the zimmers probably won’t sell any records because, frankly, no one seems to be selling records at the moment (apart from the arcade fire), but they are sure getting the british press all excited. read more about the geriatric rockers here. it’s like the langley school project kids all grown up…
film critic and indie nerd sukhdev sandhu makes a top five list straight from the trenches
1) grumpy italian critics.
old men (and women) with their trousers hitched up to their armpits and their hippo cheeks covered with three weeks of stubble. they talk and masticate all the way through the films, grumble if anyone presumes to ask if they’ll remove their shopping bags from the seat next to them, and shush violently if another person, even twenty rows away, commits the cardinal sin of coughing. they’ve been here forever, and – gloriously, cheerlessly – will be here forever.
2) soap actors, provenance unknown.
cannes is a place where the stars effulge, hollywood reveals its dazzle-halo, and a thousand bold-face names set ten thousand cameras into clicking, flashing overload. and then there’s the english pavilion, where a bunch of public-school chancers talk up their latest projects (always, always about black kids keeping it real and doing dodgy deals with triads and gypsies in east london), and you find someone trying to cadge a fag off you, someone quite sad and desperate-looking and wearing last year’s designer white jeans and they’re talking about their new production company and the blacks-and-gypsies thriller they’re working on and their their face seems a bit familiar and then you remember – it’s what’s-his-name off what’s-that-soap that used to be on was-it-channel-5?
3) ‘c’mon, ref!’
every so often, you’re in a bar with some friends talking about great actors today and why there aren’t any, and then someone mentions malcolm mcdowell. where has he gone? is he alive? or has he gone to that place in the sky where the people are so nice they won’t mention his roles in mummy: tomb of the pharaoh, dinotopia: quest for the ruby sunstone or the neogenic nightmare: chapter 10 episode of the tv version of spider-man? where is malcolm? what does he do?
I had an insight the other evening when I went to the american pavilion to watch the milan v man united game screened live. yes, the american pavilion; not the english one – because clearly it belongs to such a cinephile nation brimming with world-class auteurs that it couldn’t spare any time to show a game that so many people were desperate to see. there, two yards from me, was the great malcolm mcdowell, still blessed with cheekbones so sharp they could cut through titanium, and with a menace that would make you think twice before approaching him for directions on a dark night. men and women were coming up to him to say hello, grab a kiss, tell him how much they liked his films. mainly, and with great courtesy, he waved them away; they were getting in the way of the scream.
throughout the evening, he was up on his feet, shouting ‘c’mon ref!’, ‘no, fucking way!’, ‘shoot it, gerrard!’ his disappointment at the end was overwhelming. so maybe that’s what malcolm mcdowell has been doing the last few years: not jacking up, not becoming an la-real-estate mogul, but just watching the telly, and, sometimes, shouting at it when his team’s not doing well.
everything in cannes is priced up. a thimbleful of water will set you back a bundle of euros. all the stores seem to sell are sweaty, overpriced baguette stores and cosmetics. unless, of course, they’re the designer-clothes boutiques where you sell out hundreds of quid for a piece of crumpled fabric bearing a print so loud and so hideous you’d rather attach yourself to a pile of bricks and jump into the ocean rather than be seen dead wearing them. and, unless, they’ve been taken over by packs of americans trust-fund chancers and students getting some ‘industry experience’, but who mainly sit around updating their facebook entries on their wi-fi laptops, and admiring each others tattoos.
and then there’s monoprix: it’s like woolworth’s, but better. great juices, cheap staples, a food hall whose prawn-heavy offerings easily rivals marks and spencer, fancy floral prints at bargain prices. now that lidl’s finally taking over in england, breaking up the high street monopoly of asda and tesco’s, it’d be great if monoprix would go international too. even if its name sounds like a saint etienne album title.
goes down well with everything, I’ve discovered.
it’s one of those weird things, when a member of the tribe hits the big time (see beck, elliott smith, ghost world). beth ditto is huge over here in the uk. the gossip is blaring out of all the high street shops. I don’t know, but I don’t think this has happened on the same scale in the us (anyone? is anyone there?). first the nme proclaimed that she was the coolest woman in rock, then the guardian weekend magazine slapped her on the cover with something about how “she’s fat, she’s gay, she’s cool.” and now she has her own advice column in the guardian. and she’s clearly been influenced by ronnie spector, at least where eye makeup is concerned…
this new york post article about ronnie and phil spector featured some fascinating insight into the wall of sound producer’s relationship with his own hair, not to mention his ex:
[[“He was so upset over his hair!” says Ronnie. “When we had dinner, everything was really dim, because he had bad hair. Toupees.” She pauses. “Boy oh boy – it got so hard to do anything because of his hair. If he couldn’t get his hair right, he’d say, ‘I don’t feel good.'” Hair issues gave way to darker concerns. Ronnie wasn’t permitted to leave the house alone, ever. According to her, she would be summoned to Phil’s side while he was recording with other artists – just to sit on the stool next to him, not moving. “He would say, ‘You’re my inspiration,'” she recalls. She would be punished like a little girl, often sent to bed hungry. “It was a sick love,” she says. “He even said, ‘I have a glass casket in the basement, for Ronnie. So I can look at her anytime I want.’ But I was in love with the guy, so I didn’t think that was too bad.”]]
nothing really surprises me anymore about phil, ronnie and their relationship, though. it’s sad. he was/is a total freak, and that’s never going to change. ronnie, on the other hand, may be as crazy as phil was (if only for falling for him, but we all have foggy goggles on when we fall in love, don’t we?), but she continues to be historically relevant as singer of the ronettes, the voice behind “be my baby” (one of my all-time favorite karaoke tunes and one of the greatest pop hits ever), and just a total style icon. that’s right, youngsters (are there any youngsters reading this site?), where do you suppose amy winehouse got the idea for her big hair/big eyeliner look anyway? all kinds of girls in camden and kentish town and south london have been featuring that look for a while now, and ms. ronnie deserves her due.
I was reading somewhere yesterday, god knows where, that waxing nostalgic about previous eras in new york history is all the rage. I can understand that. I feel like I left new york when maybe it needed me, or maybe I couldn’t have changed a thing. I’ve been living in london since 2003, and I really miss those old new york venues where we used to have chickfactor parties. in the early days it was under acme, a nice chilled-out room with blue xmas lights and a party vibe, where we had our little things. I think we had to pay a $150 deposit, and in the end we had a falling out with a certain soundman who thought he would ruin one of our parties by “losing” our special party music and putting on tori amos instead. later the venues of choice were mostly fez under time café and tonic, two very different rooms. we always had shows at fez because they let us have all ages shows there, but the gold lamé/red velvet vibe was parfait for our events. it was easy having events there, despite the bossy hosts and hostesses, the two-drink minimum (pretty funny when you realize that your waiter is never coming back to take a second drink order) and the strict, giuliani-era no-dancing laws. still, what could be better than a venue that serves chocolate cake until midnight? tonic came later, and had none of the velvet-rope baloney that fez occasionally had (time café was a very busy venue on weekends, so we can understand its need to herd its clientele), good sound and good vibes. our shows were usually on sunday night, because tonic usually only had jazz, klezmer and other non-pop music on the menu. the loss of these two places is a real shame. I walked by the chinese something or other café that now occupies the old time/fez space a few weeks ago and all the well-heeled yuppies brunching outside made me feel melancholy. where was brian? where was ellen? the nice bookers I used to be able to call and book a weekend from without even knowing who was playing. that would never happen in london (where I need £700 deposit for a weekend cf event at my venue of choice). I was so distracted that I even forgot to look at acme to see if it even still exists (does it?).
ps. did you know that the cover of get lost was photographed inside the time café?
no, we’re women, and boy, do we have a lot of problems. learn all about the latest issues in woman: the new social problem, a piece penned by lupe’s pal meghan falvey in the ace magazine n+1.
kirsty maccoll’s mother continues to fight for justice for kirsty since the singer was killed while swimming in mexico six years ago. click here to find out more.
I cannot tell you how often I am asked to define the word emo. those poor emo kids have finally been discovered by mainstream media. now it’s like riot grrrl all over again. parents should definitely watch this and learn how to avoid those emo pitfalls!
pipas are currently on tour of the two coasts in the usa. see them in los angeles on 24 may (knitting factory with the clientele); brooklyn on 27 may (luna lounge at the pop fest); and manhattan on 8 june (bowery ballroom with the clientele). it is only a matter of time before they are filling stadiums and you will be hearing their music in tv commercials.
photograph: gail o’hara
everything you ever wanted to know (and more?) about stephin merritt’s biological father.