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Question marks hover over the Wighnomy Brothers' heads as both my camera and the crowd ask 'where are all the tunes?' DJ Koze came no closer to answering this question, having forgotten to pack any himself in that mad rush for the airport. Electric Cabaret put on an ok party, big warehouse, dire portaloos etc, tho £4 beers demand five star entertainment and that was sorely lacking. The crowd were edgy and largely unimpressed with the constant 'kill the beat, bring back the beat' school of not really dj'ing at all. When the two teddies eventually made it to the decks, they spent the first twenty minutes wallowing in atmospheric excrement they appeared to be extracting from each other's vast rumps. Had this poo'dling resulted in some cataclysmic break down which promptly booted the lethargic lysergics into a higher gear, we'd have instantly forgiven them, but noooooo. Almost as an afterthought a dull thud crawled out of the bass bins and lay dying on the floor at our feet. We thought perhaps any beat would be a good beat at this stage, but the plodding doof of manure rhythmically plopping to the ground beneath the decks, sounded the death knell for our evening and we headed South.
I'm a miserable clubber at the best of times. I have a magnetic attraction to elbows and glowing cigarette butts and loathe the constant jostling and jabbing that inevitably sends one or other of these items into my eyeball. A particularly insolent crew of Spanish chica midgets chose to surround us on this occasion and jabber incessantly into their phones whilst wielding their marlboros like carcinogenic light sabres in our faces. Is it wrong to want to batter a Spanish chica midget to death with its own phone? I think not.
Praise be to the N35 which carried us back to Tunetopia, a red room jammed with delights and an upstairs neighbour having his own party, it doesn't get better than this. Yet again, we are forced to ask ourselves, why do we ever go out?
B
Renowned South African artist Diane Victor is featuring an exhibition of work in tandem with a group of other SA artists at the Cork St Gallery. The pictures that make up the series 'recent dead' capture the faces of people 'snuffed out' as it were by HIV. I don't use this term flippantly as the images themselves have literally been coaxed out of the smoky impressions left by candle smut on paper. The technique creates works so fragile the slightest bump can reduce them to dust, their innate vulnerability echoing the flimsy substance of human existence etc etc. The artist continued this theme with a series of pictures of missing children, drawn from photos found in old police reports and family albums, forlorn portraits of the lost and forgotten. Naturally I've bought a whole bunch of 'em to lighten up the front living room of my new house, wayhey! That's just it really, noble and powerful and meaningful and brilliantly executed though these pictures are, you don't really want a row of ghosts staring down at you while you're watching 'any dream will do.' Must I feel bad for not purchasing 'worthy' art? At £900 a pop I feel nowt, but if you got the cash and the conscience, pick up one of these today, they'll go great above the mantelpiece next to your bowling trophy.
B
Nothing like the management of your gig venue coming over all warm and fuzzy. Well, let it be said, last night's sounds were anything but bland, boring or monotonous. Dark, furious and f**king loud, but definitely not bland. The hen night in the corner were possibly expecting a few Al Green classics, maybe that nice Beyonce and Shakira track. They moved downstairs smartish as the lo-end shattered their eardrums and left brain matter all over the nice wooden floors. That seemed to do it for punter activity, the rest of the night was spent entertaining the five odd people brave enough to return upstairs. On reflection, this is perhaps not the ideal location for journeys into experimental sound. Ah well, t'was worth a try.
B
Only Tortured Artist could get away with sporting a cardie of such epic cheese as this. The fly fishing theme is carried through to the front, with an elegant wooden rod curving artfully over the left breast. It being his birthday n' all, I was willing to rise above this pret-a-poisson moment in the interests of being a good sport. We could have lingered endlessly in Soho with the b'day boy, but Loved One and I had a prior engagement with Captain Eager and the Mark of Voth.
Yes, sadly it was as shite as it sounds. Potentially a good idea homaging/pastiching the old Dan Dare comics but while the clunky set vaguely amused, the clunky script failed dismally on many levels. Despite the welcome presence of Green Wing alumni Tamsin Grieg and Mark Heap, the emaciated joke starved to death in front of us. The screams of larffter from the crew and cast in the front row, gave you the impression you were sitting in on someone's hilarious family video of that wacky themed Christmas they all had in a cottage in Cumbria. Still, it's not often you attend a world premiere of a film where the director stands in front of you with a guitar and sings a little ditty to introduce his opus. I'd like to see Michael Bay introduce Transformers with a few choice licks from a ukulele, now that would be entertaining.
B
