All entries for Wednesday 25 November 2009

November 25, 2009

Misfits

TV image
Title:
Misfits
Rating:
3 out of 5 stars

Those crazy kids at E4 are at it again, making our disaffected TopShop generation their nonchalant muses. At least, that’s how it appeared in the adverts for new teen-dream drama Misfits or, as I wanted to call it, ‘Skins Series 4.’ We were promised a group of rebel scene-agers causing havoc and having sex with everyone but their parole officer, set to a soundtrack of bands that you’re not cool enough to know yet. The scent of E4 cashing in on the popularity of Skins was almost overbearing and I was quick to write it off before I even saw it. Calling itself Misfits was, and is still, crime enough in my book. I can only imagine the production meeting full of balding television executives trying to find a skewiff enough term for the alienated breed of teenager, skirting over ‘offbeats,’ ‘stray cats’ and ‘ne’er do wells’ before finally lumping for ‘misfits.’
Lazy marketing put to one side, and having exhausted all other possibilities on 4OD (including that god-awful and ill thought out 3D season), I sat down with my mug of piping hot white hot chocolate clearing my throat ready to grumble. However, I was pleasantly surprised. Less a rehash of Skins and more a mash-up of Heroes and Dead Set, Misfits opens its series with a promise of thrill. It is, shockingly, not about five kids who take drugs and occasionally look contemplatively into the distance because life sux, innit, but rather about five kids and their parole officer who are all given superpowers after a freak storm hits The City. Aside from the Irish kid, all the superpowers are revealed in the first episode. Chavvy Happy Slapper can read minds, Moody Runner can manipulate time, Actually Not All That Unattractive Moody Psycho Kid turns invisible, Can’t Do Better In Life Than Become a Parole Officer is some sort of zombie monster chav hunter and Pretty Slutty Girl can make herself irresistible to anyone she touches.
Though Misfits is hardly perfect. Whilst I admire the ingenuity behind Pretty Slutty Girl’s power (it is, if nothing else, original), it is a relatively pathetic plot device constructed solely for the introduction of gratuitous sex scenes. It’s got more plot holes than a Dr. Who Special (seriously; snow in 2059? In London? In November?) that cannot even be justified by saying, ‘but it’s magic.’ When the monster Parole Officer was chasing Chavvy Happy Slapper, he could have easily caught her. This is a creature who had no doubt spent the best part of her life living off of White Lightning and Curry and Chips. A girl who would skip PE to conceive her second baby at the age of 15 in an empty classroom if she went to school, or hanging with the tramps in the park if she didn’t because she’s street like that, yeah? In any case, there is no way that she would have been able to outrun a power-charged blood thirsty monster. Equally as unlikely is the kids’ acceptance of the discovery of a dead body in the locker. Thoughts immediately turned to cleaning and disposing of that body and that of the recently murdered Parole Officer. They had spent the day previous doing a pitiful job of cleaning up graffiti and a mutilated body would surely be enough to make someone be sick or faint or react with something other than a quip. If Misfits steers away from being Skins’ little brother and embraces its sci-fi elements as something other than something that can patch up inconsistencies, I might even enjoy watching it. Shocker.


Bowerbirds

Title:
Rating:
5 out of 5 stars

(Note: this is a live review, not a CD review. Buy the CD anyway...)

I had the opportunity to indulge in my ever-so-grating-and-patronizing tendency of forcing bands so new they’re practically foetal onto my friends the other week when Bowerbirds came to London. After spending a few months asking everyone, ‘oh, do you know Bowerbirds?’, I finally dragged one of them kicking and screaming to the English leg of their European tour promoting their new album, ‘Upper Air.’ Although he really shouldn’t have resisted: we were treated to a magical evening of musical lore and delight.
   Bowerbirds are a folk band. Folk is cool. More to the point, Bowerbirds are a very good folk band. They are beautiful in every sense of the word. Their first album, ‘Hymns for a Dark Horse,’ is strung with warm nostalgia for some Bonfire dance or Summer after-party in a luscious forest. Phil Moore sings with an understated wisdom, lacing his bitterly saccharine voice around pointed observations on the intricacy of love. Beth Tacular’s backing underpins the lore of the ‘Hymns’ with a painful allure, made brilliant with the twang of their guitars and the swathed accordian. Their new album, ‘Upper Air’ is a similar branch on the Bowerbirds’ tree, superbly forming the foundations of what I hope will be a lasting musical legacy.
   As with every band I like, I walked into the gig with a terse apprehension. What if they weren’t that great? What if the magic I heard in private didn’t translate in the live arena? The venue itself was so achingly cool it was almost hilarious. There were far too many men wandering about with unnatural looking scraggy beards, checked shirts from East End vintage shops and shiny brown dress shoes. They were the crowd so frequently derided in The Mighty Boosh; I had the impression that if the bearded Phil Moore came out wearing a dirty boiler suit, everyone at their next gig would attend sporting dirtier boiler suits. However, it was a crowd that was more concerned with maintaining their quiffs and keeping the stub of their ticket as proof of their attendance than with actually listening to the music. This guaranteed me a spot at the front of the stage, within touching distance of the band. Hooray!
   After vaguely dancing to the support act - I can’t remember their name, but the lead singer looked like a constipated horse and they weren’t that great- I thought that was going to be my quota of dance for the night fulfilled. However, one of the many pleasant surprises of seeing Bowerbirds live was actually noticing their drum for the first time, justifying the cracking out of my awesome moves on the unwitting bar-cum-dance floor for my evening. They opened with ‘Hooves,’ which proved to be a fan favourite. I could see at least three other people singing along to Moore’s declaration that, “you’re the kindling still that burns below my heart, and you’re the hooves that lead me through the forest.” Other stand-out tracks were ‘In Our Talons’, a song that my friend described as folky-polka done good, the rousing ‘Teeth’ and ‘Beneath Your Tree,’ which melted the audience with its opening lines, “I could bleed, bleed, bleed for days but my heart would still beat for you dear,” sung without accompaniment leaving Moore’s voice electrifyingly naked.
   They sung as if the bonfire I always envisage them dancing around was there in spirit. They performed as intimately as if they were at a gathering in a bohemian loft at 4AM, soothing their closest friends to sleep. The greatest tragedy of the night was the audience itself. I didn’t have to fight for my place at the front of the stage. My friend even walked to the bar half way through and came back without any hassle. It was a frustratingly muted crowd, one that I hope will grow more voracious as the word of Bowerbirds’ arrival at the top of the nu-folk scene spreads. Hopefully one day I’ll ask someone, ‘oh, do you know Bowerbirds?’ and they’ll say, “why yes, of course!” because the very talented and brilliant Bowerbirds deserve acknowledgment. I bought a T-Shirt at the end of the night from Beth Tacular, she gave me a hug and wished me a good night. Thanks to Bowerbirds, I had one.


Duvet number Two.

flying duvet


A
blue

coloured
duvet.

Elegantly
feathered

guardian.
Heart,

inert,
jumps.

Kiss
luring

motion,
not

our
pretty

quilt.
Rabid,

stocky,
thief

unloading
vanities.

Wanton
xeriscape,

your
zero.


Duvet number One.

duvet1


Around midnight,
blankets twitch.

Cold-foot lovers
drape their fear

empty on the
fletched linen.

Goose-feathered, he
hovers, still,

in animate
jest of their love,

knotting our dream
lust in a

myriad sprawl.
Night coos, soft,

outside. Willing
prey to his

quilt lies, to his
rabid rapture.

Suffocating
toes with dry,

uterine warmth.
Vacant lovers

wail, in him:
X O X X !

Yielding cold his
zealous sleep. 


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