Via Here Inside, from today's Times: A dove's guide: how to be an honest critic of the war, by Matthew Parris (whose engaging autobiography I am still wading through). Challenges my assumptions far more effectively than some of the guff that I've been reading recently from various hawks, in my quest to unearth at least one compelling argument in favour of the forthcoming military intervention.

Challenges them - but doesn't overturn them. However, I do take the point about probabilities.

Harumph. The subtly syncopated stylings of Ben Plus One seem to have been completely lost on the Great British Voting Public, who have failed to select it for the final four in this year's Song For Europe. Philistines!

Instead, we are left with a choice between:

• Jolly Boppy Catchy Bouncer:
  Cry Baby - Tricity.
  A lot of people have been expressing a preference for this one (which was originally written on a train and recorded in a phone box), and I have now come round to their way of thinking. With its flamenco-ish acoustic guitar flourishes, chugging tempo, and plaintive, bittersweet air, this puts me (and Elisabeth) in mind of the wonderful Greek entry from two years ago: Die For You by Antique. Which is definitely a good thing. Also: I woke up this morning with this tune running round my head, where it has been resolutely lodged ever since. Which is also a good sign.
  
• Twee, Gossamer Thin Midtempo Ditty:
  Ever Since That Night - Mimi.
  Wonder if this is the same Mimi who gave us the long forgotten Hi-NRG track The Man's So Real (1984)? Anyway, even the mighty songwriting talents of Simon "EastEnders Theme Tune" May aren't enough to lift this paltry effort out of the mire. Simply put: it still sounds like a demo.
  
• Power Ballad One:
  Help Me - Emily Reed.
  Unfortunately, I have a congenital aversion to Power Ballads...
  
• Power Ballad Two:
  Wait For The Moment - Esther Hart.
  ...which renders me unqualified to comment on these two offerings. It's like being asked to compare two brands of fabric softener. How the chuff should I know? I will say this, though: Esther Hart has by far the better voice, getting almost gospelly by the end, whereas Help Me definitely comes across as the stronger song. Maybe all concerned could come to some sort of arrangement for the greater national good?

(To listen to the above songs, go here for RealPlayer, or here for MP3s.)

No contest, then. Here at Troubled Diva, we say (and oh, how I have been dying to trot this one out for you):
ELECT TRICITY!

If you've been enjoying the whole Bloggies kerfuffle as much as I have been doing (as, sad to say, I have always had a fatal, spook-at-a-car-crash fascination for massive thermonuclear online ding dongs, and this one has been up there with the best of them), then you'll be hooting with knowing laughter at Acerbia's marvellous musical adaptation. (Although to me, the libretto definitely has something of the Mummers Play about it. Bring on the Morris Dancers, I say...)

...than that he should help his partner to set up, design and publish something like this:
My Boyfriend Is A Twat.

"You know that Spring is on the way when you catch the first smell of asparagus in your urine."

Yes, hangover.
On January 31st.
Not what was planned.
Oops.

Unused to ensuing mental fog.
Feeling vague and dithery and fractured.
Sentence structure a major challenge.
Shan't attempt it.
Know limits.

Cause of hangover?
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Rock City.
Very good. They rocked.

(Shortest TD gig review ever, there.
Am suddenly understanding virtues of brevity.
Won't last, though.)

Gig ends quite early. Stay for another drink.
Venue suddenly filling up with new people. New, much younger people.
Ohmigod, it's the regular Thursday Student Nite. Flee or stay?

Stay, of course. Already too far gone to care about feeling conspicuous.
More drinks all round, then.
Awful nu-metal music. Eww. Try downstairs bar instead.
Awful lo-grade rap music. Eww. Mutter at poor taste of young people today etc.

Fall over stool on way to toilet.
Get laughed at by loads of studes.
Too drunk to care.
Attempt to shrug off with hopefully endearing Goofy Grin.

Try upstairs again.
Primal Scream (Rocks), Iggy Pop (Lust For Life).
Much more like it. Dance. Well, lurch.
Oh shit, am now dancing/lurching to Avril Sodding Lavigne (Sk8er Boi - sic).
Far too drunk to care. Try to compensate by pulling occasional "ironic" expressions at equally (?) drunk friends.

End up dancing on stage (on stage!), to Electric Six and Panjabi MC and, dear sweet Lord, Puddle Of Sodding Mudd.
Attempt to do suitable arms-in-the-air Bhangra Dancing to Panjabi MC.
While still clutching bottle of Stella.
Messy.

Finally refuse umpteenth drink, in sudden and merciful flash of sanity.
Stumble home, pass out, wake up at 9.00.

First thought: oh shit, we danced to Avril Lavigne. The horror!
In bathroom mirror, discover obligatory mysterious cut on forehead.
Ruefully pick off scab, while absorbing full horror of copiously flaking complexion.

(Hmm. Seem to be turning into lame imitation of little.red.boat. Shall therefore revert to proper paragraph structure forthwith.)

(Am not, of course, suggesting that Anna of little.red.boat blogs in perpetually hungover state, or anything like that. Oh dear me no.)

At work, finally receive confirmation of new Project. First "Proper Work" in seven months. Am delighted. Will involve extensive European travel for rest of year (Paris, Amsterdam, Barcelona, Rome, Zurich, Cologne, somewhere in Austria...oh, and Sunderland). Probably 3 days a week abroad on average, most weeks from April onwards. Will all stop around December. Will need to dust down Business Drag for first time in over 18 months. Good excuse for new shirts. Also good excuse for buying laptop. Blog must not suffer!

Except blog will, of course, suffer. Less time on hands in future. But won't be deserting loyal readers. Plenty of potential source material no doubt. European travelogue etc.

End of Golden Era Of Enforced Indolence finally looming, then. Not before time.

Normal sentences resume tomorrow. Until then: enjoy Marshall's Been Snookered: Eminem-vs-Scott-Joplin. Great fun. First decent bootleg I've heard in yonks.

Jump straight to Part 1.

Stresemannstraße 3?, Kreuzberg, Berlin. 1983.

(You know want to know why this series has been in a state of suspension for the past six months? It is because every time I try and think of something to say about the few weeks I spent at Stresemannstraße, my mind seizes up. There’s not really a great deal to say about it. But let’s see what I can dredge up, none the less.)

As a German student at Nottingham University, I was required to spend my third year living in Germany. My friend Liz had already spent her year out there in Berlin, and she painted such an enticing portrait of the city that I felt it just had to be the place for me. Two main reasons stood out: the music/bar/club scene, and Berlin’s perceived status at that time as a Gay Capital – the San Francisco of Europe, maybe. So off I trotted, along with my mate Ian, in search of thrills, spills, self-discovery and seedy glamour.

Liz had arranged for Ian and I to spend our first couple of weeks with Simon, the ex-boyfriend of a good friend of hers, in his flat-share in Kreuzberg (then considered to be the hippest, most radical, most alternative part of town). The flat-share was winding down at that stage, with only a few weeks left to go on the contract. With the rent all settled up, the other flatmates had all moved out, leaving only Simon and a old mate of his, Andrew, who was on an extended visit. Thus it was that Simon and Andrew opened the door to Ian and myself, one evening in early September 1983.

Our first impressions? They were bloody hard work. You couldn’t get any real sense out of either of them. Ask them even the most straightforward question, and you would get a weird, oblique, often surreal reply, laced in several layers of irony and double bluff, and almost always delivered with a faintly mocking undertone. Essentially, Simon and Andrew - upon seeing our eager, fresh-faced, neatly groomed naivety - had decided to play an extended game of Bait The Straights with us. As we were entirely dependent on their hospitality at this stage, all we could really do was play along. We were constantly being wrong-footed, set up, walking into complex traps which they had laid for us, with the intention of making us look like terminally unhip, gullible ingénues. I think this was partly because they were actually faintly embarrassed by their own hospitality (far too bourgeois), and were trying to plaster over it with their don’t-give-a-f**k Berlin Cool affectations.

Minor point scoring aside, they didn’t really succeed. For all their sarcastic posturing, both Simon and Andrew were nicely brought up middle class English boys at heart, who couldn't quite stop themselves from doing the right thing at the end of the day. One of them even baked us a cake (although to save face, he then made us eat it using an array of ridiculously unsuitable implements, just to show that we weren’t hidebound by artificial conventions or something). Try as they might, they couldn’t help but endear themselves to us.

One night about ten days in, we were all out together at some cool Kreuzberg bar or other (unofficial dress code: black, black, bla-a-a-a-ack), when the subject of homosexuality came up. I forget how it came up, and I forget what smartass remark I made at the time, but I do remember either Simon or Andrew seizing upon it, sensing a fresh opportunity to hold that harsh, unforgiving mirror up to our assumptions and prejudices once again.

“I think that what you just said there, Mike, actually shows up a rather homophobic attitude on your part, when you stop and think it through. Wouldn’t you say?”

Their faces, when I calmly told them I was gay myself, in a studiedly casual “oh, did I never get around to telling you before” tone of voice, were priceless. I can still see their pained embarrassment now. Embarrassment which was further compounded a few minutes later. when they discovered that Ian was also gay. It had been worth the wait. They trod much more cautiously with us after that.

As a result, we all started to get on much better. Ian, Andrew and I even went busking on the Kurfurstendamm one Sunday afternoon, performing a self-penned protest song about Reagan’s foreign policy, using Simon’s Casio keyboard hooked up to a ghetto blaster. It went down rather well, making us enough money for a couple of rounds of beer.

The boys even extended their hospitality as far as offering us illicit substances: first acid (refused, despite their pained protestations that it would “really open you up as a person”), and then speed (cautiously accepted, after much reading up on the subject in advance, and even then in the tiniest of quantities – but still enough to make me dance all night at the KC club off Nollendorfplatz).

Ian was first to leave, securing a flatshare in the resolutely unfashionable Straightsville of Steglitz. I was next, moving a couple of U-Bahn stops away to a Wohngemeinschaft near Herrmannplatz. Simon eventually faded from our social radars, but Andrew remained a friend for the next few months. Away from Simon’s subtly controlling influence, he dropped most of the attitude, and revealed himself as a good, loyal mate to have in a tough, harsh, surprisingly reserved and self-contained city.

(Oh...so quite a lot to tell after all, then. It's surprising what floats to the surface when you start to concentrate, isn't it?)

Labels: stations

Couldn't let all those requests go to waste, could I? So here's a second batch. Hmm, I wonder whether there'll be a third batch next week...

  

Item 101. New Look Baby - Dolly Mixture (1980)

When you're seventeen, and people you know are in a band, and performing proper gigs in front of real punters, and giving interviews to fanzines, and even getting booked for a John Peel session...then, phew gosh, it's really jolly exciting. Because you can then start to claim a kind of kinship, however tenuous that kinship might actually be. And so it was with the Cambridge band Dolly Mixture: Debsey Wykes, Hesther Smith and Rachel Bor.

The previous year, I had acted in a few school plays with Debsey and Hesther, and had also played Debsey's boyfriend in a rather lame revue sketch (in which I bashfully presented her with a vaguely phallic present made out of pink papier-mache and chicken wire). Real live GURLS were something of a rare commodity in our all male boarding school, and drama was one of the very few ways of coming into contact with them. Even then, many of us (myself included) were largely incapable of relating to them as fellow human beings. Instead, we would lock up with a self-conscious awkwardness in their presence, keeping to our own safe little same-sex clumps during rehearsals.

I was worse than most, mind you. For a variety of reasons, the nobody-understands-me, everybody-scares-me Neurotic Adolescent Blues had hit me particularly hard. I found it difficult enough to maintain anything approaching normal social relations with the other boys. Girls were way, way beyond my reach; they were still an exotic alien species to me. I had no idea where to even begin. The creeping, profoundly unsettling, increasingly terrifying realisation that I wasn't physically attracted to them didn't help matters, either. Pretending to be Debsey's boyfriend was, therefore, almost more than I could manage. Luckily, the characterisation called for me to exaggerate my nervous, blushing awkwardness to comic effect, so at least I could hide behind that. It was a rich seam to mine, resulting in a rather effective stage debut which surprised quite a lot of people. However, rehearsals were sheer torture.

Debsey was already a star in the making. Loud, funny, confident, in-your-face, cool-as-f**k, with that slight pretentiousness which teenagers can get away with for a while, as they experiment with their identity. She was actually in the process of re-inventing her image during the rehearsal period, quickly and suddenly replacing the sensible blouses and page-boy bob with a scraggy, individualistic neo-punkette Oxfam chic. As an NME-devouring armchair punk, still hiding in anonymous brown sweaters and last year's flares, not daring to draw attention to myself by appropriating the look for myself, Debsey's new look struck me as the height of glamour. I was dazzled by it, and by her, as she casually mentioned the bands she had seen at the Corn Exchange - bands I longed to see for myself. I envied her relative freedom, and started mentally projecting some of my rock-and-roll fantasies onto her. Which was easier than actually trying to get to know her as a real person.

I could tell she thought I was weird. She even said as much a couple of times, in exasperation or bafflement or scorn, or simply as part of the general run of casual teenage cruelties. It stung. I had wanted to impress, even though I had no idea where to even start.

I saw Dolly Mixture maybe four or five times, first in Cambridge and then down at the Hope And Anchor in Islington. They started out as a kitschy, new-wavey take on the classic girl group sound, with covers of The Locomotion, Dizzy, some Phil Spector tunes, and even the Velvet Underground's Femme Fatale. However, they soon started adding their own material: songs like Honky Honda, He's So Frisky, Miss Candy Twist...and this one, the delightfully endearing New Look Baby, which ended up on the B-side of their debut single (a disappointing cover of Baby It's You which wasn't even part of their live set, produced by Eric Faulkner from the Bay City Rollers, recorded on record company instructions, and issued in a really rather dodgy sleeve.)

Dolly Mixture later provided the debut release (Been Teen) on Paul Weller's new vanity label, Respond, following it up with the much stronger Everything And More. Their own songs were gradually moving away from out-and-out kitsch, and towards a more mature style which pre-dated a lot of the so-called "twee"/"cutie" indie music of the mid-to-late 80s and beyond. They achieved their moment of fame in 1982, backing Captain Sensible on his Number One hit Happy Talk and its follow-up, the big-all-over-Europe hit Wot. Debsey Wykes went on to provide backing vocals for Saint Etienne (you can hear her unmistakable voice on their cover of Who Do You Think You Are), before forming Birdie. I've no idea what happended to Hesther Smith or Rachel Bor. They were a great little group who deserved wider recognition, and this is a seriously groovy little track which deserves to be rediscovered.

Item 102. Don't Want To Know If You Are Lonely - Husker Du (1986)

Way ahead of its time, and a clear influence on the Pixies, Nirvana, and all who followed in their slipstream. Good lyrics, as well.

Item 103. Saturday Night Beneath The Plastic Palm Trees - Leyton Buzzards (1979)

Their second single, which was released as the prize for winning a Best New Band contest on Radio One. Who would have guessed that just two years later, the band would have turned into Modern Romance? And who would have guessed that singer and lyricist Geoff Deane would eventually be responsible for scripting the dire ITV sitcom Babes In The Wood? But let's forget all that for now. This was their finest hour - a tale of bittersweet nostalgia for a "bit shit but we love it really" East London disco.

Item 104. T.V.O.D. - The Normal (1978)

The first ever release on the Mute label, which Daniel Miller (a.k.a. The Normal) single-handedly founded with the express purpose of releasing this slice of futuristic DIY electronica, which he recorded in his bedroom for peanuts.

I'm going to have to say it again, aren't I? Waaay ahead of its time. The B-side was the equally groundbreaking and influential Warm Leatherette (later famously covered by Grace Jones).

T.V.O.D. links in with that whole mood of Imminent Apocalyptic Technological Dystopia which was so prevalent in arty circles at that time (see also David Cronenberg's Videodrome). As such, it's truly excellent for throwing shapes to. Never mind the old "hairbrush in front of the mirror" cliche - why not try a bit of Interpretive Performance Art instead?

  

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

...for the Eurovision Song Contest, and I might as well warn you now: it won't be the last, either. The plane tickets to Riga are booked, the hotel reservations are made (hopefully), and most importantly of all, the seats in the Skonto Olympic Hall have been confirmed and paid for. Remember last year's in-depth Tallinn Diary? Well, expect a similarly exhaustive Riga Diary towards the back end of May. Now there's something to look forward to.

(Update: Something else to look forward to: the two big gay clubs in Riga are apparently called Purvs and XXL. Now, how mouth-watering is that?)

So why on earth am I banging on about all this in January, when the contest isn't even taking place until May 22? Well, it's just to note a couple of things:

Firstly, this year's eight Song For Europe finalists can now be streamed directly from the BBC Radio 2 site - and when you've listened to them, you can submit your vote at the bottom of the page. Alternatively, you can grab all 8 MP3s from this site (click on "2003 National Finals", and then on the Union Jack). However, bear in mind that the sound quality is not all it could be at this early stage; the MP3s have been burnt from the Real Player feeds, and no higher quality MP3s are yet available.

Surfing around a few of the fan sites, mailing lists and message boards over the course of the day, there don't seem to be any clear favourites. Indeed, several people have already commented on the overall mediocrity of this year's bunch. Although this might be partly due to the limited sound quality of the Real Player files (and partly due to my disappointment at finding out that none of the songs are to be performed by the Cheeky Girls after all), I have to agree with this emerging consensus.

For what it's worth though (and no doubt you'll disagree), my favourite is Song #8: Rainy Day In Summer, by the excruciatingly named Ben Plus One (it's a duet, see: Ben's a fella, and Plus One is his lay-dee). With its acoustic-ish midtempo pop/r&b vibe (which carries the faintest whiff of the Craig Davids about it), this is the nearest approximation on offer to the sort of stuff which actually gets in the charts these days. Why, the chorus even dares to contain the word "chilling", which is quite dangerously modern by Eurovision standards. And the songwriting pedigree is immaculate: composer Marianne Morgan has penned choons for (gasp!) Mis-Teeq and (shriek!) Liberty X, and - the clincher, this - she's the mother of Daniel from One True Voice (swoon!)

(Seond Update: On the excellent My Ace Life, Steve provides a full review of all 8 songs...and highly entertaining it is too.)

Secondly, some thrilling news about next year's contest. The European Broadcasting Union has today issued the following announcement:I can scarcely contain myself. A logistical (and financial?) nightmare in the making, to be sure (and just think of how long the voting could take!), but oh, the very thought of it gladdens my heart.

He's the one on the left, in this mercifully tiny little picture.

"But I look all puffed up!", he wailed (histrionically).
"In every respect", I murmured (seditiously).

He loves it all really, though.
And so do I.
So do I.

Update: I take it all back. In the larger dead tree version, he looks rather dashing after all. That's mah boy!

1. Never before have I seen such heavy-handed corporate sponsorship at a concert. Not only did the cosmetics company in question have their logo plastered on huge banners in every available space; they had also employed a team of chirpy reps to wander round the bars and foyers, slapping thick plastic wristbands onto every single punter. The deal was explained to us thus: after thirty minutes (during which time the punter in question would conveniently serve as a walking product endorsement), one of three letters would miraculously appear on the wristband. If you got a W, then you would win a trip for two to Milan to "meet Sophie" and see her in concert. If you got a G, you won a cosmetics Goodie Bag. If you got an R, then you won a tube of lipstick. (And if you get an E, then you'll start to come up, quipped Buni to the cosmetics rep - who giggled over this much more than she strictly should have done.)

I couldn't help but wonder whether all of this was in danger of compromising Sophie's artistic integrity. Mind you, she's always been fond of her slap - as this article from her old school magazine demonstrates.

2. The audience was - thankfully - older and more diverse than I was expecting for a pure Pop concert, i.e. not made up of the usual brew of teenage girls and gay men. In fact, there were remarkably few teens in attendance. This might have had something to do with the ticket price - or maybe Sophie just doesn't have that much teen appeal after all. Too sophisticated, peut-etre?

3. Two seats along from us in the stalls: a living, breathing version of that great stock comic character: the Bopping Granny. Seventy-five if she was a day, and clapping along with the best of them. "I saw Boy George last week!" she excitedly told Buni. "I went all the way to London to see him in Taboo - it's really good, you've got to go! - and ooh, I got that close to him. I couldn't believe it!" At which Buni (who once spent an entire evening strapped to a chair on Boy George's ceiling) and I exchanged wry glances, but said nothing.

4. The lead singer of the support band (Auburn - imagine Fairground Attraction without the rough edges, if such a thing were possible), had the kind of buoyant - nay, unsinkable - "Golly, isn't this FUN!" well-meaning mumsiness which swiftly palled. "She's like a cross between Lorraine Kelly and Janice Long," I whispered to Buni. We lasted three songs, before clambering back out to the bar for more free lippy.

5. Sophie is, like, reell-eh reell-eh tall - and her make-up was, like, reell-eh reell-eh fantastic (probably a contractual obligation, mind). She started off in a long "Spanish widow" style frock in black lace, which looked dead, dead classy and glamorous. God, she's got style, I thought. Her second outfit was a kind of high-necked, knee length, wrap-around affair in a silky pale grey fabric, printed over with black stiletto boot motifs, which was slit at the front from the waist down, revealing a short black slip. It was considerably less successful. Well, we all make mistakes, I thought. Her final outfit was a short, frilly, flouncy frock in a violent custard yellow print, with red bondage straps wrapped round it (probably John Galliano, we decided). An utter disaster, which (as the legendarily vicious London drag queen Adrella would probably have said) looked like it was styled with a knife and fork. Time to change your stylist, I concluded.

6. Why I like Sophie: because she's a little bit aloof, a little bit above the usual "Love me! Love me!" pop star nonsense, a little bit more intelligent, and maybe even a little bit arty on the quiet. You get the feeling that there are probably other things that she could be doing equally as well - but that for now, she has chosen to be a pop star, just for a while. You can just about imagine her reading paperback novels from last year's Booker Prize list, or going to art galleries, or seeing the occasional subtitled European arthouse flick. She's the cool older sister who doesn't have to try too hard. Unlike all those Popstars wannabes, she doesn't strangle the life out of her songs with all that tedious Carey-esque over-emoting. She understands the value of holding back. OK, so she'll never send you dizzy with excitement, and she'll never make you break down and cry - but you know what? Not everybody has to. Instaead, she belongs to the same tradition of polite middle class English pop which gave us Kim Wilde and Nick Heyward, and I like her for that.

7. She dealt with a stage invasion (by two pissed up lads who must have sneaked into the backstage area off the street) with admirable sang froid, not so much as wrinkling her brow as they were bundled off by security. "You'll have to excuse my dancers," she explained at the end of the song. "They were supposed to come on naked. They clearly hadn't studied their contracts closely enough."

8. The boys in her band were, I have to say, seriously cute. Although I'm sure they were picked for their musicianship alone.

9. I think she's grown bored to death with singing Groovejet. I was watching her closely, and she almost managed to cover it up - but not quite.

10. She really shouldn't have tried tackling Once In A Lifetime for the encore. It was way outside her interpretive range, with the spoken passages sounding as if she was reciting poetry at her school Speech Day. There's nothing wrong with trying to prove your early 80s pop suss credentials, but Kids In America or Love Plus One would have been much more suitable choices. This was, however, slightly redeemed when her band then dropped quotes from Herbie Hancock's Rockit into Murder On The Dancefloor. So we went home happy.