touching from a distance

A review of the new Anton Corbijn film appeared in a recent Telegraph (the Cal one, natch) tabloid edition. I felt vaguely ill the rest of the day, because it seemed to me quite absurd. 'Control' will never be released here - in fact, it's probably out on 'limited release' anyway. Why review it? Here I bite off a long tangential rant on good movies never making it to my city because it's beyond obvious. I've wanted to see 'Control' since I first heard of it a few months ago. Some form of band-related OCD kicking in, no doubt, as I declared myself officially Over Them last year. (New Order is more to my taste right now, shock horror.) But teenage angst is more splendid and memorable than, well, a lot of other, more worthy events in one's life. Do I generalize unfairly? Paint those burgeoning years of indie fandom in too-flattering hues? What could possibly be more depressing than endless afternoons listening to songs like 'Transmission' and 'I Remember Nothing' on repeat, being something surely far worse than being the nineteen year old misfit (id est the nineteen year old underachiever)? Ach. Beware of the cookie cutter.

But it's music. By its very definition - perhaps 'description' suits better - it is life. Signs of, affirmation of, reason for.



And... I'm only doing this because I think the first post on this blog featured a picture of Blixa Bargeld: Einstuerzende Neubauten have apparently released 'Alles Wieder Offen'. That's right, folks, they've been doing this who-needs-a-record-label stuff longer than Radiohead. I have not, need I mention, heard any of EN's new work, but I hope it's a step up from 'Perpetuum Mobile'. They're an interesting example of a (literal-) deconstruction band with pronounced centripetal tendencies. (Oh gosh that sounded so good in a sort of wanky left-field-music-critic way.) I also admire that Bargeld continues to write and perform his lyrics in German - and that, going by translations, they're really very good.

I shall now fling a terrible navel-gazing trivia question into the void. Which bands alongside Joy Division form my personal (un)holy quintet of Bands From Manchester Whose Songs I Have Played On Repeat During Endless Miserable Afternoons? (And No, It's Not Bleeding Oasis.)

rabies parachutes

This is the exact moment I was supposed to have turned into a vegetarian. It is a highly self-conscious moment, a moment that announces itself as poignant and epiphanic. I am standing with my mother, we are up to our wrists in potatoes, rotating, scrutinizing, our hands are dusted a soft yellow, the man sitting behind the dizzying mounds of potatoes is discreetly scratching his crotch. We fill up one of the plastic baskets with hand-picked tubers. Their eyes are winking at me. We know we'll end up with some rotten ones anyway. Or maybe we won't. I am too cynical sometimes. On the other side of the potato seller is the man with his cage bursting with chickens. There is a boy beside him, together they are a well-greased, blood-slicked machine. The boy lops the dirty white wings off with two motions Hemingway would have given his arms for. The squawking amputated chickens are thrust at the man, who bends them over something and hacks their heads off. The bodies catch up a little late, pretending to swim free-style in the ripe air of the market.

Do you see the poignancy?

Do you?

I was supposed to have been transfixed by the brutality of this sight. 'Never again,' I was supposed to cry (on the inside), 'Shall I assist in the perpetuation of this brutal cycle of violence and genocide.' I was supposed to dream of dancing headless chickens, to drop my fork in horror the next time I laid eyes on the corpse transformed, marinaded and paraded, flesh unto meat, and quiver like a good little consumer whose ignorance and hypocrisy had been exposed.

Why am I writing this when I haven't finished my final piece for college?

Perhaps I shall write about headless wingless chickens.

Perhaps I shall write about potatoes.

Perhaps I shall write about how hard it is to be a vegetarian.

The reason I don't write here

is that I hate everything else I've written here. I think I will delete everything. A fresh start. I have a new camera. Afraid to even start looking at the user manuals yet, this is the most intimidating mass of technology I have held in my hand. So many fiddly bits, what if I click the wrong one? What if I ruin it on the first day. Hello anxiety disorder. I will take pictures of factories. And crows. A series on crows. I made friends with one when I was fifteen. He would peer at me from up on the windowsill and purr when I sat down to my lunch. I always shared. I would like to take pictures of people at university but I think I'm too shy to dare. But maybe this is what a camera is for? A kind of courage, once removed.

The new Babyshambles: I like the jazzy songs. I like that Pete is pulling himself out of the mire. 'There She Goes' is still one of my favourite tunes, I love the shuffly beat to it. I love that clearly it is about Carl - the Northern soul reference seals it - and shut up shut up it is not about anybody else.