute encore of 'Slave To The Rhythm'. "Just a bit more popular."
 

Lovebox 2012 - Saturday review.

Lovebox 2012 (Saturday): Victoria Park, London E9 – live review

16^th June 2012
(Louder Than War, June 2012)
http://louderthanwar.com/lovebox-2012-saturday-london-live-review/

Words by Kevin Robinson

Pictures by Daniel O’Connor

 

Today’s theme is ‘Music Safari’, a phrase appropriate for the vast array of DJ’s and performers once you explore beyond the main stage. In the Downlow, flamboyant creatures of the night resurrect New York’s clubbing golden age and ethos in a life-size ruin of an NYC tenement. On the Stockade Stage, Crosstown Rebels present ‘A Rebel Rave’ with Damien Lazarus and Maceo Plex. Taking over the tent tomorrow are GutterSlut, renowned for drawing in a dressed-up crowd of party-loving boys, girls, trannies, club kids and older nightlife faces who are bored to tears by a tired and formulaic mainstream gay scene. There's Horse Meat Disco from Vauxhall who regularly upstage everyone by playing out unashamedly camp Hi-NRG, rare disco, ‘80s boogie and electro everywhere from Glastonbury to San Francisco’s Pride. Dan Beaumont's basement bar Dalston Superstore has some of London’s most inspiring DJ's playing out all day long, and This Is Circus, "a technicolour house music fiesta and visual extravaganza like no other, brought to you by Jodie Harsh and London's most colourful underground characters" will take over the Stockade, with a headline set from Felix Da Housecat. Meanwhile, in the Big Top today, hugely respected Drum & Bass imprint Hospitality are hosting bass heavy music from High Contrast, Netsky and London Elektricity, amongst others. It remains rammed until curfew.

 

The second outdoor stage is visited by the formidable rapper and fantastically named Dot Rotten. His between-song banter rarely surpasses "Are you ready for the next one?" but his razor-sharp vocal delivery on the Robert Miles sampling ‘Overload' whips the mid-afternoon onlookers into a merry throng.

Rita Ora arrives onstage with a backpack. Precisely which essentials she may find it necessary to whip out at any given moment whilst performing isn’t exactly made clear. Despite once auditioning for Eurovision, the Sylvia Young graduate appears to have conveniently bypassed the toilet gig circuit, has been signed by Jay-Z, recently played football stadiums in support of Coldplay, and has emerged before us as a fully formed pop star, eager to be clasped to the nation’s easily pleased bosom. She’s had a hit single entitled ‘Hot Right Now’ and an even bigger one with Tinie Tempah. She implores us to chant along with her new single called ‘Party and Bullshit’ and we helpfully oblige. Oh, and at one stage her left tit fell out. Not that we were watching.

 

Thirty minutes after her allotted stage time, and Kelis is in the process of pulling off a convincing impersonation of Axl Rose, i.e. she’s nowhere to be seen. When she finally decides to greet us, she takes to the drums for a run-through of ‘Bounce’ before belting out some of the best pop anthems of the last three decades. Not many of them, it must be said, are actually her own though. Accompanied by a DJ placed centre-stage, there are blasts of 'Planet Rock' and 'Groove Is In The Heart'. Then, as ‘Milkshake' morphs into Madonna's 'Holiday' and then Cyndi Lauper’s ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’, it all starts getting a bit Kelis On 45, as if she’s simply singing over a 2manydj’s mini-mix. Dropping the guitar riff from 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' seemed like a cheap crowd-pleaser ten years ago, but it seems hugely unnecessary now from a lady with an impressive back catalogue of hits of her own. As she closes with a version (understandably neither the first, nor the last to be aired this weekend) of Donna Summer's 'I Feel Love', you get that nagging feeling you’ve been cheated.

 

It feels worryingly like there’s a storm brewing over East London as Friendly Fires hit the main stage. Their tropical flavoured finale of ‘Kiss Of Life’ battles gallantly against strong gusts of wind and a chilly night time drizzle descending from the filthiest clouds. The mud and dust in our eyes mean we’re a long way from the sun-drenched carnival that Friendly Fires are so eager to transport us to, but we can pretend can’t we?

Follow: @kevinrobinsondj

Lovebox 2012 - Friday review.

Lovebox 2012 (Friday): Victoria Park, London E9 – live review

15^th June 2012
(Louder Than War, June 2012)
http://louderthanwar.com/lovebox-2012-friday-london-live-review/

Words by Kevin Robinson

Pictures by Daniel O’Connor

Inaugurated by Groove Armada as a one-day event on Clapham Common a decade ago, Lovebox has grown steadily to become one of the most hotly anticipated predominantly dance music festivals of the season. Having lured legendary names such as Sly & The Family Stone, The B52's and Snoop Dogg onto the line-up in recent years, the bill now encompasses everything from Baile funk, Afrobeats, hip hop, house, techno, bass music in all its forms and even horrible trance remixes of The Killers. As with Field Day, it's been nudged up the summer calendar for 2012, lest our capital be unable to cope with anything other than a tawdry, corporate whorefest without grinding to a standstill for two tedious sport-filled weeks.

It’s a muddy start to the proceedings as Zach Steinman and Sam Haar, better known to us as Blondes are warming up a respectable crowd, gradually layering soaring synth sounds over beats and basslines, skillfully steering each sprawling track towards a dizzying crescendo. Straight afterwards Raf Rundell of Greco-Roman Soundsystem and Joe Goddard of Hot Chip team up together as The 2 Bears, strut onstage, flash cheeky grins, and launch straight into their remix of Wiley's 'I'm Skanking'. Several tracks later, the feel-good romp of ‘Bear Hug' is enough to prompts the first of two chaotic stage invasions this evening, grizzly embraces and all.

 

The second outdoor stage is curated by Shy FX, the Original Nuttah of the 90’s junglists whose flawless productions and landmark releases have ensured he has remained a stalwart of underground dance music for two decades, alongside his Digital Soundboy crew. There are afternoon sets from such pioneering names as Sub Focus, Rusko and Breakage, who has an MC who appears to be conducting the skies, as sunlight beams through the threatening clouds overhead and directly into a sea of smiling faces at perfectly timed moments.
 

 

Crystal Castles are a considerably more muscular and confident-sounding beast since their gig at the now defunct Barden’s Boudoir six years ago. Back then, having been sent to interview them in a kitchen in Dalston, I’d found two impossibly lithe, nervy creatures housed inside two pairs of the skinniest black jeans available to humanity. Ethan Kath brandished a laptop full of malevolent-sounding bleeps, pings and crunches of bass. Alice Glass’s job was mainly to holler over the top of them. Tonight, she dons a black hoodie and white-rimmed shades as they race headlong into a new track from an upcoming third album. Descending from the stage, scaling the crash barriers and leering into a diminutive but transfixed crowd, they’re now a menacing force to be reckoned with.

 

With five solid albums under their belts, Hot Chip can now declare their debut festival headlining slot a triumph. As unconventional as they are, they were initially somewhat underestimated, often perceived as geeky misfits far too eager to indulge their gangsta rap and R&B fantasies (beats by Prince, specs by Timmy Mallett). Tonight, it’s all smiles as ‘One Life Stand’ is, as usual, embellished with steel drums, and ‘Over And Over’ and ‘Ready For The Floor’ are greeted like old chums. New tracks ‘Night And Day’ and ‘Flutes’ are received rapturously, as is a blast of Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Everywhere’.

Tonight though, belongs to the bass boys at the back. The disorderly scenes in the Rinse FM tent are an affirmation of the gargantuan impact that dubstep and drum and bass has had on modern music. The supergroup of Magnetic Man stand like an army, sculpting pitch-shifting basslines from behind their aligned MacBooks. Fronted by MC Sgt Pokes, they unleash violent waves of noise into a euphoric Big Top packed to the gills with beer and sweat-soaked revellers. There’s a full-on moshpit and stage rush during Skream’s set, captured on film below:

 

Follow: @kevinrobinsondj

Field Day 2012.

Field Day 2012 - Live Review

By Kevin Robinson

Victoria Park, London
Saturday 2nd June 2012

(Louder Than War, June 2012)
http://louderthanwar.com/field-day-london-live-review/

 

This week in 1977, punk gobbed its way into the mainstream just as The Queen's Silver Jubilee celebrations got underway, as the Sex Pistols mocked the royal pageant by staging a gig on a boat as it cruised along the Thames. Intended to inflame the tabloid outrage which had already seen them banished from the airwaves, the event descended into chaos with Johnny Rotten screaming "No Fuuuunnn" into the faces of the arresting police officers. Today, as a solitary Union Flag hangs precariously from the balcony of nearby tower block, there's as little anti-royalist sentiment as there is support for the monarchy on show in Victoria Park. As the Pistols disintegrated just months after ‘God Save The Queen’ and disillusionment set in, punk as a cultural movement was fleeting. However, as musicians in the late 70's experimented with electronics and dance music, and multiracial line-ups united in protest against the rise of the National Front (culminating with Rock Against Racism in this very park), it is punk's DIY ethos and spirit of independence which has prevailed.

Field Day is a more intimate and credible alternative to the soulless, corporate beasts which have saturated the festival season (although the beer prices may have you believe otherwise). The line-up at least appears to be assembled by people who, you know, actually give a shit about music, as opposed to those promoters who continually rotate headliners like crops and toss American Idol contestants, Peter Andre and PiL onto the same bill and hope for the best. We need eclecticism, but not variety. Certainly not “variety” in the Jimmy Tarbuck sense, anyway. At Field Day you are, mercifully, unlikely to encounter Fearne Cotton linking to a set by Olly Murs. This is a gig for the sonically adventurous, the experimental, the innovators, the pioneers, and, for some reason, Spector. Yes, someone’s actually been booked them to perform rather than have them impaled on the spire of The Shard.

 

This is a day when you can partake in teabag tossing on the village green, before seeking refuge from threatening skies in the Village Mentality tent and catching Tim Burgess nervously shaking a tambourine to R Stevie Moore's musically chaotic but compelling set, and then exiting into scorching sunlight to join the wide-eyed revellers enthusiastically surfing the irresistible peaks of Rustie's old-skool rave sounds. If that’s not your cuppa, you can bask in the rambunctious, prog-fused haze of Pond, who both look and sound like they've been recently drenched in an alarming number of hallucinogens. “We’ve been INXS,” they claim as they bid farewell. Oh come on, you weren’t that bad.

If the tug of wars and Corgi Crufts are sending you giddy, there’s time to allow the fragile, glitchy ambience of Fennesz to wash over you, or watch Laurel Halo whip up a sinister brew of brutal electronics and discordant beats. Given the congestion caused by an overspill from their tent, Django Django have become rather popular and, along with Grimes, would potentially have benefited from up upgrade to the main stage. We’re assured they were pretty terrific, but we’re bound for Liars. It's almost 10 years to the day since they played at the Sonic Mook Golden Jubilee weekender at London's ICA. Since then, they’ve never failed to thrill and confound in equal measure, and today's set in anticipation of their ‘WIXIW’ album is fantastically bass-heavy, with ‘Brats’ in particular touching the places others can’t reach.

 

Toy are essentially a wall of guitars and fringes and they deliver an amp-melting collection of melodic cacophonies to an impressive and appreciative audience. Likewise, The Men play highlights from their recent ‘Leave Home’ and ‘Open Your Heart’ with such intense ferocity, it’s as if someone has strapped explosive devices to them and is threatening to detonate them should they ever pause for breath. 30 skull-shattering minutes and no messing.

Five years ago you'd never have imagined that Metronomy would be touring a Mercury Prize-nominated album around American stadiums with Coldplay, but here in Vicky Park it's like those lazy, hazy, crazy days of the 2007 summer of nu-rave are back, albeit with added slap bass. Both they and Beirut are inspired choices and provoke spontaneous outbreaks of dancing.

 

The day’s finale offers the blissed-out country blues of Mazzy Star in one corner of the field, and the equally seductive Modeselektor in another. Somewhere in between, Franz Ferdinand brave an English summer downpour to debut new material amongst their arsenal of noughties dancefloor classics. Their 'Can't Stop Feeling' dissolves wonderfully into Donna Summer's 'I Feel Love'.

Events like Field Day are, of course, rarely about the headliners. If you’re lucky, you may unexpectedly stumble across your new favourite band. In this case, we’ve saved you the bother. They’re called Savages. You’ll have to ignore the fact that their gigs to date have been full of middle-aged A&R types wanking furiously into their cheque books. Even if seeing them in daylight at lunchtime feels wrong, they are further proof that all of the best bands dress in black. But do they have the tunes which not only justify the hype but pack a punch so potent that it knocks you right back to your mid-teens? Doesn’t their abrasive, spiky, invigorated sound ooze a cool unlike anything else you'll see all day? Do they not exude that nervy, rush of adrenaline that every special band you’ve ever seen had? Yes, yes and yes. They are Elastica, Joy Division, the Banshees and pretty much every cool post-punk reference you could think of all rolled into one but if, in years to come, we catch them hula hooping their way through their greatest hits on The Queen's driveway, there’s gonna be trouble.

 

Follow: @kevinrobinsondj

Lawrence Of Belgravia.

Film Review – Lawrence Of Belgravia

By Kevin Robinson
(Louder Than War, May 2012)
http://louderthanwar.com/lawrence-of-belgravia-film-review/

 

I first encountered Lawrence at Wembley Arena, of all places. His “novelty rock” project Denim were booked to support fellow indie misfits Pulp. Both bands had pre-empted Britpop's obsession with nostalgia, and the glam rock influenced 'Back In Denim' retreated to an English childhood of bovver boys, Chicory Tip, chopper bikes, Camberwick Green and leftover hippies who "looked like Jesus in crushed velvet flares." It was Pulp however, who, having spent a decade and a half of under appreciation on pop’s periphery, were then being catapulted to fame and fortune. Sixteen years later at this film screening in Kilburn and Lawrence, a skeletal figure, free of surname and perpetually concealed beneath cap and shades, still yearns for pop stardom. Even after years of balls-ups and crushing disappointments, his cravings for fame have not diminished.

 

Paul Kelly, former collaborator with Saint Etienne, follows Lawrence as he pieces together a new album for Go Kart Mozart, yet steers clear of the clichéd rock biopic and the standard fly-on-the-wall documentary. Pitched somewhere between Ondi Timoner's 'DiG!' and Jeff Feuerzeig's 'The Devil and Daniel Johnston’, there’s little archive footage, no sycophantic tributes from showbiz mates and not many golden oldies. Suggestions of a dysfunctional existence plagued with debt, mental health problems ("I’m legally bonkers") and drug addiction are alluded to, yet are never investigated in any depth. Instead, the narrative of the film runs as a series of interviews with journalists and bloggers.

 

During the opening sequences, the self-titled “misanthropic moribund” and neighbour of Margaret Thatcher is seated on the floor of his apartment beside a television and an ashtray stacked high with fag ends. He’ll tell us later that Joan Rivers (we suspect he means Joan Collins, but nevermind) would stare at him disapprovingly in the queue at the local chemist. His paranoia though, is due to the fear that he’s likely to be evicted at any moment and be reduced to hauling his life around in Sainsbury's carrier bags between hostels. Memorabilia and notebooks are methodically archived in boxes, but it’s a squalid existence in comparison to the 1980's when, as leader of Felt, his fastidious behaviour was legendary. So excessive was his cleanliness that he would sooner direct any visitors to the nearest public convenience than permit them to use his own facilities, and he only allowed guests to thumb through his record collection once protective gloves had been issued. Even his experience of a mud-sodden Glastonbury proved predictably traumatic.

"I thought there would be cottages for the pop stars," he was heard to moan.

Luck and Lawrence have remained largely unacquainted throughout three decades of personal misfortune and acts of commercial suicide. John Peel didn’t care too much for Felt, prompting Lawrence to compose an intensely vitriolic diatribe to the DJ which demanded that he return all un-played copies of their records forthwith. A gig attended by several major label A&R men had to be abandoned when Lawrence, having just dropped LSD, was unable to ascertain where verses began and why the venue walls had started to melt. Eventually Felt completed their plan to release ten albums and ten singles in ten years, but despite Alan McGee’s claims that the band had made Creation’s equivalent of ‘The Queen Is Dead’ or ‘Low-Life’, few even really noticed their demise.

Later, disaster-prone Lawrence conceived the idea for Shampoo (the ‘Trouble’ girl duo) but failed to profit from their million-selling Japanese release because a DAT got stuck in traffic. His plans for a sure-fire Denim hit were scuppered when its intended release coincided with the death of Princess Diana. The single, entitled 'Summer Smash’, was quietly removed from the playlists.

The failed and uncelebrated musician often provides unintentionally comical on-screen moments, and this film veers into Spinal Tap territory at times, not least of all when Lawrence is running through songs with working titles like 'Vagina's Allure' ("You're coming in too fast on ‘lure"), when decorating his new abode, a plaster inexplicably hanging from his chin ("I wonder if Lou Reed's ever painted? Can't imagine him getting the roller out") and when constantly bewildered by technology (“Why would you want 4,000 songs hanging around your neck?”).

This is a film, remember, about a man who has claimed to suffer from phobias of cheese and vegetables, recruited band members solely on the greatness of their hair, and, when faced with hair loss himself, considered the possibility of sewing a fringe onto his head.

However, it’s also a moving portrait of the outsider in the big city; the isolation and frustration of battling adversity for a creatively fulfilling existence.

“No one has ever gone this far without making it," he concludes, exasperated that mainstream success still eludes him.

He tells us during the Q&A later that he'd have no qualms about writing a song for Eurovision, and you sense that, given the chance, he'd willingly do battle with David Guetta or Nicki Minaj for chart supremacy (even though he’s probably oblivious to them).

"I want to live in a celebrity bubble," he says openly. "The day I don't have to go on the tube any more will be the day I celebrate."

He’ll get rich or die trying. He’s convinced he's Bob Dylan with a synthesiser. He knows that he must meet Kate Moss, because obviously she'd agree to marry him, set up a joint bank account and subsequently relinquish a sufficient amount of her fortune to fund an album.

Whether or not you consider him to be a reclusive genius or a delusional nutcase, you have to admire his uncompromising attitude and his insatiable ambition. He’d be perfectly willing to sacrifice a friendship for the sake of a band, but in an era of relentless reunion tours, reissues and repackages, however, he refuses to entertain the notion of getting Felt back together. He sees it as an admission that a career is over.

"I can't think of one reformation where it's been about the art," he says. “Can you?”

Rock isn't dead. It just smells funny.

Five decades after Decca booted The Beatles out of an audition and assured their manager unequivocally that "guitar groups are on the way out," panic erupted across the blogosphere when it was reported that in 2010 only three of the Top 100 best-selling hits in the UK could be deemed 'rock'. One was a Journey song from the 80's, propelled into the mainstream by Gleeks, one was by Train (nope, me neither) and one by Florence and the PR Machine (who is, let's face it, about as 'rawk' as Cilla Black). Even broadcaster Paul Gambeccini took a swipe at this genre in crisis.

"It's over, in the same way the jazz era is over," he announced, blaming record labels for chasing instant profit rather than investing in artist development. This year, certain music critics seem keener than ever to drive a nail through its coffin as they look in dismay at a Top 40 almost bereft of guitars. As declining sales figures are regurgitated and meaningless pie charts are produced, you'd think from the hysteria that rock's supposed depletion and predicted extinction is about to result in our children being subjected to the aural terror of Nicki Minaj for their remaining days.

You'll have heard Noel Gallagher bemoaning the lack of a unique frontman (presumably he means someone like him) to reinvigorate guitar music.

"That's all rock and roll is; retelling this great fucking story," grunted the soon to be inexplicably crowned Godlike Genius. You remember him. Never one to stray too far from his musical ancestory, he's an egotistical Neanderthal who once played guitar in a Slade tribute act. These days he produces excrement, or albums as he prefers them to be known, remarkable only for their complacency and the fact that each subsequent release is virtually indistinguishable from the previous one. Oh deary me Noel, if it's enthusiasm for guitars you're after, perhaps you could check out the still healthily-attended Download Festival. Black Sabbath are on this year, and they're practically prehistoric. You'd love 'em.
His imbecilic sibling was equally as unenthusiastic in an interview last year.

"I really despise this new fookin' disease of indie fookin' shit, fookin' student music," Liam argued, spitting out mouthfuls of chips and Tennents Super.

Then the drummer from the Kaiser Chiefs (yes, the drummer, ahahahaha) recently tweeted that guitar music "is at an all-time low. Very few bands which started when we did have stood the test of time," he continued, seemingly oblivious to the fact that the hits are eluding them as well.

Finally, someone from The Enemy (Christ knows what his name is, it hardly matters) tweeted: "People are so out of touch it pains me. I've still got the kitchen and bathroom to decorate but looks like we'll have to save music again." Oh, you must remember The Enemy. They're the ones who wrote such seminal, era-defining classics as ... ummmm, Er??? Oh nevermind.

If you think rock is dead, it's more likely that you're guilty of being too selective in what you choose to be exposed to. This is 2012 and it's significantly easier to seek out exciting new music than ever before. If you can't find any good rock bands after just one morning online, then you're simply not trying. Last time I checked, releases from Enter Shikari, The Maccabees, The Black Keys and Tribes were all residing in the upper regions of the album chart, but even if no bands are currently aping U2 and filling stadiums with bloated, crowd-pleasing hits, so what? It may well be the case that musicians as wonderfully weird as The Cocteau Twins or The Cure might get overlooked in today's mainstream, but why should we care whether or not music is designed for mass appeal? Waiting for another Oasis or Nirvana to come along and storm the charts is just daft. Who would you rather your heroes be - Captain Beefheart or Olly Murs?

Spotify, You Tube and, yes, illegal filesharing, mean that using increasingly irrelevant singles chart statistics as a barometer for public taste is inaccurate in itself, but let's remember exactly which guitar bands the nation has clamped to its easily impressed bosom during the last few years. Firstly, there's the sort of sanctimonious, whitewashed, festival-scaling indie that Jo Whiley masturbates over, like Coldplay, Keane and Snow Patrol. These are bands whose musical arsenals are now brimming with simpering, mid-paced songs about seas rising and tears streaming and lights guiding and bells ringing and choirs singing and lords a-leaping, most of which are now to be forever synonymous with Syco-invented sob stories, Dermot hugs and Glastonbury sets which closely resemble, as one Twitterer put it, "a Nazi rally styled by kindergarten teachers who once did an E."

Then of course there was "landfill indie," basically a glut of offensively bland, aesthetically challenged new-wave-of-nu-beige plagiarists like The Fratellis, The Twang, The Rascals, The View, The Wombats, The Pigeon Detectives, The Feeling, The Automatic, The Courteeners, The Hoosiers, The Holloways and, calm down girls, The Kooks. I'm unable to accentuate the extent of my contempt for The Kooks in simple words, so instead I'll refer you to their Wikipedia page:

"The original members... met as students at the Brighton Institute of Modern Music. The inspiration to form a band came to (Luke) Pritchard as he and (Paul) Garred were out shopping for clothes one day in Primark. Speaking to MTV, Garred said, "We had this vision on how we wanted the band to look and stuff—so we bought some clothes and these hats." With no demo of their material Garred and Pritchard went in search of a gig, and according to Garred, they were able to book their first show simply because the manager liked their hats. "So we went in to get a gig, we don't have a demo, and this guy told us, 'Well, you can't get a gig if you don't have a demo, but I like your hats, so I'm going to give you a gig.'"

OH GOD. SERIOUSLY, JUST FUCK OFF.

Last, and by all means least, there's Scouting For Girls. Oh yes. Scouting For fucking Girls, with their unbearable niceness and tiresome singalongs. A journalist once wrote that Scouting for Girls were "like the sound of Satan's scrotum emptying." Frustratingly, I've never been able to better that description.

You must remember this assembly line of woefully abysmal groups. You'd usually catch them being introduced by unjustifiably enthusiastic TV presenters on late-night Channel 4. Seemingly unaware of how excrutiatingly mediocre they were, too incompetent or intimidated to innovate, simply too blinded by dollar signs to be anything other than adequate, they continued to mass-produce their populist, radio friendly unit shifters, now unwanted anywhere other than the V Festival or Poundland. If, when they say rock is dead, they mean that this formulaic, derivative, post-Libertines form of 'rock', then I say good riddance. Let it die. In fact, stab it until it bleeds. In fact, stab it until it bleeds and then take turns to rape it senseless. In fact, stab it, rape it, set it alight, snort the ashes, then bury whatever remains beside the rotting corpse of Johnny Borrell and crank up the techno.




Want some rock? Let's start with the new Divorce/Jailhouse Fuck split 10-inch on the SixSixSixties Label.







Or perhaps you'd prefer the ferocious riffage of Retox from their 'Ugly Animals' album of last year.







You could download the Maria And The Gay album from their bandcamp page. You can check out the awesome bands which the Italian Beach Babes, Dirty Water, Upset The Rhythm and Sacred Bones labels churn out. Go into a record shop (if you can find one) and buy a record by The Horrors. They released one of the best albums of last year and hardly anyone noticed. Go online and listen to Arabrot, Duchess Says, Odonis Odonis, Wooden Shjips or Bitches.




...



Or Foot Village, Male Bonding, Thee Oh Sees or Iceage.






Or Hella, Sissy and the Blisters, Fidlar, Cerebral Ballzy or Sex Church.






Or go with the NME's tips for glory (if you must) and put your faith in Menswear... I mean, Spector. Quit waiting for punk to happen again. It won't, but music has rarely sounded as exciting as it does now. If you're bored of middle-aged rock nostalgists, tweet about a new and exciting find rather than feigning enthusiasm for festival line-ups which are permanently clogged up with reformed old bands re-enacting an overrated past and topping up the pension fund in the process. Just stop whinging about rock being dead.

It's depressing that the NME persist in allowing mediocre guitar bands to inflict their gloomy outlook on the state of guitar music, rather than dedicating space to the countless creative visionaries that don't get enough exposure. It's a shame they resort to putting pop stars who are actually dead on their front cover. It's a shame that they place additional pressure on new artists to secure a hit by declaring them to be merely an updated version of something that was overhyped last year and has since sunk without trace (This Many Boyfriends are The New Cribs, Binary are The New White Lies, Dry The River are The New Mulligan and O'Hare... and so it goes on). It's a shame they think that The Vaccines are the future. In any case, artists working within genres other than 'rock' are more likely to be the natural successors to people like Bowie or Joy Division precisely because they innovate rather than imitate. They are pushing musical boundaries, not squeezing into a pair of skinny jeans, banging on about the past and reviving cliches which are best left for dead. And they certainly don't HAVE to compete with the homogenous, autotuned flatulence clogging up the charts.

Besides, any journos who remain insistent that there's not enough rock infiltrating the mainstream ought to be careful what they wish for. X Factor runner-up Marcus Collins is about to release a cover of 'Seven Nation Army' by the White Stripes as his debut single.

Now shut up.

The Iron Lady

A frail, elderly lady leaves the house she's been confined to, unnoticed by her personal security. She enters an avaricious, society-less society which she once helped spawn, but now barely recognises. Returning, she prepares breakfast for her husband, berates him as usual ("Much too much butter") and then selects an appropriate suit for his day ("Yes... definitely the grey," she enthuses). Bizarrely, a huge amount of Phyllida Lloyd's portrayal of Britain's first and only female Prime Minister is set in this stultifying present-day scenario, with Baroness Thatcher stumbling around a largely empty house, half-pissed, haunted by hallucinations of her long-deceased husband, and suffering flashbacks triggered by a simple phrase or an inanimate object. The fact that career 'highlights' are randomly recalled through the fog of dementia obviously affords the director an artistic license, but whilst distorted truths and factual inaccuracies can be vindicated, this horribly disjointed film avoids an uncomfortably large amount of the more unpalatable aspects of Margaret Thatcher's divisive politics.

"I cannot die washing up a teacup," a young Maggie warns uncompromisingly to Denis, and her ascension into government is depicted as one of rags-to-riches, as if to demonstrate that she wasn't assembled from scrap metal by Satan himself, or that she, I dunno, married a millionaire or something. The grocer's daughter and dutiful housewife is meticulously re-packaged before us and her makeover into an electable leader is covered in some length. But from here, 'The Iron Lady' skips clumsily from the slow-paced scenes of senility, grief and paranoia in her latter years to galling blink-and-you'll-miss-'em montages of both turmoil and triumphs, usually overlaid with heroic-sounding speeches and much flag-waving. Most resemble a Greatest Hits medley or a sort of "OK Mags, let's have a look at your best bits" compilation.


What's most astonishing is what's not in it. There's no room for such prominent figures as Kinnock, Lawson or Scargill. There's also no mention of Westland, Greenham Common, mass privatisation, the selling off of council housing, and no "The lady's not for turning" either. The Northern Ireland hunger strikers are barely mentioned ("You watched ten men starve themselves to death and never even flinched," is one of the few remarks included from the Labour front bench that isn't merely a sexist gibe), and nor is Section 28 (“Children… are being taught that they have an inalienable right to be gay,” she once warned us, as her government allowed already disgraceful child poverty rates to soar). There's no mention of her denouncing Nelson Mandela as a terrorist, nor is there room for her friend Augusto Pinochet; a man who presided over mass executions, torture and rape. It's also largely bereft of the dismantling of entire UK industries, her brutal slashing of public spending, wholesale privatisation, deregulated greed and opportunism, and even the consequences of her assault via a militarised police on trade unionists and working people. There's some brief coverage of the strike by the National Union of Mineworkers, but nothing of the communities she crippled. There’s no context, no debate, no aftermath. It's a bloody mess in more ways than one. 

The Falklands War and, in particular, the chilling moment that the fate of the Argentinean cruiser The General Belgrano was sealed is granted more airtime. "Sink it," she hisses callously. She's exonerated moments later, of course. The IRA bombing of the Conservative Party Conference in Brighton and her attempted assassination becomes an actual LOL moment as Dennis emerges in slow-motion from the debris of a bathroom, post-blast, frazzled and clutching an obliterated shoe in each hand. And rather than investigate her hostility towards Europe, the irreconcilable differences between Thatcher and Geoffrey Howe and his subsequent resignation manifest themselves during a humiliating bollocking in a cabinet meeting over sloppy wording and spelling errors, with Mrs T behaving like a psychotic headmistress. "I wouldn't have spoken to my gamekeeper like that," mutters one minster afterwards.

The Iron Lady is quickly melted down. The ability to recite the current retail price of Lurpak wasn't quite enough to convince anyone she was even on the same planet as her electorate, let alone 'in touch' with them. The Poll Tax was her most blatant attempt yet of waging a class war, and this time even her spineless sycophants had had enough. Civil disobedience was organised in defiance of her selfish ideology, and as Thatch is wheeled through the middle of yet another violent demonstration, you conclude that where there was harmony, she really did bring discord. The end of her tenure is predictably Dianafied. As she exits Number 10, it's on a carpet of rose petals and Tory tears to the sound of 'Casta Diva' (it translates as "pure goddess") from Bellini's Norma, and sadly not (although it does briefly appear elsewhere) the Notsensibles 1979 hit 'I'm In Love With Margaret Thatcher'. As one reviewer has suggested, "This depiction of The Iron Lady is as deeply nuanced as you would expect from the director of Mamma Mia!" If we're re-writing history, you wonder if this is merely the first draft. What's to be next? 'Maggie: The Musical' by Ben Elton? Don't laugh.

'The Iron Lady' is a massive missed opportunity. You shouldn't profess admiration for a political leader based solely on their gumption or obstinance, anymore than you should elicit sympathy for them now because of a decline in their mental health. You simply cannot depoliticise Thatcher. Surely it's the repercussions of her actions on her public on which she should be judged, and those are greatly overlooked here. Voices of dissent are relegated to scraps of archive footage. Any alternative to her own agenda is seen as resulting in chaos and bloodshed.
Sure, she had to overcome deep-rooted prejudices and snobbery, but Meryl Streep's Thatcher would not, you suspect, be impressed with being revered as an icon either.
"It used to be about trying to do something," she replies to a dinner guest who has referred to her as inspirational. "Now it’s about trying to be someone."

As a depiction of the devastating affects of Alzheimer’s on a reclusive widow, it's strangely moving in parts. But as a political biopic and an examination of Thatcherism and her legacy? No, no, no. It's not quite a whitewash, nor is it a hatchet-job. It's just a bit... well, nothing.

And nothing is very much what's left at the end. The ghost of Denis has literally been packed up and carted orff to the knackers, and she's left alone at the kitchen sink, no longer needing to activate every household appliance to drown out the voices of ghosts. Birdsong is now all that is audible to her. Washing up a solitary teacup, you're almost convinced she's human.