Drawing A Blanc

If I've not been uploading mp3s at the rate to which you've become accustomed, it's because I'm glued to the latest series of The Restaurant. The series, in case you hadn't seen/can't see it, features Harry H. Corbett (see blog posts passim) presiding over a competition in which various couples compete for the opportunity to open a restaurant of their own, bankrolled by Blanc/Corbett, who presumably is using the extra funds he'll gain as a result of the free publicity this show gives his existing restaurants. Ain't life grand? Highlight of the series so far has been a couple of clueless Jemimas in the opening episode attempting to open a tin of coconut milk with a hammer and a carving knife (they were summarily barred from the competition in the interests of their own safety). And is it just me, or is Blanc's fellow judge Sarah Willingham the filthiest looking woman on TV?

I'm not convinced, either, that Barney, of ex-Army duo Barney & Badger, isn't actually A Certain Ratio's Jeremy Kerr moonlighting. Are they by any chance related? I think we should be told (etc., etc.)










Kerr

Barney

Hoop Dreams

I don't know much about Jesca Hoop, save that she was once Tom Waits' babysitter, but I like what I'm hearing, especially Four Dreams, which you can hear at her MySpace page. It brings to mind a bluegrass Lene Lovich, with a dash of Syd Straw. She's apparently on her second album, which means I'm a little late to the table. One to watch.

Top Deco

Just managed to listen to the new Section 25 long player, and very good it is, too. However, I was a little underwhelmed by the sleeve, which doesn't really fit with the music, and would, IMHO, be better suited to something by, say, Peter Skellern. Since the group's erstwhile designer Peter Saville has mined the catalogues of the Bauhaus designers, theImpressionists, the Futurists and various Dutch typographers for inspiration in the past, did someone from S25 say "Ah, I know which artistic movement hasn't been totally reamed yet: Art Deco! Yeah, let's go with that!"

League Division One

While it didn't hold any great surprises (save for the truly shocking revelation that Chris Carter and Cosey Fanni Tutti don't live in a rubber-lined dungeon as I fondly imagined-- instead their kitchen looked rather like one I was admiring in B&Q a few weeks back), the BBC's Synth Britannia of last week was great entertainment, even if it fudged a few dates for the sake of the narrative. Andy McCluskey of OMD was particularly good value, though Richard H Kirk was dead wrong when he asserted that some people think that Cabaret Voltaire's Red Mecca, rather than Ghost Town, was the soundtrack to the Brixton and Toxteth riots. I've never met a single person that thinks this. Actually, one minor revelation, for me at least, was seeing Alison Moyet of Yazoo at the height of her (and their) success. At my school, and, I'll venture, thousands of others up and down the land, any woman slightly heavier or less attractive than, say, Clare Grogan was considered unworthy of our attentions (ah, if only they knew what they were missing, eh?). By this measure, Alison Moyet was regarded as slightly less attractive than Giant Haystacks. Yes, we really were that shallow. And sexist. And sizeist. The revelation, after twenty-five years, that she wasn't the swamp beast of popular memory, but was actually a fairly normal-looking, even attractive, woman was chastening.

The Human League, quite rightly, played a major part in the story, from Reproduction to Dare, and accordingly Phil Oakey, Martyn Ware, Joanne Catherall and Susan Sulley were wheeled on to give their ten-penn'orth. I saw Ware a couple of times this summer, first sitting on a symposium as part of the Edinburgh Science Festival (where he shared a stage with Stelarc), and second acting as MC at a Future of Sound event at the Gateshead Sage Centre. The latter was great fun and terrific value: about £8 to see The Modified Toy Orchestra, Sarah Nicolls, Threep and the Sancho Plan. As well as hosting the event, Martyn treated the audience to a gratuitous and entirely unnecessary rendition of Being Boiled, performed to a souped-up and funky backing track. He was wearing a shiny-looking double-breasted suit, a shirt and a tie, and, having recently returned from sunnier climes, had a tan that made him look as if he'd been basted in tandoori paste. My companions found the sight of him singing faintly ridiculous, and later giggled conspiritorially. "What is he like?", "What a twonk", "He can't even sing!"

Now, hang on a sec, I said. Now you've gone too far. He might look like Bob Monkhouse's son. He might be pissing all over the legacy of his former group. But to accuse him of not being able to sing? No. I'm not 'avin it (as Liam Gallagher reportedly said when he learned that Spinal Tap were a comedy turn rather than, as he'd thought, an earnest metal band). Martyn Ware wasn't just in Heaven 17 and the Human League to push buttons and play keyboards. He's also an extremely good singer, especially as a backing vocalist and harmoniser. Just ask Tina Turner, for whom Ware performed backing vocal duties on many occasions. Or the many soul artists with whom he's worked, such as Tashan, Chaka Khan and Terence Trent D'Arby. I knew this; my companions at the Sage that night were blinded (or deafened) by the suit and the tan and the general cheesiness of the version of Being Boiled that we witnessed. And yes, it was cheesy. But, dammit, the guy can sing.

If you need convincing, just listen to the League Mark One's version of You've Lost That Loving Feeling, below. Those heavenly backing harmonies are courtesy of one M. Ware. I love this take on the song, as it eschews the misplaced triumphalism of the Righteous Brothers' original, replacing the swelling strings in the chorus with a diminuendo, plaintive synth which is entirely in keeping with the song's sentiment. There's a real sense of quiet longing here, one that's entirely missing from the original. One of the commenters on YouTube says "Best cover ever?" I'd be inclined to remove the question mark.

Wild Boys

Occupying a space somewhere between Sparks and The Smiths, this is The Wild Beasts. I love their new single All The King's Men, and its video, which to my mind is more Stornoway than Ibiza. That's no bad thing. You can judge for yourselves below.

Eng-er-land's Dreaming

I recently finished reading Keith Allen's autobiog of a few years back. As I expected, there was much to admire about the way he's conducted his life, and much that reflected badly on him, too, in particular his cavalier attitude towards partners and children. Despite this, one story in particular stood out, and its seems appropriate to re-tell it today, the day that the late Sir Bobby Robson is being remembered at a memorial service at Durham Cathedral. It concerns the antics of England's players after the 1990 World Cup, and it changed Allen's view of them from the cheeky chappies of World In Motion to the abysmally-behaved, inconsiderate gits that most footballers (probably) are.

And one more thing I have to bring up, given all the hype from the England players about how much they respected Bobby Robson and what a great manager he was. It was bullshit. I was there and saw first hand how they treated him. I was invited to their hotel with friends I was travelling with when they had a team meal after England had exited the World Cup. Bobby got up to make a speech and Gary Lineker pretended to yawn.

After his speech the players drifted away, leaving Robson sitting alone at the end of the table while Gazza, I remember very clearly, threw bread at him. This wasn't the end of it. Afterwards all the players picked him up, carried him out to the pool and threw him in. We all watched, expecting the players to help him out again. They didn't. They just threw him in, turned and walked away, leaving Sir Bob dazed and spluttering, struggling to get out of the water.

Keith Allen, Grow Up, p. 302/303

Currie Favour

A really nice piece on Momus (his ace ClickOpera blog is in my links on the left of this page), from Saturday's Guardian, here.