Alex de Campi: Gojira!

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WHO

FILM & TV

COMICS & BOOKS

28.7.05 Goin' To Louisiana, Gonna Get Me A Mojo Hand

After the events of the past few days, the only sensible thing to do seemed to go out into the good night of London. So I did, listening to Pinetop Perkins and his band blow the roof off the Jazz Cafe with hard-charging Chicago Blues. Now, I'm a Delta Blues girl; Chicago sound (as epitomised by Muddy Waters) is usually too big and sharp for me. But extreme circumstances require extreme solutions, and my shitty mood wasn't going to be blown away by anything other than a large-calibre blues gun. I swear there wasn't a dry seat in the house when Pinetop & Co closed with the old Lightning Hopkins tune, "Mojo Hand", tearing the place down with local bluesman Ian Siegel on guitar and Pete Lamb laying down blues harmonica like a speeding freight train. Have I mentioned that Pinetop is 92 years old?

A few things of note from Der Internerd, source of infinite amusement and variety. Mike Doughty (him from Soul Coughing) mentions this site, which has free and legal downloads of live shows from him and a huge variety of other indie musicians. Then via the V, I stumbled upon these happy criminals and their cabinet of musical curiosities. You must download the Firm's "Arthur Daley, 'E's Alright", and then their genius B-side version done in RP, right now. The Flaming Lips' live version of Seven Nation Army is the other jewel of the site: three minutes of lo-fi, spine-shaking glory. Sometimes all you need is a heavy bass line and a megaphone...

Meanwhile, back in the saddle. As of 5pm Friday, I am completely freelance. The prospect terrifies me, and to be honest I'll probably have to pick up a part-time job in September. But August... August I shall be irresponsible.

( 1:00 PM ) (1) comments

27.7.05 Dear God, Please Stop Slamming Doors In My Life. Thank You. Love, Alex

Sometimes, in the creative life, just surviving a whole day without ending up a gibbering heap on the floor counts as a kind of victory.

( 12:39 PM ) (1) comments

25.7.05 Peter O'Toole Is My Hero

Blew my last 3.50 on a copy of Peter O'Toole's (out of print) autobiography, Loitering With Intent, from the used-book sellers under the bridge at the NFT. It's sheer joy, like an extended night in the pub in the company of the most charming man in the world. The below is O'Toole on waiting for Santa Claus when he was six years old:

"Now, in the days before the modern architect decided that we had no practical use for the street and Christmas trees were small and put up only on the actual eve of the event, the ways of towns and cities were often lined with various shops selling goods to customers and putting the purchases into brown paper bags. If you puckered the opening of the bag between an encircling thumb and finger, blew deeply into it, squeezed the pucker tightly and then gave the inflated paper bag a fair old smack with the flat of your free hand, it would explode with a delightfully loud report.

I am sitting in my pyjamas at the bottom of the stairs, inspecting the dark living room through the crack left after I'd opened the door just a touch. Someone is coming into the room, all right, but not down the chimney. The door from the passageway has opened, letting in some figures and a little light, but now the door has been shut again and all is dark once more. Bumpings about I can hear and my mother's voice chuckling and giggling. Daddy's voice I can hear now, praying aloud to Jesus Christ and then gurgling out quietly my mother's pet name, 'Connie', he wheezes, 'Connie.' The light snaps suddenly on and there is Daddy, sitting on the floor, his bowler hat tilted over one eye, cradling in his arms a Christmas tree. Mummy is standing with one hand on the light switch, her legs are crossed, and she is shaking and crying with silent laughter, her arms are through the handles of carrier bags, there are other bags on the carpet and brown paper bags strewn all the way to where Daddy sits. The determined little sight of me seems to quiet and surprise them a bit, as it quite rightly should. When I firmly ask of them if Father Christmas is coming, they are, at first, silent but very shortly Daddy begins praying again while Mummy now bends double making hooting noises.

Marching up to my father, I repeat: 'Is Father Christmas coming?' Daddy lays aside the Christmas tree, picks up a brown paper bag from the floor, unburdens it of its contents, slowly rises still holding the bag, walks in a curious way to the door, which he opens, and ten exits the room, shutting the door behind him. There is a sort of silence for a second or two, a silence which is burst by a loud bang. The door opens and Daddy comes back into the room. He stands above me and looks solemnly down at me before pronouncing very clearly to me: 'Father Christmas has just shot himself.'"

( 10:37 AM ) (0) comments

21.7.05 The Female Of The Species

Some of you still apparently labour under the misapprehension that - because I have a boy's name and I write rather violent stories - I am a boy. Not so. I look like this:

Photo by Chad Michael Ward.

(Truth In Advertising: this is the version in the bar at 1am, sans make-up, hair, lighting, or professional photographer.)

( 2:07 PM ) (1) comments

20.7.05 I Am Different, Just Like Everybody Else: Synthetic Experience and the Rise of the Ironic T-Shirt

America is both mother and stranger to me, and when I return to her I see patterns in her culture which I might never notice if I lived there. Last time, it was the Dessert Martini. This time, it is the Ironic T-Shirt. A British friend of mine wished to buy cheap American clothing in Los Angeles, so I drifted along in his wake as he went from shop to shop on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. Every store was loaded down with t-shirts advertising rock tours from 20 years ago; non-existent bars and resorts; and humorous slogans ranging from the wry to the cringe-making.

Logos and slogans on shirts fascinate me, possibly because I never wear them. I can understand brand logos, even as I despise them. They're unifying. They say that the wearer is part of a big style tribe: Nike, SeanJohn, Abercrombie & Fitch, whatever. There's a certain honesty in buying into brand logos. After all, we all secretly want to belong, even when we rebel. Look at any counterculture group: 90% of its members dress the same. A goth's New Rocks is the same as an investment banker's Hermes tie - a uniform we create for ourselves, a badge of membership in our subculture.

These ironic t-shirts communicate something very different, however: they suggest the wearer has had some individual and unique experience, that there is a story behind the shirt. But there never is, aside from "I bought it at Old Navy in the sale". Or even, for the pre-aged shirts with nostalgic brand names from our youth (Kix cereal, the A-Team, Aquaman), a suggestion that we got them at some out of the way vintage shop. Shopping, it seems, has become a socially valued experience in and of itself.

I can understand the boom in ironic t-shirts from the perspective that, at this point, there is no reason (other than personal eccentricity) to wear anything other than jeans and a t-shirt, anywhere. If jeans and t-shirt are the uniform of our time, it fuels a need for a greater range of stylistic choices in those two items. And a message on a t-shirt gives a little interest, which would be filled in the old days by a slight variation in cut of a jacket, or the restrained wit of a new shirt pattern.

I suspect that the commoditisation of the high street also has a hand in the rise of these t-shirts. Every year, as The Gap and Urban Outfitters and Abercrombie become more ubiquitous and we all move towards McFashion, there are fewer individual boutiques and bars from which cool, story-laden t-shirts can be bought. The ones that are left, such as the Black Dog in Martha's Vineyard, have become akin to the Hard Rock Cafe used to be, cliche destinations where one only goes for the shirt. (There is a thriving black market in vintage Black Dog t-shirts, as no true preppy wears one dated after 2000. It's like salting and pre-ageing Mount Gay caps from sailing races to achieve that perfect faded pink as fast as possible.)

If popular entertainment (especially film) is synthetic emotion - brief tourism into intense feeling, in discrete 100 minute packages and without long-term side effects - then the ironic t-shirt is synthetic experience. The old expression, "been there, done that, got the t-shirt" no longer seems to ring true for 95% of America. They skip the first two and go straight to the third. Is this a post-9/11 thing? People aren't travelling, aren't doing anything daring? Or is it a cultural homogenisation thing? There is nothing left that is interesting to do - it's all been overrun by franchise, or closed down because of liability concerns? Why are people content with buying ersatz uniqueness from high street vendors? My flatmate looks at me as if I'm stupid. "Because it's cheap," he says.

Of course, I write this with the smug superiority of a girl with a history. I have the 1994 King's Cup regatta shirt from Thailand; the 1991 Campus/Terrace Club Bong Pong shirt; the tattered old gig shirts from cult bands long broken up. Someone asks me what the slogan on my shirt means, I can tell them. I did these things. I earned this; I didn't just buy it in the sale. I have the scars to prove it.

Maybe it's a generational thing. When I was growing up, there was a sense that nothing mattered, so everything was possible. Kids were angry as hell, and our cri de guerre was "No Future". This generation's, it seems, is "No Past".

( 10:24 AM ) (0) comments

19.7.05 Back.

Back from the West Coast. Head fuzzy. Proper update tomorrow. Many good things happened, and only one bad thing (The Night Of A Thousand Martinis. Children: do not try this at home.)

Meanwhile, upcoming events of note to Londoners: Thursday (21st) is a Misty's gig at Borderline. They're on at 10.15-ish. Friday, with a little organisation, can be turned into a supreme double feature picture show: My Man Godfrey (Carole Lombard and the sublime William Powell) at the NFT at 6.30pm, then DJ Spooky remixing the 1915 classic Birth of A Nation at 8.30 at the IMAX. I'm such a sucker for old films screened with new, live soundtracks. I think I've seen five of these over the last year. I keep praying someone will take on Abel Gance's Napoleon... 26th is Night of the Hunter at the NFT. Wednesday 27th sees legendary Mississippi blues pianist Pinetop Perkins at the Jazz Cafe. I've been spinning his Ladies Man album fairly regularly. Pinetop is one of the greatest boogie-woogie piano players, and was Muddy Waters' sideman during the glory years of Waters' band. Lastly, on the 28th (and probably already sold out) is Luke Haines' acoustic gig at the ICA.

Some friends and I have been plotting to move our London event updates off our blogs and into a monthly email, to be tentatively called The London List. My co-conspirators are Alex Sarll, Alasdair Watson and Ade Brown, which gives you an idea of the sort of interesting (read: eccentric and obscure) events which we intend to cover. Stay tuned for more details, or comment if interested.

( 10:31 AM ) (0) comments

6.7.05 If I were a character in one of my books, I would have dismissed me as cliche

I leave for Los Angeles later this morning. My airplane reading consists of three screenplays and a book on directing. "Today, Matthew, I am going to be Comedy Wannabe Film Person." "That's great, Alex! Now, repeat after me: 'I have several projects in varying stages of development...'"

Although I've been cast as Stephano for this voyage, I feel I've missed out on the part I really suited: Prospero. Every time I go back to America I think of the old Duke, leaving his rainy island for a Milan whose language and customs he no longer understands.

This site will be changing upon my return from Los Angeles. It started as an exercise in short non-fiction pieces, which I'd post once a week. I liked that. It was good practice. I haven't been comfortable with the "This Girl's Life" direction the site has taken since. I was brought up that it is rude to talk about yourself, and I am also... restless. Perhaps I will start writing short fiction for you. Perhaps not. I'm still deciding.

To tide you over until I get back, I have stayed up late making a mixtape. Friends have given me some mixing software, which probably would have been easy to use if I had bothered to read the instructions. Still, I persevered. I plan to do a mixtape once a month, based around a little story, or theme.

This month's, Bright Hollow Town (29MB), is about the myth of Los Angeles. Nine songs and a couple of samples. I've been obsessing recently over late-1960s film soundtracks, the genius of Lalo Schifrin and John Barry, and Miles Davis/John Coltraine. The mix reflects that, and is also a soundscape for the noir screenplay I'll be working on in LA. It starts off with the heavy metronome beat of "Human Jungle"; picture Lee Marvin striding through the airport in Point Blank. Then out the chrome and glass doors into bright, jagged sunshine and emptiness - a city of strangers, endless streets, people cocooned inside their cars, always searching, searching for something lost.

Every good story has a girl and a boy in it, and the boy shows up about halfway through. You'll know when. Love (or something like it) ensues, and - could that be a happy ending? Well, perhaps, if I had stopped at "Something Beautiful". But this is noir, and the best we can hope for is that the final irony isn't a killing one. So there's one last song before we roll credits. Playlist here, but it's more fun hearing the mix once in ignorance.

Please note: I have made this mix as a way of introducing friends to some music I adore and think should be better known. If you enjoy the mix, please purchase these or other tracks by the artists. If you are a rightsholder or the representative of one, and you object to this mixtape, please email me and I will take it down immediately. I am not making money off this, and I do not have lawyers.

( 1:55 AM ) (0) comments

2.7.05 Oscar Peterson

His shoulders are hunched and his head slopes low from a life bent over the keys. He's a giant, huge of girth, but his legs are spindled with age. He walks with geisha steps now; his ankles have grown too tiny for him. Oscar Peterson is eighty.

And the Royal Albert Hall is packed to the rafters. The audience isn't as old as you would think, although there are more than a few grey heads. It is almost painful, listening to this beauty, and knowing how soon it will be gone. Poof. It's what brought me to tears watching The Last of the First, that doc about the Harlem Blues and Jazz Band. The band is a collective of the last, great side-men of jazz's golden age. These cats, they played with Basie, they played with Ellington. And they're all that's left. Them and Oscar and a few others. (I found out the other day my aunt Bobbie sang with Ella Fitzgerald; I had no idea. You never know your own family, not really. I couldn't ask Bobbie; heroin took her away long before I was born.)

Something great is passing away from us, right now, and most people won't realise until it's gone. Sure, there are recordings. It's not the same. Oscar's got a new bassist, Doug Young. He replaces Nils Pederson, who died of a heart attack at 58. He replaced Ray Brown, also in heaven now. Doug Young has white hair. Plays like a mad angel; fastest hands I've ever seen. Oscar himself, his playing's a big mess, but inside that mess is this divine sensibility and order. And I'll probably never see him play again.

Yeah, I know. Things die all the time. I've said it myself, all cocky sneer and attitude. But some things die while they're still needed. Oscar's jazz isn't dead; hell, it isn't even slightly tired. But the men who play it are.

You never know what ages well. A week ago I heard Patti Smith play Horses. It was faintly embarrassing; passe, full of clumsy sixth-form poetry. Patti put on as good a performance as she always does. But you can never go back. Horses was a point in time; we've moved beyond it. Oscar's "Backyard Blues" is different. It's then, but it's also now. When you get something really right, it transcends time. And to still hear it played by the guy that wrote it, well, that's pretty special.

This was my week of legends. I saw a double feature of Point Blank and Bullitt the night before I saw Peterson. If anything, those jagged, bright, empty stories, full of the alienation of cities and the space between people, are even more affecting now than when they were made. This tells you something about film: Point Blank was based on a book called Hunter by Donald Westlake. Thursday night in London, forty years after John Boorman made Point Blank, he met Westlake for the first time.