Monday October 26th
I Spent one hour this morning conducting Vox Pops at the top of Old Christchurch Road, the timing was perfect with workers all on lunch breaks. Made a terrible mistake with a lack of charged batteries, but I managed to get 6 vox pops on 23 minutes of battery. This was a definite lack of planning and I will endeavor not to let that happen again. I found it much harder to get female participants, even though I was filming with a female for help.
Tuesday, 27 October 2009
TV News Production Blog
Saturday October 24th
I arranged an interview with PPC for Bournemouth West Liberal Democrats, Alasdair Murray, on the subject of a heightened BNP presence in his constituency. Luckily, he was wearing a soft green jumper that made a shoot in the Lower Gardens, with the autumnal colour, work very well.
I spent the rest of the afternoon getting GVs of Bournemouth town including Gervis Place, Commercial Road, and some 'seasonal' views from West Cliff, across the bay to Durley Chine.
I arranged an interview with PPC for Bournemouth West Liberal Democrats, Alasdair Murray, on the subject of a heightened BNP presence in his constituency. Luckily, he was wearing a soft green jumper that made a shoot in the Lower Gardens, with the autumnal colour, work very well.
I spent the rest of the afternoon getting GVs of Bournemouth town including Gervis Place, Commercial Road, and some 'seasonal' views from West Cliff, across the bay to Durley Chine.
Dance To The Radio – 4 X 12″ Number 3
Leeds based label of lovelies Dance To The Radio have given up another 4 track offering, showcasing the insanely cool shite they’re peddling right now.
Openers Chickenhawk set out to prove just how much they can scare your nan, and with such gusto! Scorpieau writhes in the middle ground between Cat on Form and McLusky – this is some dumb shit, but the kind of shit shrooms grow out of, which therefore makes it awesome shit. Guaranteed to bring out the fist-in-the-air comic-punk in everyone. Great track.
Bypassing any kind of middle ground, we go straight to Esben and the Witch. The Brighton based three piece channel ‘Dummy’-era Portishead for the Florence Welch generation. In fact, that may be a bit harsh. ‘Skeleton Swoon’ creeps up on you in the dark, only to rape your mind and leave you with a face full of melancholia. Singer lady Rachel lends a sultry anger to the vocals, shrouded in echo, turning the song into every listener’s unique fantasy.
Olfar hails from the Lake District, which is my homestead. For that reason, he is cool. Luckily, ‘Husk’ is nowhere as bad as the modern twee folk collectives he may/may not have the misfortune of being pigeonholed with. This is the kind of song you would put around 3/4s of the way through a mix for someone you’re trying to impress (sleep with). The instrumentation is heart-warmingly clunky, and the refrain is simple, “don’t leave me on the shore, lead me in the sea”, and is now stuck in my head. Well done, Olfar. You win.
I feel I should apologise to Airship, ‘Spirit Party’ is a bit of an anti-climax to be placed at the end. Plus it reminds me of so many recent indie pop songs I’m starting to wonder where I’ve heard it before. Not to say that it’s a bad song, successfully anglicising both the Arcade Fire and Band of Horses, ending at just the right moment, leaving year head feathery warm and your heart contented. A little bit like eating a hash brownie really.
Openers Chickenhawk set out to prove just how much they can scare your nan, and with such gusto! Scorpieau writhes in the middle ground between Cat on Form and McLusky – this is some dumb shit, but the kind of shit shrooms grow out of, which therefore makes it awesome shit. Guaranteed to bring out the fist-in-the-air comic-punk in everyone. Great track.
Bypassing any kind of middle ground, we go straight to Esben and the Witch. The Brighton based three piece channel ‘Dummy’-era Portishead for the Florence Welch generation. In fact, that may be a bit harsh. ‘Skeleton Swoon’ creeps up on you in the dark, only to rape your mind and leave you with a face full of melancholia. Singer lady Rachel lends a sultry anger to the vocals, shrouded in echo, turning the song into every listener’s unique fantasy.
Olfar hails from the Lake District, which is my homestead. For that reason, he is cool. Luckily, ‘Husk’ is nowhere as bad as the modern twee folk collectives he may/may not have the misfortune of being pigeonholed with. This is the kind of song you would put around 3/4s of the way through a mix for someone you’re trying to impress (sleep with). The instrumentation is heart-warmingly clunky, and the refrain is simple, “don’t leave me on the shore, lead me in the sea”, and is now stuck in my head. Well done, Olfar. You win.
I feel I should apologise to Airship, ‘Spirit Party’ is a bit of an anti-climax to be placed at the end. Plus it reminds me of so many recent indie pop songs I’m starting to wonder where I’ve heard it before. Not to say that it’s a bad song, successfully anglicising both the Arcade Fire and Band of Horses, ending at just the right moment, leaving year head feathery warm and your heart contented. A little bit like eating a hash brownie really.
Rogues - Widows E.P
Rogues hail from Harrow. That’s fun to type, and fun to say! Seriously though, the band of but a year’s vintage make some pretty sweet atmospheric pop, reminiscent of pretty much every track on the Donnie Darko soundtrack. Except Bunnymen, they’re not that good. Oh, and it’s definitely a grower; echos of Kate Bush, Cocteau Twins and Oingo Boingo are all here.
‘Widows’ is a collection of not all that strong tunes, which put side by side create a listening experience that gets all the more addictive with every listen. Your selective hearing will be given a workout when you spend time swimming through the eclectic production. Everything about this should be so Magic FM, but instead it reminds you of that time you rifled through your mum’s 7″s and found that not every 80s band sounded like Culture Club.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a locked door and some pictures of Molly Ringwald.
‘Widows’ is a collection of not all that strong tunes, which put side by side create a listening experience that gets all the more addictive with every listen. Your selective hearing will be given a workout when you spend time swimming through the eclectic production. Everything about this should be so Magic FM, but instead it reminds you of that time you rifled through your mum’s 7″s and found that not every 80s band sounded like Culture Club.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a locked door and some pictures of Molly Ringwald.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Big Brother Sent to Room 101
So, the news that most of us have been hoping to hear for years came this week; Channel Four will cease to televise Big Brother, and producers Endemol will stop making it if they cannot find another buyer. Please join me in a collective prayer that Channel Five can’t fucking afford it.
According to The Guardian, C4’s three year, £180m deal with Endemol will cease to exist next year. This means one last summer of forgetting it’s on, until you wonder why you haven’t seen the same two episodes of Scrubs every day for two months. I genuinely had withdrawal symptoms from their cheesy moral lectures on life, death and race.
As a ‘cost-cutting measure’ next year’s season will not be streamed live through the idiot box; which is a start, as surely the last 9 seasons would have worked much better with this format? Only massive sad cases and the mentally unhinged enjoy staring at people sleeping during the small hours. Imagine them sat there daydreaming of what perverse acts they could perform if the laws of physics allowed them to climb into the TV screen with some chloroform and KY jelly.
And KY jelly leads me neatly into the challenges undertaken by the contestants in the house. Marathon karaoke sessions, Giant baguette eating competitions (with recommended purging), and biscuit dunking are but a few of the highly inventive dignity sapping spectacles we have seen over the past few years.
I think it is now only right, as it is the last series, to take these shit tasks up a notch. The last two house mates not to have exhibitionist sex directly in front of the cameras will be stripped naked and stuck together with shrink wrap until nature takes its course. This will raise interesting moral questions, like, if neither person consents to sex, which of them is committing the act of rape? The producers are not committing it, as the legal definition demands penetration by the perpetrator. I must ask a lawyer…
Or how about subjecting the housemates to excessive noise torture that the British and American armies are so keen to use on terror suspects? 48 hours of James Blunt’s whimpering lyrical diarrhoea at 125db (the point at which sound brings pain) should sort the deaf from the drooling zombified idiots. Instant voting immunity for whoever who still likes ‘You’re Beautiful’ by the second day.
So what about the Z listers created by the show? Are we really going to miss another self-absorbed little bollocks stumbling out of a Soho club shitfaced? Conveniently forgetting to wear knickers and developing rickets as they get out of a cab? Or how about some gold digging Essex blonde telling the tabloid what a tiny cock an ex-housemate has? Yeah, we’re better off without that shit.
What’s more, there are plenty more sources for these knuckle fucking idiots to come from, there are other reality shows around to start new pointless careers or revive ailing ones. If only there were some way we could mentally torture these idiots, then at least we can gain the grim satisfaction that these people genuinely want their tiny speckles of fame so much that the lifetime need for psychiatry is a worthwhile sacrifice.
So here’s to the end of an era. Thank fuck. End.
According to The Guardian, C4’s three year, £180m deal with Endemol will cease to exist next year. This means one last summer of forgetting it’s on, until you wonder why you haven’t seen the same two episodes of Scrubs every day for two months. I genuinely had withdrawal symptoms from their cheesy moral lectures on life, death and race.
As a ‘cost-cutting measure’ next year’s season will not be streamed live through the idiot box; which is a start, as surely the last 9 seasons would have worked much better with this format? Only massive sad cases and the mentally unhinged enjoy staring at people sleeping during the small hours. Imagine them sat there daydreaming of what perverse acts they could perform if the laws of physics allowed them to climb into the TV screen with some chloroform and KY jelly.
And KY jelly leads me neatly into the challenges undertaken by the contestants in the house. Marathon karaoke sessions, Giant baguette eating competitions (with recommended purging), and biscuit dunking are but a few of the highly inventive dignity sapping spectacles we have seen over the past few years.
I think it is now only right, as it is the last series, to take these shit tasks up a notch. The last two house mates not to have exhibitionist sex directly in front of the cameras will be stripped naked and stuck together with shrink wrap until nature takes its course. This will raise interesting moral questions, like, if neither person consents to sex, which of them is committing the act of rape? The producers are not committing it, as the legal definition demands penetration by the perpetrator. I must ask a lawyer…
Or how about subjecting the housemates to excessive noise torture that the British and American armies are so keen to use on terror suspects? 48 hours of James Blunt’s whimpering lyrical diarrhoea at 125db (the point at which sound brings pain) should sort the deaf from the drooling zombified idiots. Instant voting immunity for whoever who still likes ‘You’re Beautiful’ by the second day.
So what about the Z listers created by the show? Are we really going to miss another self-absorbed little bollocks stumbling out of a Soho club shitfaced? Conveniently forgetting to wear knickers and developing rickets as they get out of a cab? Or how about some gold digging Essex blonde telling the tabloid what a tiny cock an ex-housemate has? Yeah, we’re better off without that shit.
What’s more, there are plenty more sources for these knuckle fucking idiots to come from, there are other reality shows around to start new pointless careers or revive ailing ones. If only there were some way we could mentally torture these idiots, then at least we can gain the grim satisfaction that these people genuinely want their tiny speckles of fame so much that the lifetime need for psychiatry is a worthwhile sacrifice.
So here’s to the end of an era. Thank fuck. End.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Gossip Rubs Journalism’s Face in Dirt
Michael Jackson is dead, and if you’re honest, there will be a time in the past few years where you labeled him a “sick paedo”, so don’t go feigning sadness, yeah?
Now, I couldn’t give a toss about the man, and it’s not his death which interested me. It was the coverage. As a Journalism student, it made me feel incredibly uneasy to see the leading news agencies in the world running around like blue arsed flies; chomping on the recycled scraps of information left to them by celebrity gossip blog TMZ.
I may be getting well ahead of myself, but I can see a future where Kate Adie and John Simpson stand shoulder to shoulder with Perez Hilton on the front line; a world in which a representative from E! quizzes Ahmadinejad on his country’s high gender bias. Scary, no?
This isn’t the first time TMZ have beaten multi-national news corporations to scoops on celebrity deaths. Both the Steve Irwin and Heath Ledger spectacles were leaked first to this L.A based Blog, one of which happened the other side of America, and one of which happened the other side of the world.
I’m well aware of a gaping hole in this, the little voice in my head screaming “these are all celebrities, and this is a specialist celebrity blog!”. Well yes, that is true, but the fact is inescapable that the largest news agencies in the world, lost out to an online tabloid journal run by a Law graduate with no formal Journalism training.
Aside from a more than casual flirtation with facts (and a penchant for hyperbole) there is a much darker side to the celeb infatuated gossip mags and blogs. In Guardian scribe Oliver Burkeman’s “The Brangelina Industry“, he is told by head of X17 (one of the world’s largest Papparazzi agencies), that “there is this idea that there is only one truth, and that you have to stick to it. But maybe not.”. Come again?
Further damning of the industry comes from publicist Huvane (responsible for Gwyneth Paltrow, Demi Moore, Meg Ryan, Julianne Moore etc etc etc etc…). “If you co-operate with one of the magazines, their competitors become vengeful and attack clients… There is no upside to working with them … Their tactic is to make up stories that are so damaging, in the hope that we would engage in a dialogue that gives them access to the talent.” Lovely.
So here we have a biased industry, known to fabricate stories on the personal lives of celebrities (”[the story] can come from a genuine tip, or a photo. Or it can come out of our ass.” - anonymous celebrity weekly editor), at the forefront of international Journalism.
Sleep Well.
Now, I couldn’t give a toss about the man, and it’s not his death which interested me. It was the coverage. As a Journalism student, it made me feel incredibly uneasy to see the leading news agencies in the world running around like blue arsed flies; chomping on the recycled scraps of information left to them by celebrity gossip blog TMZ.
I may be getting well ahead of myself, but I can see a future where Kate Adie and John Simpson stand shoulder to shoulder with Perez Hilton on the front line; a world in which a representative from E! quizzes Ahmadinejad on his country’s high gender bias. Scary, no?
This isn’t the first time TMZ have beaten multi-national news corporations to scoops on celebrity deaths. Both the Steve Irwin and Heath Ledger spectacles were leaked first to this L.A based Blog, one of which happened the other side of America, and one of which happened the other side of the world.
I’m well aware of a gaping hole in this, the little voice in my head screaming “these are all celebrities, and this is a specialist celebrity blog!”. Well yes, that is true, but the fact is inescapable that the largest news agencies in the world, lost out to an online tabloid journal run by a Law graduate with no formal Journalism training.
Aside from a more than casual flirtation with facts (and a penchant for hyperbole) there is a much darker side to the celeb infatuated gossip mags and blogs. In Guardian scribe Oliver Burkeman’s “The Brangelina Industry“, he is told by head of X17 (one of the world’s largest Papparazzi agencies), that “there is this idea that there is only one truth, and that you have to stick to it. But maybe not.”. Come again?
Further damning of the industry comes from publicist Huvane (responsible for Gwyneth Paltrow, Demi Moore, Meg Ryan, Julianne Moore etc etc etc etc…). “If you co-operate with one of the magazines, their competitors become vengeful and attack clients… There is no upside to working with them … Their tactic is to make up stories that are so damaging, in the hope that we would engage in a dialogue that gives them access to the talent.” Lovely.
So here we have a biased industry, known to fabricate stories on the personal lives of celebrities (”[the story] can come from a genuine tip, or a photo. Or it can come out of our ass.” - anonymous celebrity weekly editor), at the forefront of international Journalism.
Sleep Well.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Celebrate Yourself - The Return of Shoegaze
18 years after My Bloody Valentine's Loveless, arguably the greatest album of the 90's, the Irish/American noise-poppers are back touring. This is a good thing. They're also recording a new album. This is a bloody good thing. They're even curating gargantuan hipster circle jerk All Tomorrow's Parties this winter. That's a fucking awesome thing.
The influence of this album can be seen in so many places, but it would be an act of monumental ignorance to hammer on about it, and ignore all the other bands that made this short-lived scene such a beautiful thing.
There was Lush and their spiky, angsty fuzz-pop, the trickling melancholy of Slowdive, and Ride's swirling psychedelia. Then there was Curve, Swervedriver, Spacemen 3...
So, that's the old guard. That happened then (admittedly, some of it is still happening with reformations from Swervedriver and MBV), but what the frick is going on now?
Well, two London club nights have been keeping the spirit alive. Club AC30 and Sonic Cathedral have been putting on the new wave of Shoegaze bands for some time now; as well as releasing singles by both stalwarts and newbies.
One of these bands is Spotlight Kid. Taking MBV's wall of noise sound and the Cocteau Twins' love of electronics, Spotlight Kid sidestep the dirgey pitfall that many bands fall into by upping the tempo and giving their noise a massive kick in the arse. Their one album to date, 2006's Departure is a gorgeous collection of summery fuzz-pop tunes which will make those drives down to the beach all the more giddy.
Going North of the border, we meet five fiery Celtic drinkers, The Twilight Sad. Spouting loner's poetry in the broadest of Glaswegian brogues, James Graham is an aesthetic and vocal representation of the brooding, rumbling, lush noise created by the band. Nothing like those other Scot noise-mongers Mogwai, they have more in common with a Jesus and Mary Chain that can program more than the beat from "Be My Baby". Expect sorrows being drowned by 9 pints of Tennant's Super and crescendos that will make your heart pump blood through your nose.
An offshoot of Shoegaze, Metalgaze seems to be a product of metal heads deciding things sounded a lot better slower. I'm guessing a shitload of grass was involved in this decision. Jesu (AKA Justin K Broaderick of defunct metallers Godflesh and grindcore heroes Napalm Death) make sludgy, hypnotic stoner rock which will most likely give you a hernia at high volume. 9 minute motorik drone workouts and pounding bass are the order of the day, with those gorgeous not-quite-there reverberating vocals merely another instrument in the great wall of sound.
Finally, a band getting slightly more attention in the media, French kitsch-poppers M83 (warning: video contains graphic scenes of rollerblading). Taking their cues from 80's Brat Pack cinema and the original Gaelic sex-pest, Serge Gainsbourg, you couldn't find a cooler band. Their 5th album proper, Saturdays = Youth was released last year to critical acclaim, landing them a support slot with MOR hounds Kings of Leon. Personally, I couldn't imagine more of a clash. M83's joyous, youthful synth-pop is leagues away from the stale, corporate music of some inbred rednecks with seriously burned cocks.
So go ahead, decorate your feet, they have to be interesting if you're going to spend a long time looking at them...
The influence of this album can be seen in so many places, but it would be an act of monumental ignorance to hammer on about it, and ignore all the other bands that made this short-lived scene such a beautiful thing.
There was Lush and their spiky, angsty fuzz-pop, the trickling melancholy of Slowdive, and Ride's swirling psychedelia. Then there was Curve, Swervedriver, Spacemen 3...
So, that's the old guard. That happened then (admittedly, some of it is still happening with reformations from Swervedriver and MBV), but what the frick is going on now?
Well, two London club nights have been keeping the spirit alive. Club AC30 and Sonic Cathedral have been putting on the new wave of Shoegaze bands for some time now; as well as releasing singles by both stalwarts and newbies.
One of these bands is Spotlight Kid. Taking MBV's wall of noise sound and the Cocteau Twins' love of electronics, Spotlight Kid sidestep the dirgey pitfall that many bands fall into by upping the tempo and giving their noise a massive kick in the arse. Their one album to date, 2006's Departure is a gorgeous collection of summery fuzz-pop tunes which will make those drives down to the beach all the more giddy.
Going North of the border, we meet five fiery Celtic drinkers, The Twilight Sad. Spouting loner's poetry in the broadest of Glaswegian brogues, James Graham is an aesthetic and vocal representation of the brooding, rumbling, lush noise created by the band. Nothing like those other Scot noise-mongers Mogwai, they have more in common with a Jesus and Mary Chain that can program more than the beat from "Be My Baby". Expect sorrows being drowned by 9 pints of Tennant's Super and crescendos that will make your heart pump blood through your nose.
An offshoot of Shoegaze, Metalgaze seems to be a product of metal heads deciding things sounded a lot better slower. I'm guessing a shitload of grass was involved in this decision. Jesu (AKA Justin K Broaderick of defunct metallers Godflesh and grindcore heroes Napalm Death) make sludgy, hypnotic stoner rock which will most likely give you a hernia at high volume. 9 minute motorik drone workouts and pounding bass are the order of the day, with those gorgeous not-quite-there reverberating vocals merely another instrument in the great wall of sound.
Finally, a band getting slightly more attention in the media, French kitsch-poppers M83 (warning: video contains graphic scenes of rollerblading). Taking their cues from 80's Brat Pack cinema and the original Gaelic sex-pest, Serge Gainsbourg, you couldn't find a cooler band. Their 5th album proper, Saturdays = Youth was released last year to critical acclaim, landing them a support slot with MOR hounds Kings of Leon. Personally, I couldn't imagine more of a clash. M83's joyous, youthful synth-pop is leagues away from the stale, corporate music of some inbred rednecks with seriously burned cocks.
So go ahead, decorate your feet, they have to be interesting if you're going to spend a long time looking at them...
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