Antony and the Johnsons

We went to see Antony and the Johnsons in Vicar Street on Friday night and it was marvellously nice. The picture above wasn't taken at the gig (because thats not allowed) but pictures probably shouldn't be taken of Antony anyway. The only word that I can use to describe him is Beast. It's even harder to reconcile his eery voice and hulking frame when you see him perform.

Talking before the show to Mark's lovely girlfriend (Eileen? Eithne?), we agreed that you don't get as giddy about the prospect of great gigs when there's so many on your doorstep, but I Am A Bird Now is a great album and I was fierce excited on the night.

And I was right to be excited. His voice is chillingly sinister live and the crowd was in thrawl to it throughout. I was completely thrown the moment he started singing and my mind struggled to choose between Jesus!, What?, How?, Nah! and Japers! for at least 3 songs. His head went all over the place in an effort to get his voice out and it seemed that he was being controlled by something that had a malicously perverse agenda.

There were parts of the concert that suffered a little for his precious and theatrical delivery however. As I much as I was teeth grindingly delighted that he finished with Candy Says by the Velvet Underground, the song lost some of its catchy pop appeal when it was stripped of its structure.

This is only a minor complaint though. There were a string of appallingly brilliant songs played and the spare piano playing was complimented beautifully by Spanish guitar. You Are My Sister and Leonard Cohen's The Guests in particular stand out. In some ways it seemed like the year was leading up to Hope There's Someone and it definetly ranks up there with Alice at Tom Waits and Do You Realize? at the Flaming Lips in terms of classic concert moments.

He appears as Mother of the World in Devendra Banhart's hilariously pretentious folky anti-war video. I made a link to it in the link section. Keep an eye out for pretty pretty Joanna Newsom in there as well. Congratulations to Mr Steve as well for getting confirmation that he'll soon be known as Dr Steve. Should we drop the Rambling part now Steve?

Mr Shane "Ahh...Horgan you complete fucking donkey" Horgan

Went to Lansdowne Road on Saturday expecting some class of a competent display against an appalling Romanian side, but for the most part we were treated to a brutal exhibition of thick-headed drudgery. There was no conviction in Ireland's play, it was evilly cold and the crowd didn't sing once. The most interesting thing about the first half was the relentless bullying of a kid in front of us by two little thugs.

The game was redeemed however by a classic exhibition of calamity by Shane Horgan. If there is one thing that my dad, brother and I have in common, it's a blinding hatred for big Shane. We've been screaming at the television together for nearly fifteen years now and are rarely more animated than when Hoorgan gets his big mucky frame in the way of the ball. My dad is usually reduced to a vocabulary of three words during games and none of them are English when Horgan is playing. So in the spirit of his commentary the game saw little or no BOOM, a smattering of BANG and only one complete BOLLOX.

Anyway I involuntarily yelled Donkey on seven occasions thanks to Shane and I hope that Simon, who's first time it was at an international, will have picked up some nasty viewing habits. The only other thing I took from the game was an appreciation for what it must be like to be addicted to botox injections. My face was frozen solid and I had the weary eyes of a middle aged hag desperate to reclaim her youth.

Ta paiste scubaid ag damhsa

Listening to the radio this morning, there was a report that a judge in North Carolina has banned Irish Dancing in his locality due to it's "tawdry erotic nature". It seems that the practice of lepping up and down in traditional Irish dance is tantamount to simulating the "grinding motion of sexual intercourse". The decision comes on the back of the judge's decree that lapdancing be disbanded in his jurisdiction and he equated the two in his final judgement. So it isn't Britney, Christina or even R Kelly who are responsible for corrupting the kids; the gaelgoirs were there first.

If I look back now, I can see that the ceili were rife with evidence of adult sexuality. There was the delicious confusion of the foursomes, with their chest to chest poise and mandatory partner swapping. The music was as natural as anything and partners were exchanged in a "you'll take mine...and I'll take yours" kind of lunacy.

When the music lulled, two partners would eye each other manicly and then, catching elbow and fist, you'd swing the other with a demented revery; knocking any little ones flat into the wall if you could help it. Surely this was the embryo for the all or nothing Irish chat-up approach of "give us a go of your knockers".

For the twosomes, I can remember the look of disgust on pretty girl's faces when it was my turn to dance and how they pulled the sleeves of their jumpers over their hands so our skin wouldn't touch as we did the "arms behind the backs dance". A Darwinian process quickly emerged and you found yourself dancing with whoever was in your league. In my case, the thick ankled red head from Kerry who'd plenty of practice of dancing with her brothers.

The image that has stuck in my head since this morning is that of Patrick Swayze's character in Donnie Darko, urging na caillini agus na buachailli to forget fear and dance to their hearts content. It would be too terrible to imagine what would be found if Patrick's secret room was discovered. There'd probably be evidence that he made kids wear the Offaly football jersey and they'd find tearful recordings of "Trasna na Donnta". It's a sick world we live in. What's the Irish for Sparkle Motion?

Disgusting and Unholy

It's official. Glen Hansard is the most detestable person in Ireland. Sir Glen outstripped fellow celebrities Bishop Brendan Comiskey and Oliver Cromwell; securing a whopping 42% of the votes in the recent Gallup poll.

This news comes as Glen was congratulated in the Sunday Business Post for rebuking a group of "Paddies" who had the temerity to speak between songs at a recent concert. SHHHHHhhhh! Glen is telling a story!

NEVER-CHANGING PADDIES

Glen Hansard, the charismatic front-man of the Frames, may have cost his band a few fans after a gig in Brussels last Tuesday.Just days after filling The Point in Dublin at €30 a head, the group played to a few hundred people in the Ancienne Belgique venue for €16 a pop.Inevitably, the crowd included some (inevitably) drunk Irish people. Hansard, who played Outspan in the film The Commitments, has a reputation for story-telling and interacting with the audience, but he was in no mood for banter.When the noisy Irish started demanding attention, he was less than impressed. “It's good to be back in Brussels,” he said, “even if it feels like Carlow. Hopefully, they'll get drunk and f*** off.”The bould Irish were undeterred, even clapping and singing during what should have been a quiet moment.That drew a two-fingered gesture from Hansard.“What are you doing?” he demanded, frustrated, stomping to the back of the stage.By the end of the night, Hansard felt obliged to apologise for the Irish, drawing applause from the natives present.Bass player Joe Doyle added his explanation for the behaviour of the Paddies: “I remember the first time I had an alcoholic beverage too,” he said.

Punishment Park
(1971)



I rented out this amazing film last night and I really couldn't recommend it more highly. It was originally released at the height of the turmoil surrounding anti-war protests in the States but is scarily relevant today.

The film is shot in documentary style, with untrained actors effectively playing themselves, as European television is invited to the Californian desert to take a look at how the Americans are clamping down on those responsible for civil disobedience. Prisoners (who have spent months in prison without charge) are sentenced in a kangaroo court to 15 years in state prison or given the option of 72 hours in Punishment Park. Released into the desert, they are given the three days to reach an American flag 53 miles away. To make it more interesting they are to be hunted down by a group made up of cops, soldiers and members of the national guard; all on training exercises. Pretences of abiding by the rules are very quickly abandoned but it doesn't develop into a Mad Max adventure as you might expect. The camera follows both groups and you're there as the paranoia builds up on both sides. Terrifying stuff.

Why is it that most of the people who visit this blog are those who want me to check out their scented candles blog or improve my sperm count? Spam must have the meiotic qualities of cancer. Maybe they should direct research into that area more; it could prove fruitful.

I plan to flesh out the gallery section soon and maybe I'll have a few more interesting stories once I've made some more progress with all those (revolting) computer manuals. After two years of fumbling around in the dark, I've finally gotten help from a Louise McGuigan in the Physics department. Lovely Louise gave me two hours of her time for free and took some convincing to allow me to pay her for the next session. I'm sure the next time we meet, she'll be astride a white horse and we'll ride off to the land of the young to the sound of the Valkyrie. Am feeling a lot more confident about getting this thesis together in the near future.

I've recommended an album by Joanna Newsom in the random and recent review section. I think, Elke for one, would really enjoy it. Glad to see that there is a clear leader in the Celebrity poll. Don't miss out on your constitutional right to vote. There may even be a witch hunt to follow. He's the devil! Look in the eyes, look him in the eyes!

Oxegen Cult: Backup Story Vol. 1

As a completely unjustified air of scepticism has descended in the last year, the cry of "There are pictures and I will prove it!" has nearly become a mantra. I might as well take this opportunity to restore some credibility. What we have here is all that remains as evidence of Jonny of Edinburgh's attempt to turn Oxegen into Jonestown. Click on pictures to enlarge.
What began as a passionate eulogy for traditional values on campsite, gathered terrifying momentum as Jonny, wielding deckchair and Book above his head, tore through tents and crowds to deliver impromptu sermons. Delivered from the Imperial Chair in clearings among unsuspecting tentants, sermons were never less than controversial. Any attempts to sabotage (or even criticise) Jonny's mission, were quickly stamped out by the intimidating presence of Ben the Noble Savage. Ben (in his distinctive red and white toga), had introduced himself to the group earlier in the day as a painter ("What do you paint?"..."Fuckin houses!") and immediately commanded everyone's respect. You could not doubt his commitment.
Jonny's eratic style and tendency to end sermons unexpectedly, before dashing off across the campsite with a line of 30 followers in tow, contributed to the menace. Knowledge of the scope of his message was confirmed when someone from another site approached with: "Is the one they call Jonny here? I hear you can fix stuff." As we returned to our tents, a plaintive and distant cry of "Shut the fuck up Jonny" was heard trailing over a remote hill. I half expected to see a Wicker Man burning ominously as the sun came up.

Dublin Lunar Transport Command Station

As a buachaill, I spent a great deal of my time assembling intergalactic civic buildings with the Construx Lunar Command Station set. The splendour of Construx was in realising the most outrageous prospects for our collective future. There were specialist surgery space stations, satelite concert venues (surely Ziggy Stardust would have approved) and "Fun Factory" in Dun Laoghaire was transplanted to the moon. My early childhood boiled down to the asthetics of dice-like connectors, white beams and the beautiful sheen from a blue panel. When constructed, the station allowed the perverse voyeurism of a Hitchcock film. Hours were spent mindful of tension in the blue paneled medical theatres and the precarious flight paths of incoming jets. Meccano seemed hopelessly dull in comparison.
Imagine the delerium when I recognised my fledgeling dreams in the transport plans of our very own Dublin Area Rapid Transport system. It seems impossible that the "overhead tunnels" in Blackrock and Booterstown were designed by anyone other than a Construx enthuasiast. Though the example above may not reveal the true likeness, my stations were replete with the same elevator design, corridor and stairwell features.
Having completely forgotten my lunar fascination, I was overwhelmed to see them fully realised in the cold light of day. I stood beneath the elevator terminus, closed one eye and stared through the white rigging beams to the sky. There was a little tear I can tell you. Bring on the Bionic Chest and Hand Amputation Facility!

Motives for Starting a Blog

1. Vanity.

2. I'm wrapping up my research masters and intend to ply my trade as a journalist. I'm sure that a weblog will draw out a formidable discipline and lead to submittions/publications in all the right places.

3. Having spent the last two years entombed in a bright blue cubicle box, researching how we haven't evolved since cavemen and the disastrous implications for our survival in the Information Age, I feel compelled to pitch my tent on the interweb; if only to find my place in the midst of all the hysteria.

4. I have been encouraged by the unflinching support for my previous efforts to contribute to the virtual community. Let me take this opportunity to thank the small (but extremely loyal) partisans of my Milli Vanilli community on orkut; in particular DJ (an actual disk jockey), Lelo and the one and only Trust.

5. I've a habit of pestering my mates to listen to new music I come across and noticed recently the overwhelming irritation caused by overloading them with all the great music that is around at the moment. I intend to put together a group of beginner's guides to my favourite bands and review recent albums.

6. A recent diet of Six Feet Under, Pedro Peramo and a succession of dissolved friendships has forced me to face the impending spectre of Death. I intend to battle against the dying light by preserving my image (just as a butterfly in aspic) in a selection of galleries. Visitors are encouraged to append a verdict of either "In Your Prime" or "Slowly Fading" to those pictures in which I feature.