BAD TASTE UNIVERSITY OF YORK CAMPUS MAGAZINE ISSUE 7 SPRING ’09
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he wind gives a bitter chill. The days are short and the nights are long, and not to mention freezing. Dead leaves mixed with an unpleasant sludge litter campus walkways. Mid-term is upon us yet again. But hark! What is this? Disney songbirds soar over the horizon, drape-clothed septoplets skip merrily through St. John’s field, and even the Ebor Taxi ogre exudes a hint of glee atop her usual mundane drawl. Ah yes, Valentine’s Day is here once more. Although I certainly don’t hold the monopoly on anti-Valentine’s sentiments, it wouldn’t be a Hallmark holiday without a few disparaging jibes as the masses flock to find a date, any date, to avoid spending the night in Ziggy’s alone surrounded by newly formed duets swapping various fluids. My particular sympathies are extended to all the singletons in campus residence this time around, who thanks to the lack of asbestos padding in the walls will be dealing with a conjugal soundtrack not only in stereo, but from above and below too. It seems you’re in for the long haul. What better last-minute lover, then, than the seventh edition of BAD TASTE? Should our digressions on eternity, popular culture and world travel not sate you, at least you can stuff your ears with the pages. This edition is also the swansong of the current team, who’ll be handing over the torch to some fledgling youths later this term. Despite dealing with writers who thought the Gaza Strip was a kind of bikini wax and so much semi-colon abuse we’ve booked a collective enema, BAD TASTE would like to extend it’s thanks to all the contributors that have made the unprecedented progress of the past year possible. The mass exodus aside, this issue also sees the end of our legendary graphics team’s long-term relationship with the magazine, which really marks the end of an inspired yet unquestionably dirrrrty era. ------If you’d be interested in evolving any aspect of the magazine, be it writing, graphics, photography, management or even editorial, don’t hesitate to contact us on email@example.com, and watch this space for elections later this term.-
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Good Taste , Guy & Girl by Andy Young, Design by Tim Ngwena Class of 2009 by Will Heaven Slope / Style by Matt Grum Fox & Apple by Jonathan Fransman Claire Hazelgrove by Hannah Smith The Art of Popular Culture by Magda Assanowicz Hitchhiker’s Guide to Morocco by Thesi Herrmann The Eternal Debate on eternity by Nikos Stathopoulos York’s Little Gem by Matt Grum
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Fusion by Sarah Jordan Centre Spread by Matt Grum Diary of a Cast Member by Chi-San Howard He’s just not that into you by Sarah Jordan
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Political Fashion by Venetia Rainey Mon Amour...: Fashion Shoot The Sound of Fashion by Charlotte Davey Fashion Blog by Charlotte Davey, Elise Hartopp & Lucy Coleman Dressing for Spring: Fashion Shoot
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You me at 6 by Emma Robson & Alice Bedford Those Poor Emos by Hugh Morris Foals by Emma Robson Tribes of Brooklyn by Sarah Jeffery & Phillip Smith Winter Playlist by Hayley Fairclough Gig Guide / Bad Taste Stereo / What’s on your iPod ?
BAD TASTE Editors Jake Delaney & Sam Hogton
Graphics / Web Editor Tim Ngwena Photography & Graphics Matt Grum Managing Director Good Taste Editor Oliver Blair Andy Young Fashion Editors Performing Arts Editor Lauren Clancy Sarah Jordan Alice Albery Features Coordinator Music Editor Hannah Smith Emma Robson Sub-Editor Head of Advertising Lois Ashton William Heaven Publicity & Distribution Manager Tom Bishai & Elizabeth Priday Graphics Assistants Maksymilian Fus-Mickiewicz Phill Smith Michael Brunsden good taste assistant Charlie Elliott Administrator Ola Jeglinska Contributors Sarah Jeffery, Philip Smith, Hugh Morris, Charlotte Davey, Jonathan Fransman, Magda Assanowicz, Thesi Herrmann, Nikos Stathopoulos, Venetia Rainey, Elise Hartopp, Lucy Coleman, Alice Bedford, Hayley Fairclough, Duncan O’Hehir, Sam Newsome, Jenny Mak, Charlotte Bohlman, Lily Eastwood, Mary Fostiropoulos, Kutchi Katto, Rosanna Pinker, Faye Wynne, Emma Hallett, Amy Jones, Nina Courtney Sabey, Adam Dunnett, Raphael Gindre, Joseph Harrison, Charlotte McGuiness
Special thanks to: Sanctuary, City Screen Basement Bar
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The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those of YUSU or of the editorial team. Every care is taken to ensure all information published is correct at the time of print. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or part without written permission is strictly prohibited. Bad Taste Magazine cannot be held responsible for information provided by advertisers.
If you would like to get involved with BAD TASTE please email firstname.lastname@example.org.
WWW.BADTASTEMAGAZINE.CO.UK Magazine Design by Tim Ngwena , Matt Grum & Maksymilian Fus-Mickiewicz Cover by Matt Grum & Michael Brunsden
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Class of 2009.
by Will Heaven / illustrations Phill Smith
here will you be in December of this year? Well, if you are a plucky first or second year, the chances are you’ll be cooped in a house in York. Admittedly, it will be a pov-shack: cold, dingy, student lodgings. But if you are in third year, things could be a lot worse. So guys…don’t moan. The class of 2009, it has recently been proclaimed, is “Generation Crunch”. Put simply, when the mummies and daddies with mortgages, kids and loans are being sacked, why would anyone give two hoots about employing 300,000 of us clutching degrees? There are no empty spaces in the London offices, because they’re burning the sodding desks as firewood. In December, the likelihood is that us graduates will be wandering the streets, rag-picking and bone-selling. (God knows what bone-selling is all about, but it sounds grim.) We’ll be the best-qualified bunch of tramps in the history of homelessness.
To make matters worse, when Tony Blair and his chums were encouraging us to go to university, they were also pondering how to foot the bill for 50% of the country in higher education. The answer? Get us, the students, to pay for it. So, not only will Generation Crunch fail to land jobs, but – hurrah! – we’ll be the most debt-ridden bunch of undergraduates in the history of British education. And let’s not forget: there are things we haven’t told our parents, like how much money we borrowed to live on (and where it all went). The good news for me is that I was always going to be unemployable. I study English and Philosophy. For what it is – and because it’s at York – it’s one of the best courses in the country. But it’s the finance and economics students who were most likely to be heading for well-paid jobs in the City, so it’s they who have been hit hardest. Peter Spencer, an economics professor here, says that the City will revive itself in the not-too-distant future.
g to Are you goin oard Jack ’s cardb box party?
we could go as tramps!
But, he says, “recruitment has been generally slashed. The company treasurers are in precautionary mode – they are fearing the worst, and planning for it.” Some graduates, however, will benefit. Professor Spencer claims: “The real engineers – as opposed to the financial ones – have had their prospects improved immensely in the long term”. And, if the economy gets back on track in 2010, “they will find themselves in pole position”. It seems, then, that financial experts aren’t wanted at the moment, and that engineers might eventually benefit from the crunch. But what about humanities students? Are we, with a cheer, going to throw our mortarboards into oblivion? The no man’s land between finance and the sciences is packed with those of us who’ve studied English, philosophy, history, politics – even theatre studies. We can’t all become academics, surely? So let’s tramp it with a degree: “Please give spare change: I used to have prospects”. -
fancy Yeah... but it’s know dress and I don’t ... what to go as
at didn ’t we do th last time?
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Snow riders: Matt Grum Max Hardy Richard Ramsbottom Michael James Photography: Matt Grum Duncan O'Hehir YUSNOW is The University of Yorkâ€™s Snowsports club. For more information about learning to ski/board, events, socials, and trips including a week in Val Thorens and the BUSC Main Event visit yusnow.co.uk
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by sarah jordan / photo matt grum
t’s halfway through a long and arduous term, the strain of assessed essays and timed exams are starting to get to us all, even those few unfortunate first years. So what, I hear you ask, can drag us out of this dull stupor? The answer is Fusion, the biggest charity dance, music and fashion show on campus.
Despite the bad reports and unfair accusations that have been thrown at Fusion and it’s organizers in the past, one simply cannot deny the huge amount of money the cast and crew raise for the most worthwhile of charities. Last years show ‘Fusion: In Motion’ was a great success.Headed by Amy Browne, the show used movie genres to influence truly spectacular dance numbers and intricate dance based modelling scenes complete with high street and designer clothes. Last years show raised £9,000 for local charity SNAPPY and Cancer Research UK. The creators of this years show are aiming to raise £15,000 for World Vision and Barnardos Spring Hill School through various socials and ticket sales to the event.
Last years show raised £9,000 for local charity SNAPPY and Cancer Research UK For all you first years who are still in the dark or others who have simply avoided campus events for your university life, Fusion is performed in Central Hall incorporating a cast of 135 dancers, actors and models. The Audition process (which has often been the issue of Fusion critics in the past) were open to everyone during the Autumn term and for the first time a cast of actors were required for the show. Although the modelling auditions for Fusion have been criticised heavily in the past as arrogant and pretentious, the process is about the individuals ability to react and follow the rhythm of often complicated pieces of music rather than their appearance. Like all shows Fusion needs energy and enthusiasm, which those auditioning were expected to show in the audition process. By the end of last term the whole cast had been found and they will now go through an intensive rehearsal process until showtime in week 8. The dance scenes in Fusion are always something to be admired. Whether you prefer hiphop, tap, salsa or contemporary Fusion usually
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strives to provide a little bit of each, showcasing the talent of its diverse cast. Last year the choreography was predominantly organised and developed by Jo Gledhill and Michelle Ndebele. This year a team of choreographers, headed by second year Clare Harrison, will take on the challenge of creating almost two hours of professional performances.
...hip-hop, tap, crunk, salsa or contemporary
Fusion is a dynamic visual experience incorporating performers from a whole host of societies including Juggle Society, ACS, Japanese soc and Dance Society to name a few. Although this year’s Fusion production team and cast are keen to keep the content of the show a secret, some information is known about this years performance. The theme is ‘cities’, six of them to be precise; London, Moscow, Johannesburg, New York, Tokyo and Rio De Janiero. The audience will follow one adventurous tourist as they travel round the globe sampling the fashion, music and dance associated with that region. Expect to see punk rock in Hyde Park, gospel music in Johannesburg, hip-hop in New York City and a carnival procession in Rio! Tim Ngwena, this years Fusion President is obviously very excited about this years Fusion project. He is adamant that this years show stay as secret as possible, all he would say is that the show will be ‘very, very….very different from previous years’. You may have seen fusion socials advertised around campus and the party themes are closely related to this years show. The first social back in the autumn term was based on the Punk band ‘The Clash’ and their infamous song London Calling. Another was called ‘From Russia with Love’ a James Bond themed cocktail party. What with all the fun of fancy dress and alcohol fuelled socials the real point of Fusion can often be swept away in the hype (and more often than not criticism). So whether Fusion is high on your ‘not to be missed’ list or right at the bottom, it is important to bear in mind that all the profits and hard work go to helping local and national charities. Fusion will be performed on the 5th-6th March, Week 8. Buy your tickets from Your:Shop, Vanbrugh Stalls or on the door.-
t seems almost necessary for a pivotal historical figure to face a period of vilification in their lifetime in order to cement their mark on history. In the years when colour began to dominate Turner’s artwork, ‘the great pyrotechnic’ was denounced by a significant proportion of the artistic community, denounced for his refusal to uphold the rigid classical structure and respect the time-honored traditions of painting that the Royal Academy subscribed to.
In the years when colour began to dominate Turner’s artwork, ‘the great pyrotechnic’ was denounced by a signiﬁcant proportion of the artistic community
The dining club is also something which has fallen prey to an extraordinarily negative public perception. The concept of a dining club, so pure and noble in nature, has in its realisation descended so spectacularly into a tasteless and debased orgy of immorality. Pleasant dinner conversation and breathtaking cuisine have been carelessly discarded to make way for a bunch of vulgar public school boys intent on getting obliterated and indulging in public displays of genetalia. Their likeness to Euripidean drama is unmistakable; this was the death of the archaic dining club.
One of the main perks of becoming a member, currently £15 per annum, is to enjoy the exclusive discounts available to club members at a selection of the best restaurants in York. Other benefits of club membership include discounts at delicatessens, reduced wine prices from Fox and Apple Wine and invitations to various gastronomic events which will be held during the year. The charitable aspect of the Fox and Apple is another detail worth mentioning. The Fox and Apple Club is an entrepreneurial venture but 50% of the club’s profits will be donated to a number of national and international charities. The philanthropic aspect of the club is an essential constituent and also an added bonus for those considering joining. So if an elongated (and perhaps slightly vinous) dinner with a few friends at a top restaurant appeals to you slightly more than an evening at one of York’s premier ‘nightclubs’, I really hope you will consider joining.
But, just like the messiah rose again on the third day, the dining club too has been reborn. I now present you with the vessel of this rebirth, The Fox and Apple Club. The Fox and Apple Club is a private society for students at the University of York who are interested in food and drink. The club aims to appeal to anyone who is interested in fine food
and wine and aims to establish a community of similarly minded individuals at the university. The club also aims to establish links between the high end of the York gastronomic community and the York student body.
The outdated dining club is dead; long live the Fox and Apple Club.www.foxandapple.co.uk
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claire hazelgrove. chum and politician
by hannah smith
little chat over a cup of Earl Grey and a cheese baguette with Claire…. about politics. Eeeeek. Not usually my forte, or our normal topic of banter but ho hum….what better way to adventure outside the comfort zone than with a friend? Personally, I think it is quite impossible not to like Claire. Her warm friendliness does something to defrost the icy exterior of a subject matter. The girl is a tough cookie in a vocation where you simply need to be. Admittedly when one fabricates an image of a typical MP, Claire may not be what automatically springs to mind. This is exactly the point. The equality and fairness that Claire feels she found in the Labour policies she passionately believes in and advocates, epitomizes her. After a childhood in a mostly un-politically charged environment, and a school where politics was not offered on any academic front, it is evident that Claire followed this path purely off her own back. Opinions were developed from informed decisions born of mature perspective, as oppose to a habitual family tree of traitor-less voting. This is truly refreshing. After twirling around in a whirlwind of media attention from local and national press over the last couple of years for fabulous pursuits, ranging from casually hanging out in Parliament to winning the position of Labour candidate for Ripon and Skipton, and frolicking in Virginia with Bazza O B at a truly historical moment. Even though she probably doesn’t refer to him as that obvs. The old CV is already heavily weighted with a wealth of experience that battles off criticisms of lack of experience/ enthusiasm/ knowledge with a ruddy great stick. She knows what she’s talking about, but without being aloof or patronizing. Life at the moment consists of: returning to America to celebrate everyone’s hard work with gusto; being followed around every couple of weeks by nosy Channel 4, as one of 15 inspiring young people being documented over a year; and balancing uni merriment with appropriate adult behaviour. Oh, and being number 3 of the Guardian’s Hotlist for promising politicians. Again, quite casually. Very. Well. Done.-
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ashion is inherently political. If you haven’t come across this saying before, smirking smugly at you from the pages of some forward-thinking writer in a glossy magazine, then take the time to read them again: fashion is inherently political.
very, very anti Tony Blair. I think he's as big a monster as Margaret Thatcher ever was. Yeah, I think he's caused as many deaths as her, what with his behaviour”.
Fashion and politics are, to many, polar opposites. One is all about frippery, the aesthetic and finding the Next Big Thing; while the other describes a world of serious policies, real people and the Things That Really Matter In The World. However, many have already begun to point out that the two are not really so different, thanks largely to a shift in how politics functions in society today (for further details, look no further than the reasons for our own Prime Minister’s flailing popularity). But this is not about politics, this is about fashion, and fashion’s attempts at stepping into the proverbial political shoe should not go unnoticed.
Westwood’s numerous collections include Propaganda (A/W 05/06), where she explores what she deems the three main pillars of propaganda: Nationalistic Idolatry, Non-Stop Distraction, and Organized Lying. NINSDOL (her acronym, not mine) is a ‘pill which is administered throughout life’ to sedate us. Another, more recent collection, ‘56’ (S/S 08), was a protest against Brown’s proposal for the detention of terrorists without charge for 56 days. Typically layered white silk dresses had the number ‘56’ splashed all over them along with statements such as, ‘I haven’t a clue / what to do / about 56 / forget politics / it’s all a matter / of life and theft’ and, ever insightful: ‘in that jail / it ain’t no fun’.
Enter Dame Vivienne Westwood, dubbed fashion’s most outrageous and most outspoken, and a woman who is never short of an opinion or five. Fashion, apparently, gives her “an opportunity to speak out in an age where this is becoming really difficult”. One of her favourite subjects for discussion includes the state of the Labour party and its current leaders: “Who will you vote for in the next election when they are all alike? How can you find your voice? How can you be democratic? I know what I say… I would vote Tory next time, I’ve never voted Tory before but I would, simply because I hate that other lot.” She was also quoted by the Independent as saying, “I'm
The culmination of her political involvement came in the form of her very own manifesto, ‘a concrete base and anchor for everything else you are trying to do – to change yourself and the world’. The entire, revolutionary work, can be read online on her website, activeresistance.co.uk. Her opinions are, by her own confession, about as enduring as they are considered: “I'm very easy to persuade. I don't always stick to my point of view. I can be influenced by somebody if they're saying something that opens my eyes and ears.” For the majority of fashion’s players, however, the state of English politics is small fry. The big fish, clearly, are across the pond.
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Political Fashion. by venetia rainey / illustration phill smith Barack Obama, recently inaugurated President of the United States of America, must have been thanking his lucky stars that so many of the world’s leading fashion designers chose to back him. It started off with Donatella Versace’s comment last June that her new collection was inspired by the then-presidential candidate, “the man of the moment… a relaxed man who doesn't need to flex muscles to show he has power”. Followed by her own personal fashion advice for Obama: “I would get rid of the tie and jazz up the shirt.” Sonia Rykiel followed suit in her 40th anniversary show, showing a preppy outfit with ‘Obama’ emblazoned on the front of one and ‘I have a dream’ on another. On another catwalk, Jean-Charles de Castelbajac’s black and yellow shift dress with Obama’s face across the front, and the slogan ‘I have a dream today’ on the back, won a standing ovation at the end of his show. Seizing the opportunity of a political statement further, the model also wore fingerless gloves, one carrying the word ‘YES’, the other ‘NO’, a stunning reminder of the power of the vote. Obama’s official website has a shop on it (of course), and other designers who have jumped on the extra press coverage bandwagon, otherwise known as the ‘Runway to Change’, range from Vera Wang with her ‘Vote Obama ‘08’ cotton T-shirt, to Rag and Bone and their ‘Change is Awesome’ white linen tote. Zac Posen, Marc Jacobs, Derek Lam and Diane Von Fustenburg could also be spotted making their offerings. Politics and fashion no longer occupy separate spheres. Politics now needs the popular accreditation which the fashion world offers, and fashion seems increasingly to desire a vindication of its contribution to society through the realm of political activity. Caroline Evans, professor of Fashion History at Central Saint Martins, makes a good point in saying that, “Fashion has always been political, since the days when sumptuary laws prohibited people of lower rank from wearing certain fabrics”. Fashion is about hierarchy, enforcing sociological structures, self-promotion and image, not actual politics. It is by nature too transient and too lightly treated to be a real vehicle of political change. The fashion world will continue to delude itself, however, leaving the rest of us to wonder: who will be the first to pick up on the Middle Eastern conflict in the shows this spring? Let’s just hope it’s not Westwood.-
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Mon Amour... Cupid will soon be up to his usual St. Valentine’s Day tricks, but before he gets you we thought we’d tempt you into an early love affair with one of six, beautiful and affordable outfits hand-picked from York’s latest hot-spot, The York Designer Clothes Agency. Nestled amongst an array of eateries and bookshops, this little retail gem is packed full of labels just waiting to be taken home.
The York Designer Clothes Agency 43 Fossgate Tel: (01904) 625400 Models: Charlotte Bohlman, Lily Eastwood, Mary Fostiropoulos, Kutchi Katto, Rosanna Pinker, Faye Wynne Photography: Michael Brunsden, Matt Grum & Sam Newsome Stylists: Alice Albery and Lauren Clancy Assistants: Charlotte Davey and Jenny Mak
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Lily wears: Puff-sleeve cropped jacket by Simon Ellis £15; Leather waist belt stylist’s own; Black pencil skirt stylist’s own; Patent red bow detail heels stylist’s own
Charlotte wears: Red and black pinstripe dress by Kriss £22; Black waist belt stylist’s own; Pearl necklace and earrings (sold as set) £20; Silk clutch bag by Coast £12; Patent red ‘Flair’ heels by Bally £16 Special thanks to City Screen Basement Bar 13-17 Coney Street
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Mary wears: Bowler hat stylist’s own; Broad striped shirt by Marc Anrel £12; Black leggings stylist’s own; Black heels model’s own Special thanks to City Screen Basement Bar 13-17 Coney Street
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Rosanna wears: Beaded evening gown by Emma Somerset ÂŁ40 Special thanks to Sanctuary Bar & Garden, 68 Gillygate
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Kutchi wears: Electric blue sequin detail tunic £35; Black leggings stylist’s own; Silver lace-up heels stylist’s own
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Faye wears: Sheer sequin detail blouse £12; Grey puff ball skirt stylist’s own; Pink ballet tights stylist’s own; Grey knee-high socks with bow detail stylist’s own; T-bar dolly shoes stylist’s own
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The art of popular culture. by Magda Assanowicz We tend to be very judgmental in our daily existence. Meeting people, for example, involves a great deal of criticism. After the initial disclosure of their taste, either concerning cinema or music, we feel we’ve solved a riddle and unconsciously put this new person in a box. And we have more than enough to choose from: pretentious snob, giggling girl, manly sportsman, alternative freak and so on. We are constantly critical towards others, but rarely towards ourselves. We seldom see how shallow we are and how our behaviour is affected by what we have seen or talked about. Thus in conversation, whilst ostensibly appearing witty, we use a dialect of popular culture that could be seen as a proof of our knowledge or simply a revelation of our ignorance. Phrases such as: “You’re my Royale with Cheese”, “It is thirty minutes away, I will be there in ten”, “I will get medieval on yo’ ass”… It is not a coincidence that they’ve crept into our daily lexicon: they became a part of popular culture because of a film, a piece of art that is known by everyone and placed on a shelf somewhere in between La Dolce Vita and Devil Wears Prada. It goes without saying: it is Pulp Fiction that we talk about here, the prime example of the cultural processes that we are entangled in quite unconsciously.
to the future, it seems that Tarantino still up to his old tricks. He’s currently directing Inglorious Basterds, which is a direct allegory to the 1978 work of Enzo G. Castellari called Inglorious Bastards. Believe it or not, the plot is nearly identical, but I suspect that Tarantino is going to use the same convention as always: witty wordplay and his staple actors (this time it is Brad Pitt, Diane Kruger, Daniel Brühl, Mélanie Laurent and Samuel L. Jackson) to transform the traditional into something entirely fresh, but hardly unique. The film, which is penned for release in August 2009, has already garnered preview comments along the lines of, “All in all, it reads like Kill Bill meets The Dirty Dozen meets Cinema Paradiso.” This is further proof that trying to describe Tarantino’s work in it’s own terms is an exercise in futility. Strangely enough this seems to be his goal. The problem remains: Being critical as we usually are, we should be able to separate ourselves from fiction and lead our lives entirely the way we want to.
Let’s put it this way: we all respect Tarantino’s work, it has been almost universally hailed as brilliantly written and unfathomably cool, but why is that? Because Tarantino made a ‘patchwork of crime film history’ using works such as Jean- Pierre Melville’s Le Samourai, Jean-Luc Godard’s BandeA-Part, but also Hitchcock’s Psycho and ultimately Francis Ford Coppola’s Godfather. Tarantino’s work is never completely innovative - it is rather a second hand postmodern piece reheated by his witty style of writing. This is precisely why we take it to be an interesting work: something that is a part of popular culture. Firstly he takes the movies that inspired him, and then combines them with modern devices to make something original, to then become a part of popular culture once again. That is what defines the circular nature of culture. What’s more, Tarantino himself plays with this convention and mocks it very clearly in his own works (for example in Death Proof where Jungle Julia’s ringtone is ‘Twisted Nerve’, used in Kill Bill, Vol. 1). Looking
Easy to say, but hard to fulfil in reality, because even Tarantino is basing his script on something: daily random conversations that he heard while sitting in some ‘Big Kahuna Burger’ style place. Thus cultural circularity ensues from these other sources as well. The only way to deal with this phenomenon is to understand that ‘Art today is a new kind of instrument, an instrument for modifying consciousness and organizing new modes of sensibility’ (Sontag). With the moment of achieving the ‘new modes of sensibility’ we might finally understand that cultural circles are inevitable and the only way to be entirely yourself is to understand in what circles you personally are entangled in. What a dilemma! ‘You hear that? It’s the world’s smallest violin…’-
One cheats himself, as a human being, if one has respect only for the style of high culture Susan Sontag
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A week on monday By matt grum
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the fashion victim.
by Charlotte Davey
n the world of fashion, there are no two words that can conjure more fear than these infamous two; fashion victim. Every fashion-thinking guy and gal desires to boldly go where no fashionista has gone before, pushing trend boundaries and making them their own, yet just the thought of such a damning phrase is enough to put even the bravest of us off experimening with a trend. We may like the trend, but if we embrace it fully then we are subject to being seen as victims of the fashion. The alternative, and generally favoured option, is to buy key pieces that we can adapt into our own existing look. This would explain why accessories are so popular right now; we want to embrace the ‘Circus de Nuit’ season but do not actually want to look like a clown. Solution; we buy the harlequin bag. We adore the ‘Goth Chic’ image but do not all want to shop in ‘Vamps’. Solution; we wear the black lace dress from ASOS. It all stems down to the fact that fashion and style reside in two completely separate realms. And at the fashion-wise age of 20, one hopes that we can distinguish between them. For me, my university time has not been spent ‘try-
ing to find myself ’ as I was so told it would be, but instead, ‘trying to find my signature style'. So, whilst it is fun to experiment with fashion trends as they come and go, one must remember their own individual style and leave the dramatic reinventions to Madonna. Which brings me to cardinal fashion sin number one; if you must become a mannequin for a fashion trend, do not try to pass it off as your own style. We all know these people; the one who said that he’s always been wearing cardigans, or the girl who claimed that kohl eye flicks were her thing. The most annoying of these, the one that infests our campus and spoils my view of our otherwise charming habitat is the ‘look how individual I am’ movement. You may know it by another name, but anyone who dresses like Vince Noir or a Robot in Disguise falls into this category. For these people, my opening statement is completely inapplicable. In this trend, the rule seems to be the more unstylish the better, all in the quest of being individual. Note the sense of irony here, where lies the vital flaw in this so-called ‘individualism’; this is a movement,
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not one person. For when Noel Fielding burst onto the scene in 2004 in his sequined getup, the words fashion and victim were the last we could conjure because it was not a fashion at all but his own image, and true individuality is always deemed as stylish in my books. Yet as soon as style is copied, it becomes a fashion, removing the aspect of style and welcoming in opportunity to be victimised. Another example; take Alice Dellal; when she shaved half of her head she was famed for her true individuality. When all the wannabes copied this look, of course they were not hailed for their style; it was not theirs. The only thing they had succeeded in doing was illustrating their ability to replicate. It happens all the time, you may think that you’ve got the perfect outfit but when that person tries to imitate your look, or even worse, actually buys your top (note to self: do not tell her where I shop) you can no longer look upon your precious outfit as stylish, for it has become a mini fashion of its own. They say that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. No, I don’t have a witty retort; I just wanted to point out the idiocy of it.-
mouth instead of reading what we want from their clothing.
I’m aware that my clothes are garish and bright, my hair is so over bleached you could probably use it to clean the bath and that my make up is bordering on trans-sexual chic, but I fail to see how on earth these factors of my appearance equate to me being intellectually worthless. Similarly, I fail to see how styling oneself with black make up and lots of piercings in scary places makes you a manic depressive, blood sucking creature of the night. But maybe that’s just me.
I can’t claim to know the reason why people are so quick to judge others by how they choose to represent themselves physically and nor can I claim that I am innocent of the crime, but part of me wishes we could all just walk around with our eyes shut and our ears open, and listen to what’s coming out of somebody’s
At the end of the day, the bright colours, the stick-on glitter and the gaudy make-up is all for me, it’s about brightening my day. When the world is all drizzly and dank and everybody has something to complain about, at least I know I can look in the mirror and see something bright and shiny and it will put a smile on my face. And I don’t think that’s stupid at all.-
by Elise Hartopp 'm not going to make any claims about my intelligence, and I certainly won't make claims about Barbie's, either. After all, since 1959 that little lady has continued to capture the world’s attention; she must be doing something right, albeit by employing some very intelligent marketing people. Thanks to them, perhaps, this cultural icon has bred a stereotype in her wake; a stereotype to which I seem to fall victim…
A Generation of ebay-ers.
by Lucy Coleman nline shopping has revolutionised our way of life; who hasn’t done a Tesco Online shop lately, or recently had a quick browse on eBay for the latest garment? Ebay is a wonderful thing; I can think of few better ways to wile away the hours than to browse Ebay for new bags, dresses, jackets and shoes. More often than not I stumble across what seems to be an incredible bargain, impossible to pass up, but how much longer can Ebay last if its very purpose is undermining the fashion industry that supplies it? In 2006, the major French fashion house Hermes won a suit against Ebay for $30,000 for auctioning two counterfeit Hermes bags. As the trend for online shopping grows, one can only assume that this is to be the first of many battles between Ebay and the fashion industry. Fashion counterfeits are a $600bn business, and sites like Ebay can only exacerbate the problem for high-end fashion houses. So what is to happen to our fashion industry? Are the fashion houses that have been creating, influencing and revolutionising the clothes of the last two hundred years going to fade into the background as the next generation of internet clothing retail steps into place? Fair enough, we are in the middle of a global economic recession and designer and brand clothing at such cheap prices sound like an ideal remedy. However I don’t think I want to continue funding a site that could potentially bring about the eventual downfall of the fashion industry, even if I do still check it every few days for that elusive bargain…-
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the sound of fashion. by charlotte Davey
t is universally acknowledged that a single or album should be judged purely on its musical merits. Quite. Since the dawn of the Television, however, it has been understood that any entertainer, even if they are extremly talented at singing or playing an instrument, will be scrutinised for their appearence. To be sucessful in this horrendous world of 'celebrity', one must have the whole package, in particular; fashion sense. What got me thinking about this theory was looking at a video of HK119, a relatively underground female artist whose music, whilst very listenable, is performed by something out of a bad acid trip. See picture for reference. This look of Finnish Heidi Kilpelainen has been scaring ‘the squares’ all around the world for some time now, earning her quite the fearsome reputation, yet this look could easily be seen on a catwalk, in, say, a Victor and Rolf show, blurring the lines between music and fashion. I take this case as a sign of the times, a milestone in the progress of the ‘arts merge’. Whilst it is usual, nay, expected, that a performer can sing and dance and make at least an attempt at acting, being a fashion icon is also a required part of the package. It is all part of selling the ‘act’; nobody listened to ‘Space Oddity’ before Bowie dyed his hair, shaved off his eyebrows, and generally became the glam rock wonderment he is so famed for. Fashion and music have long gone hand in hand; often quite literally, such as the collabo-
ration between Vivienne Westwood, Malcolm McClaren and The Sex Pistols, to whom we owe ‘punk’. Westwood would style her husband’s band in clothes from their shop ‘Let It Rock’, using the band to popularise her safety pin and tartan creations. Even artists have supported bands; Andy Warhol introduced Nico to The Velvet Underground, creating, you guessed it, The Velvet Underground and Nico, whose smart style can be said to some up 60s New York, again, producing a style that could only be headed by ‘arts’. Now with events such as ‘Fashion Rocks’, it is clear that the fashion industry is more than happy to be associated with certain music acts, as each designer chooses a singer who presumably they think will provide a fitting soundtrack to their catwalk, proving a continuity between vision and sound in the arts. As these lines become increasingly blurred, we find that music artists are setting fashion trends all their own; from one off items such as Pete Doherty and the bowler hat, to personal attributes like the Horrors and backcombed hair. Even the essence of a rockstar in general is proving to be fashion inspiration; check out the Olsen twin’s new line from The Row, ‘Elizabeth and James’, which is made up of leather trousers, waistcoats and bikini-wax short dresses, all black, which was shown in the window of Bloomingdales this summer with drum kits and electric guitars, you know, just in case we hadn’t picked up on the ‘rockability’ factor already. This type of collaboration between fashion and music has meant that it is now normal, even expected, for a band to be unanimous with a fashion trend; My Chemical Romance with ‘emo’, The Strokes with ‘indie’, so much so that artists can be seen as the pinnacle of fashion; enter Cheryl Cole on the front cover of last month’s ‘Vogue’. The big surprise fashion trend 08/09 seems to be taking its inspiration from DJs. I say surprising as, even though we all know the undisputed rule of ‘DJ = cool’, when we think that these are the people that spend most days locked inside their bedrooms experimenting with different BPM’s, we remember that fashion is really not the forte of the DJ. However, this type of ‘I don’t care what I
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look like, I came for the music’ type dressing has resulted in a new trend: The ‘scene’ look simply involves putting on jeans you found on the floor, some type of vintage logo T-shirt, and a hooded jacket/ leather jacket combo. Messy hair is optional. This look, void of fashion designers, could be seen as a microcosm of music and style, perhaps suggesting that the fashion/music partnership has gone full circle and music now doesn’t need to rely on the fashion world to create styles and trends. Moreover, fashion designers could be seen to now want music to inspire them, as opposed to the traditional opposite, as Dior recently had Justice providing music for one of their shows. Either way, it is clear that music and fashion seem to have had a reversal or at least an equalizing in terms of inspiration. Perhaps this is even a sign that the fusion of the arts is separating once more; becoming different realms again but on equal terms, allowing for compromise and, hopefully, future collaborations.-
If you’d be interested in evolving any aspect of the magazine, be it writing, graphics, photography, management or even editorial, don’t hesitate to contact us” YOUR OPPORTUnity to run the university of york campus magazine: 1. Email info@BADTASTEmagazine.co.uk 2. prepare a schpeel on why you’re running 3. Come to the BAD TASTE AGM WEEK 6
d/056 tueSDAY WEEK 6 (17TH fEBRUARY) BAD TASTE N07
Hitchhiker’s guide to Morocco.
by Thesi Herrmann
t all started in Brussels. Brussels, of all places. As if this messed-up city, somewhere lost on its way between old and new, chic and shabby, much more constantly becoming something than ever really being anything, wanted to tell us something about our own journey. It was so close, the adventure that had come to inhabit this nervous chamber in my mind labelled 'dreams turning reality'. And yet all of it seemed so perfectly unrealistic as we were walking past the city's ice-cream stalls, chocolate fountains, overprized tourist restaurants and beer bars preparing for their night performances. We came to a restaurant called 'Marrakesh' and took a picture in front of it. As I smiled into Ben's camera, he joked ‘‘this might be the closest we'll ever get to Morocco’’, not knowing that he had just spelled out my thoughts. I still couldn't image this journey to be actually happening. But there was little time to ponder on the impossibility of this hitch; there were signs to be made and motorways to be conquered. After an hour's craft session in a retail park on the outskirts of Brussels, the transformation was completed. We, the beer-sipping, waffletasting tourists of the night before, had turned into hitch-hikers - equipped with a bed sheet turned into a sign twice as big as ourselves and a clear destination on our minds: the French town of Rochefort, where we were to visit Ben's aunt before continuing our journey to Spain and Morocco. (Although, admittedly, this destination became a lot clearer after Google Maps had informed us over breakfast that Rochefort was not situated in the South-East of France, as Ben had insisted, but indeed on the west coast. 300 miles out of our original route? Oh, what 'route' was there in hitch-hiking anyway.) Before we knew it, we found ourselves to be something of an attraction in this bleak Brussels April morning. Amused car-drivers smiled, waved, tooted and eventually...stopped. Was this real? After some bare five minutes of waiting, we were driven through the Belgian landscape in an (ample) Mercedes with leather seats, by a journalist who was reminded of his own times as a student hitch-hiker. It couldn't be a dream because I soon realised I had not acquired the superpower of being able to speak French. But although my mind was occupied trying to slowly puzzle awkward-sounding words and sentences together, I couldn't help but marvel at the situation. For the first time in my life, I was driven in a car I did not have
to pay for, by somebody whom I had never met before, whom I in fact had so little in common with that I would probably never have talked to him, except that I was now sitting on his passenger seat. We got to the French border in no time. By then, all I felt was elevation. To me, this first hitch hadn't just been 45 minutes of slow conversation with a nostalgic Belgian journalist. It had been the drive through the secret gate to the universe of hitchhiking, where, like rocks in space, we were floating freely, our movement wholly dependent on the attractive force of people's sympathy. Our next lift would give me a hint of how vast this universe was. After again just five minutes of waiting, an old red Golf pulled over. Opening the front door, I looked at one of the wildest scenes I had ever seen: A pair of piercing blue eyes stared at me from a face that must have been at least 80 years old, yet the wide-rimmed black hat and long black cloak that framed it gave it a look of stern determination. A cloud of cigar smoke and a stream of blaring classical music simoultaneously reached for my senses, overwhelming me. I looked at Ben and we nodded. Floating freely, like rocks in space... What followed was a whole afternoon of discussion and argument with a man who seemed to have been everywhere and seen everything with his piercing blue eyes. I found out that he was German like me, which didn't make things easier because this meant I couldn't hide my insecurity behind the cloak of a foreign language. And there were points when I really wished I could hide, just so I could gain some time to make up my confused mind. It turned out that our lift knew the founder of Link Community Development, the charity we were hitching for, from a stay in Tanzania in the 70s. It also turned out that we knew shamefully little about the organisation in whose name we claimed to do all this. In what then became an increasingly heated political argument, I felt like I was at the focal point of the collision of two tectonic plates, whose entirely opposing movements had attracted them towards each other. One was Ben's politeness, his easy humour, his honest belief in the liberal values he was brought up with, the other was our driver's passionate earnest, his disgust of small talk and his fury at the soullessness of Capitalism. So this is how vast it is, the universe of hitchhiking, and this is how fast you are catapulted
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through it. When I foolishly thought I had figured out that hitchhiking was all about small-talk in a foreign language, it taught me just the opposite. If I now thought this was the most intense hitchhiking could come to, it would teach me wrong again. Of the 21 hitches we were to take in the next few days, not one was predictable, none were alike. After staying in the surreal world of a Parisian concrete suburb for the night, next day's luck would let us end up with our most relaxing hitch yet. Sensing our exhaustion, the next driver, an engineer from Togo, simply shoved us into the back seat, put a huge pizza between us, and let us ride along to Tracy Chapman and Bob Marley. All was well...until the logic of hitchhiking, which knows no such self-satisfied statements, would again disabuse us. A glance at the map would make us realise that, as comfortably as we were driving past French fields and forests, we were quite plainly going in the wrong direction. Instead of going South, we headed West, ending up in the Brittanny town of Rennes, which is a mere 50 km from the Channel. Two days of hitch-hiking, just to end up in a place which we could almost have reached with a ferry from Portsmouth? I felt like screaming. But soon I understood how futile it was to try to measure outcomes against efforts in something as irrational as hitchhiking. Our salvation came quite literally from a bush. It took the form of a curly-haired student our age, with sunglasses and sandals, who told us that he and his girlfriend would love to take us to Nantes, which was around a 100 km south of us, almost half the way to Rochefort. He couldn't stop his car at the time when they saw us, which is why he had walked all the way back. As we were driving through the sunset, as our hosts were giving us a tour of stunningly beautiful Nantes, as we were sitting at night under the Châteu des Ducs, an enormous castle in the middle of town, lit by the lights of the street cafés surrounding it, I knew exactly why we had taken all these turns. And funnily enough, I knew that I would have thought the same thing in any other place I would have ended up. Suddenly, it was where I went that I wanted to go, not where I wanted to go I went. On the next day, luck had decided to become our temporary travelling companion. We made it to Ben's aunt at noon, after catching five different rides in less than three hours.
Only when we arrived at the dreamlike setting of her French countryhouse, I realised how exhausted I was. As we walked through the sunbathing fields, Ben at one point just lay down on the path, and closed his eyes facing the sun. I smiled, thinking that no gesture could have been more perfect for this moment, and lay next to him. (I had anticipated physical exhaustion from little sleep, days spent on roadsides and nights in hostel bunkbeds. But this was entirely negligible compared to the blankness of my mind. In the past two days, ten different cars had stopped for us. They contained ten different drivers, who were all eager to share not only their car, but a small part of their mindset with us. And to my own surprise, and although I had dreaded the small talk before, I found myself genuinely enjoying these arbitrary encounters. As Ben dozed off on the back seat, I felt my French gradually coming back, and with it a sudden curiosity for these random people I sat next to. It occurred to me that hitchhiking was the ideal way to get a truly original profile of a culture: The age range of our lifts span from 19 to 80(-something), men, women and families had stopped for us alike; we had hitched with foreigners and locals, businessmen and plumbers, people who were so different that they probably would not know what to say to eachother if they were ever to meet. And yet they had one thing in common: For some reason, they had all stopped for a pair of hitchhikers with a bed sheet between them.) The next morning brought us a lucky hitch all the way down to Toulouse. Yet from there, for the first time in this journey, we seemed to be stuck. It was Sunday, bloody Sunday, and the whole of France seemed to be locked in their houses. A whole afternoon of desparate harassment of people came to nothing as they all assured us they were not going south to the Spanish border. But as we now knew, no failure was permanent, at least not in hitchhiking. We met a lorry driver who immediately sympathised with us. There were only three minor problems to overcome before our journey to Spain could start: (1) His contract forbid him to take hitch-hikers with him, (2) It was illegal to drive with three people in a truck when there are only two front seats in the cockpit, as in the case of his truck and (3) It was illegal for lorry drivers to drive on a Sunday. Yet despite all this, Florin, a Romanian immigrant to Spain who spoke seven languages, was happy to invite us into his driver's cabin. He only remarked that Ben, comfortably seated on the driver's bed behind the two front seats, would have to hide if we saw Police approaching. Surely, that wouldn't be a problem... As the three of us were driving through the
night playing air guitar to Guns'n'Roses on full volume, I felt pretty much invincible. Florin, we soon found out, was different from the other drivers. The moment he had decided to defy three laws by taking us with him, he cared for us as if we were his children, joked around with us like with old friends and insisted on supplying us with all the food, drinks and cigarettes we could wish for, like esteemed guests. That night, he treated us to an enormous meal followed by several rounds of plum schnaps at a truckers' restaurant. As we were ready to fall happily into our beds, one of Florin's friends pulled a 10 litre canister of self-made wine out if his truck. An hour and around ten cups of slightly bitter red wine later, the world had become a happy blur and the cot Ben and I had to share seemed like a gift from heaven. And yet one sentence from that night's dizzy memory stuck with me. As we were clumsily staggering back to our truck, Florin said to me: “See, this is our world. It's small, but it's our own, it's free.” It seemed like our hitchhiking adventures had reached a whole new level. It must have been around this time, as we were sleeping on our tiny cot in the driver's cabin, that the god of hitchhiking and his tireless eye for too much satisfaction finalised his plans for us. And naturally, his plans were wholly different from our own. Our heads still dizzy, we awoke the next morning to the strange sight of a small industrial town in the hills of Catalunia. The expression on Florin's face had changed with the landscape around us, he seemed nervous. And as I felt numerous pairs of eyes look at me suspiciously as we drove into the depot where Florin had to unload his truck, I understood why. Ben was told to hide on Florin's bed behind a curtain. This couldn't take long. By night, we'd be in Valencia visiting Pablo, an old school friend of mine. How little I had learned. Everything that can go wrong does go wrong, right, god of hitchhiking? Minutes turned into hours and hours into days as Florin was told that the depot lacked a machine to unload the chemicals his truck laded, of which each weighted three tons. As Florin refused to unload them by hand, the nagging wait for some, or any kind of help began. Yet while sunset was approaching, neither the depot staff nor Florin's own company seemed to be particularly interested in changing anything about his situation. In the tiny space of Florin's cabin, we were thus all trapped with eachother, by eachother and towards eachother. Ben had easily drawn the hardest lot as Florin and I answered every of his attempts to peek out of the darkness behind his curtain with a sharp “oy, careful!” Florin was desperate to get back to his fam-
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ily, which was waiting for him just 200 km down in Valencia. And I was busy searching for words to explain to Pablo that he could put his spare bed sheets back into the shelf. But worse than our personal troubles was the guilt we felt towards eachother. Florin never stopped apologising for getting us into this situation, while we, even if it had been possible just to walk out of the depot, insisted to stick by him when nobody in Catalunia seemed to care much for the man who dared to turn up Guns'n'Roses to the breaking point, who could keep a straight face after fifteen units of alcohol and who had not just shared his last chocolate supplies with us. That night, we experienced how small the free truckers' world could really be. United in our mutual anger, we treated ourselves to the pleasures of canned food, wine and storytelling. And yet, I noticed Florin kept anxiously looking out for police cars. My sense of justice couldn't quite come to terms with the idea that we and our innocent adventure and the man who had helped us most should have to hide like criminals. But at that moment, all I could do was take another of the cigarettes Florin offered me. The next day finally brought redemption. Florin's company had eventually managed to send him a colleague who could help. We were to move again! Not, however, before we had to pass the final test of sitting in breathless stillness for fifteen minutes. Florin's colleague had the superb idea of taking a lift in Florin's truck for a few kilometres. As Florin didn't know him, we were told to vanish behind the curtain. As the two men were casually chatting on the front seats, Ben and I, twenty centimetres behind them, barely dared to even twinkle. Have I ever, secretly, unknowingly, subconsciously wished for more adventure in my life? In that moment, I would have quite willingly swapped all these secret desires for the ability to breathe again. But eventually, even that was overcome and we drove at truckers' lightening speed of 90 km per hour to Florin's home in the beach resort of Gandía near Valencia. When we arrived there at midnight, I was forced to squeeze another wonder in my wonder-aching mind: Florin's wife had prepared a five course meal for us, and she had moved her children to the living-room sofa so that we could sleep in their bed. As we were dining at one at night, as the couple opened their best bottle of wine in our honour and we stuttered gracias in a never-ending loop, I glanced out of the window. Sometimes, in hitch-hiking, everything goes wrong so that everything that can go right goes right, doesn't it? I salute you, God of randomness, God of hitchhiking. -
Diary of a cast member. York University style!
aving finally pulled enough courage together to audition for a role in Central Hall Musical Societies production of the Full Monty, it would appear that sometimes she who dares, wins. I have managed to bag myself the role of Georgie Bukatinsky, long suffering wife to Dave Bukatinsky, played by Ollie Tilney, who famously tries to lose weight by wrapping cling film around his stomach. After the initial excitement and subsequent fear had died down my first stop was the read through. The whole cast met up on one cold afternoon in Alcuin in order to read through
by chi-san howard / photo matt grum
the script all with our American accents in tow. This is also where many of us hear the songs for the first time and the excitement etched on our choreographers and directors faces is all but infectious. There is one very noticeable difference between the film and the stage version of the Full Monty, the musical is set in a small town called Buffalo in the New York state. Although at first many of us defended the very British style and humour of the original film, the stage version is certainly not without its laughs. By the end of November work had already
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begun on the dance numbers and my self and the other girls are thrown into our first routine for a song called “The Goods” choreographed by Emma Truelove. I am joined by third year Charlie Bath who plays Estelle and second year Serena Manteghi playing Vicki as well as the members of the dance core. As a cast we begin to bond over a mutual sense of panic. The worry is that we will never be able to move our hands, feet and lips all at the same time… the wonderful dance core are infinitely patient with us. At this stage an email was sent round suggesting the production of the now infamous
Full Monty naked calendar including pictures of the cast with various props covering…you get the idea. After many phone calls and texts involving the words “I’ll do it if you do it”, we agreed and met with photographer Matt Grum. Its safe to say I was quick to give my housemates free reign over my chocolate supply. Calendar pictures were taken amidst much squealing, tactical clothing removal, small amounts of hysteria and large amounts of giggle fits. I get my pictures with Ollie first… incidentally this is the first time we have met properly, and there’s no ice breaker like hearing the photographer politely telling Ollie that he needs to readjust his Doritos crisp bag to hide his…! Lets just say after this initial meeting it is hard to feel embarrassed during acting scenes anymore. As a result of this wonderful set of encounters Charlie Bath has decided to counter any snide comments with the simple
phrase… ‘I have seen you naked’ and it usually ends the conversation quite effectively. Rehearsals are in full swing by week 8 of the Autumn term. I am in rehearsal around 4 nights a week. With the help of Gavin Whitworth the musical director I started to work on the songs in which I am required as a solo part. This gave me a chance to meet the guys who will be playing many of the lead roles including Michael Slater as Jerry, Sam McCormick as Ethan and Tom Jones as Malcolm. Much kudos goes to Hannah Middleton, Beth Turner and Emma Truelove our choreographers who manage to keep a group of thirty cast members under control. By the start of the spring term we are all beginning to master the dance routines and everyone has really got to know each other. Everyone is beginning to feel comfortable with their parts and are also getting used to the
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state of exhaustion. The calendars have been made and they have been selling worryingly well…By week three with the show only two weeks away the rehearsal schedule is manic, some truly special 90’s outfits have been prepared. We still don’t have access to the central hall stage though; this will have to wait until week 5. As you can see doing a show is not easy and requires practice and dedication, but when we are all in costume, with full makeup and microphones taped to our faces, the overture will signal the start of an exciting show that I hope you can all come and see. For your chance to see Chi-San and the rest of the Central Hall cast, the Full Monty will be performed on Thursday, Friday and Saturday of Week 5. Get your tickets from Vanbrugh Stalls and Your: Shop.-
E have all had that moment
where you see someone across the dance floor, you make eye contact and suddenly, m iraculously, he/she starts walking in your direction. After all the brewing panic and excitement we are usually left to feel somewhat disheartened when he/she walks straight past you into the arms of an equally gorgeous other. Often when we do initiate repartee with the opposite sex and eventually exchange phone numbers, the mind-numbing hangover you often feel the next day is hardly the best way to nurture a new and exciting relationship. For all of us who are single there can be nothing better to cheer us up than another American dream romantic comedy (as if we need further reminding of how beautiful people find it difficult to locate love). After all, the clumsy girl always ends up with the heartthrob and the sensitivity of the village idiot inevitably charms the beautiful girl next door. Although we have undoubtedly seen it all before, very few of us have the resilient cynicism to resist. The newest film to enter the romantic comedy arena is called He’s just not that into you and is based on the self-help guide of the same name written by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo. Greg Behrendt gained much of his insight for the book from working as an executive story editor on Sex and the City, the show that literally catalogued the dating faux pas of its four leading females. Obviously the life of Carrie Bradshaw is a mere dream to many of us poor students. Seriously, who could afford to buy that many shoes without resorting to the overdraft of their overdraft, if such a thing exists? One common theme in Sex and the City was the constant, mind-boggling confusion that often enveloped
by Sarah Jordan
Carrie’s unlucky-in-love life. In an attempt to rectify this, the book tries to explain the many excuses and reasons as to why guys give girls mixed signals, finally coming to the conclusion that he is probably just not that into you…hence the name of the book. He’s just not that into you is set in Baltimore and focuses on the intertwining misshapen love lives of a whole host of romantic comedy royalty, including the likes of Drew Barrymore, Jennifer Aniston, Scarlett Johansson, Justin Long and Ben Affleck. Not only does the movie have a great cast but it has been written by Marc Silverstein and Abby Kohn, who also wrote the legendary Never Been Kissed starring Drew Barrymore at her best.
He’s just not that into you!
Although some of you may be thinking that this is just another cheesy and somewhat pointless ‘romcom’ (boys, I’d like to direct your attention towards a naked Scarlett Johansson…enough said) for the majority of us girls the ritual of enjoying a chic flick with our friends is almost too ingrained in our femininity to ignore. Of course, the embarrassingly obvious dating ineptitudes of annoyingly gorgeous people are enough to make you want to hurl objects and holler at the screen. The women who could effortlessly wear bin-liner dresses and pull it off as sophisticated Hollywood glamour do make the majority of us want to simultaneously cry and throw a punch. Inevitably, instead of making us feel better the film will most probably exasperate more of us than it will amuse.To judge for yourself He’s just not that into you is in cinemas from February 6th, Week 4.
Dressing for Spring: A Modern Gentleman`s Guide
The Eternal Debate on Eternity. Nikos Stathopoulos
Fashion Paul Smith’s Spring/ Summer 2009 collection is packed with all the Englishness of his previous shows, just ever so slightly ruffled around the edges. Quirky floral print shirts break up Smith’s flawless tailoring; the straight-edged dandy is hit with sporty, acid brights; and the label’s signature silhouette is skewed by jaunty lapels, ‘thrown on’ shorts, and a certain rakish charm.
Paul Smith 91-93 Low Petergate (01904) 611001
Adam wears: Navy checked slipover £80; Navy checked cardigan £110; Stone jeans £85; Tan leather deck shoes stylist’s own
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Raphael wears: Navy knitted polo £115; Navy cardigan with zip front detail £145; White trousers £95; Navy lace-up pumps model’s own Joseph wears: Navy casual checked shirt £110; Yellow knitted cardigan £140; Taupe shorts £95; Taupe lace-up pumps model’s own
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Joseph wears: Mauve floral shirt £115; Navy knitted cardigan £140; Taupe shorts (as before) £95; Pinstripe lace-up pumps model’s own
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Raphael wears: Bootcut light jeans £90; Yellow striped t-shirt £65; Green retro rib jacket £215; Black lace-up pumps model’s own Adam wears: Green striped polo shirt £60; Yellow trousers £95; White lace-up pumps model’s own
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Models: Adam Dunnett, Raphael Gindre, Joseph Harrison Photography: Michael Brunsden and Matt Grum Stylists: Alice Albery and Lauren Clancy Assistants: Charlotte Davey, Emma Hallett, Amy Jones, Jenny Mak, Hugh Morris, Nina Courtney Sabey, Philip Smith
Raphael wears: Blue men’s jacket £275; Casual floral shirt £115; Blue men’s shorts £95; Tan leather deck shoes model’s own
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The eternal debate on eternity.
by nikos stathopoulos ternal love, eternal conflict, eternal life. Three ww expressions to all of us that are used to articulate the long duration of an emotion, an action or concept such as life after death. However, what most people fail to do is question what the word ‘eternity’ actually signifies. Is it “the sum of all sums” as James Howsey defined it? Is it a word which attempts to explain the concept of infinite durations; the concept of something without a beginning in the past or an end in the future? Is it an illusion that has been created be man in order to console us for the shortness of life? Or is it a word created by students to simply express their perception of the duration of a school day? To these tentative questions I shall by no means attempt to give answers, since I am not fool enough to believe that I am going to be the person who sheds light upon one of mankind’s oldest questions. What I can and will do however is provide you with my own, potentially simplistic interpretation of the concept of eternity. Life. Is life eternal? The responses one may get shall vary with respect to the questioned person’s religious affiliation, occupation or personal beliefs. There are no correct answers, only interpretations. Ask a cleric, for instance, and he may reply “Yes, my son”. Ask a scientist and he’ll pop out his palm-pilot to demonstrate to you the calculations which prove that in a.ppro.x.imat.e.l.y five billion years the sun will begin to die and with the sun, all forms of life. The discussion would then move on to another level, since the cleric would argue that life does not end with a person’s physical death whilst the scientist would ask for tangible proof that a man’s life does not end with his last heartbeat.
perception of time and relativity. However, since Albert Einstein is no longer with us to explain his theory of relativity, I shall have to lift the burden on my own and attempt to explain why I believe that time is relative and why it has to do with how we perceive it. I don’t ask for much. Only that you consider the following: what seems longer? A tenminute discussion with a police officer after committing a crime, or a ten-minute phone call with a loved-one? An hour in solitude in a prison, or a three-hour long dinner with old friends? To me the responses to these questions are self-evident, as is the conclusion which is derived from them: that time passes relative to what one does in it. You may ask yourselves what the connection is between what one perceives time as and what eternity is, and to this I answer: eternity is a way of perceiving duration, in which time is not a factor. There is no such thing as “one hour closer to eternity”; there is no starting or finishing point. The concept of eternity is a way of diminishing time’s control over our lives exactly because it reduces time to something which has no meaning. The only thing that should matter to us is that we use
our time in accordance to other peoples’ standards. Time as time means nothing, before eternity. It is simply man’s creation in order to establish common grounds upon which people can organise their everyday activities and coordinate with eachother. Based on the above, I realise that my beliefs come closest to the third opinion I mentioned earlier, that “the thought of eternity consoles for the shortness of life”. This means that the concept of eternity is yet again man-created, and it serves as an antidote to time, one of man’s other creations. Although I do not know whether I helped you form a clearer impression of what eternity signifies, I hope that next time you hear a person labelling something as eternal, you may begin a thought process similar to my own. But do not worry if you fail to reach a verdict: this debate is truly eternal…-
I’m sure that some of you are shaking your heads in despair thinking that this example will go on forever. Well no! Even though it may seem like you’ve been reading for an eternity, I have only consumed a few minutes of your time. And though the example may have been exaggerated, the point I wanted to introduce was that of the
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K, so. There’s a high chance that that we were proud of it, but we didn’t exwe are You Me At Six’s oldest pect anything from anyone. So the fact that fans. Despite being hailed as it has sold as well as it has a nd people seem the new faces of (depending on to like it is amazing. where and what you read) emo, rock and pop-punk, their fanbase, regrettaWhy did you decide bly, predominantly commands the identi-girl to re-record your previous releases? market, all lego haircuts and kohl-circled eyes. We went to a different studio to record the Sheepishly, we skulk to the upstairs of Leeds album, and wanted to re-record our older University Union to watch the gig, where songs because we had faith in the studio to fewer can see our gleeful appreciation. do them proud. Turns out we like the new recordings more than the previous ones; Now, 2008 was really good to them. Early gigs they’re a little more raw and unpolished. saw their potential in a support capacity, but it Why do your gig, and was their slots at Leeds and Reading, where they orchestrated a mosh pit (yes, we know) in their the album, always end with ‘The Rumour’? Festival Republic tent, despite a challenging It always allows us to leave the stage on a high. clash of schedule with We Are Scientists, that The ending is pretty epic and always seems pinpointed You Me At Six’s rise to headliners. to prompt the crowd into singing along nice and loudly, which is what we’re all about. The release of their album ‘Take Off Your Were you surprised by your Colours’ cemented YMAS’ command of their sound and the power of their teenage- amazing reception at Leeds and Reading? girl hysteria. Teetering between genres, the The reception we got at Leeds and Reading was album showcases alternately unsubtle, plucky completely unexpected. As far as we were concerned, guitar riffs and throaty vocals, and angstily we didn’t expect anyone to come and watch us! delicate, almost acoustic-sounding tales of love and heartbreak. We speak to lead singer, How were the crowds Josh Franceschi, about how it’s been for him... in France, Germany and the Nether-
How was the tour? The tour was sweet. The shows were all either sold out or close to, and was just so much fun! You got an amazing reception for your first album ‘Take Off Your Colours’ – was this unprecedented? We weren’t too sure what to expect from the album. We knew we were happy with it, and
YOU ME AT 6 B E R A B
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lands when you toured there last month? We take the view that crowds will react if you give them something to react to. We had the language barrier problem to contend with, but I guess we just tried to perform as best we could, and hoped they would respond positively... it was great fun. We had played a show in Paris with Fall Out Boy and that show was amazing, so we hoped for more of the same, and we got it. What musical ‘genre’ do you see yourselves as, given that you’ve been described as pop-punk, Kerrang’s new ‘faces of rock’, and the British Panic! At The Disco? Hopefully we’re not really anything like Panic! Besides, NME made the comparison, so, enough said. I think we began as a pop-punk band, but I think we’re starting to find our own sound, which is maybe a little rockier. At what point after you’d formed did it dawn that you could make a successful career out of YMAS? I don’t know how to measure success, because if it’s done based on how much money we’ve earned, then we are possibly the most unsuccessful band on the planet! But in terms of amazing experiences, I’d say we are pretty damn lucky and successful. I guess it dawned on us when we broke the UK Top 40 with our album. What was the best thing you did in 2008? Headline the London Astoria, and having my sister come on stage and sing with us. And finally – what are your plans for 2009...? Continue on our path around the world, getting bigger and better as we do. More festivals and more shows (cheeky little plug here) – our U.K. tour kicks off in March.-
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Day Real Estate and Fugazi became increasingly influential. Essentially, the label ranged from indie to rock, to post-hardcore, but the HAT ever happened to ‘emo’? music had to be ‘emotional’ in both mean- – bland emo-pop about falling over during It had all the characteris- ings and deliverance. Anyway, I’m not here dances or accidentally putting orange juice tics of being the next ‘cool’ to discuss the origins (it’s not my forte) – I’m on your cereal. Emotion does still survive in scene – underground fan here to complain about the present (which is). music, and perhaps it is best that the ‘emo’ base, dark mystery, skinny label is being put to bed. Bands have evolved jeans - but its time at the The sorry state of emo at the moment is to avoid becoming The Wombats, and now the top was limited; pipped at represented by Fall Out Boy, My Chemical best emotional music can be found across all the post by electro and all that jazz. More Romance and Panic(!) At The Disco. The emo- genres. Manchester Orchestra hail from Atelectro than jazz, mind. Not only were its tion in the music has become fake. Sure, they lanta, Georgia. They create songs twisted with cool credentials limited but it was pooh- sing about broken hearts and broken bottles folk influences and, occasionally, a drop of poohed as well. People scoffed at emos. The in whiny voices but it’s just not the kind of electronica, and have the ability to make you girls were either too scary or wore boy-boxers, tear-inducing music that we love. Gerard Way weep into your cravat. The result is a sound and the guys were girly and, well, beaten up. tells us, ‘Teenagers (Scare The Living Sh*t that retains emotional roots but demonstrates The emos would say that they are misun- Out Of Me)’. Really? Was that song worth musical talent and ingenuity. Brand New and derstood and that the music is just too deep the paper it was written on? That is, if it was mewithoutyou are two bands that have done for normal, trainer-wearing folk to appreci- indeed ever written down and wasn’t just a the same. Brand New reinvent their passionate; only Chelsea boot-wearers can really joke song recorded in the studio in between ate, exciting sound with every album. Mewithdecode that pained shrieking and whining. checking their fringes and applying mas- outyou will have you bawling your eyes out cara. However, this is the kind of diluted with their mix of spoken-word, religious rock. I’m a big fan of emo. Well… was, well… am, passion that sells to the kids. My Chemical kind of. I single-handedly blame emo’s demise Romance’s first album was a tour-de-force of Hopefully I’ve made you think about casting and short, unsuccessful stay at the peak of the dark, vampire-inspired emo-core, demonstrat- aside ‘The Black Parade’, looking beyond the cool scene on My Chemical Romance. Fair? ing both anger and – dare I say it – talent. Daily Mail’s fearful portrayal of emo kids and Maybe not. First, let’s try and dissect emo’s digging out some music with proper emotion. style, music and roots. ‘Emo’, short for ‘emo- Fast-forward to 2007 and onwards, and these What’s more, who cares about the music? Go tional’, short for ‘emotional hardcore’ came angst-ridden young bucks are gracing that free get your tightest jeans on, only ever wear black around over Washington-way in the mid-80s poster you get with Bliss magazine. Besides and purple, sweep your fringe over your eyes with the creation of passionate bands like Rites their lack of real emotion, the main problem and have a good cry. Heed my call to arms, of Spring. Emo began to turn into what we with these bands is that they are caught up and maybe, just maybe, emos can brush aside know and love (and love to hate) today, dur- in their own success. Their music becomes the skaters, the rahs, the scene kids, and the ing the ‘90s when Jimmy Eat World, Sunny like that of Scouting for Girls or The Hoosiers chavs, and become cool.-
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have the most astounding rider. You know, the spread of food and drink that gets put on for them by the venue; all “only blue Smarties, please”. Theirs is like the real-life equivalent of the Hogwarts Express trolley. J.K. Rowling would describe it as positively groaning with, erm, every-flavour Kettle Chips and huge Marmite tubs. This seems another perk of performing as part of the MTV2 Gonzo Tour – that, and the indecently large tour bus, the leather sofas (- yuhuh) upon which I perch to interview Foals frontman and guitarist Yannis Philippakis.
as well – and Foals are now veritable indie royalty, as signified by their inclusion on the Gonzo Tour. The summer of 2009 will bring with it the next album, which is in the process of being recorded. Foals have a couple of dates lined up supporting heavyweights Bloc Party, but other than that their schedules are clear to concentrate on the next album, about which Yannis says, “we definitely want it to be a progression from ‘Antidotes’. There’s no question of it sounding the same.”
Foals have been touring for eighteen months now, and it’s starting to show. “I think we’re in the mood to go home” says Yannis on behalf of his Oxfordshire bandmates, and Foals, made up of Yannis, guitarist Jimmy, “hide until the summer’s tour and inevitakeyboard player Edwin, bassist Walter and ble festival appearances”. How did you find Jack on drums, was formed because they the big summer festivals, like Leeds and were all “into music and smoking pot”. These Reading? “Pretty crazy,” says Yannis, “with waster beginnings have had constructive ends. a crowd the size of that, you feel possessed, Their 2008 album, ‘Antidotes’, was received in a good way”. Watching them live, Foals with rapture. Their gigs sell out up and down cocoon you in their reverberating stage presthe country – and over the pond in France ence. Their sets careen from beginning to end,
an adrenaline-fuelled blitz of jerky rhythms and spasming sounds. Possessed seems like the right word to use, not just for the band, but the audience, too. Foals launch their Fibbers gig with ‘The French Open’. Seemingly disparate bleeps collide into harmony with the accompaniment of frenzied drumming and twanging guitar. The stomping precision of previous single ‘Cassius’ punches the audience into life, pulsating into a hectic chorus of artfully combined fidgety beats. The brass section, introduced to the album by producer extraordinaire Dave Sitek, swells dreamily underneath the plinky-plonky electronica. ‘Balloons’ bounces merrily along amid Yannis’s exuberant yowls about flying balloons on a field called love. On stage, the band convulse to the sounds they make, and the crowd mimic. Yannis’s raw roar, less polished than it sounds on their releases, scuffs over beats, lending a kind of jolting immediacy to their performance. The gig concludes with their last single, ‘Olympic Airways’. It launches with Yannis’s breathily soft vocals that soar into the stuttering, chanting chorus. The accompanying video, which opens with the Foals lads having a gentle sing-along in a woodland clearing, then unexpectedly becomes all flying mattresses and black paint, is euphoric in its weirdness. Yannis explains; “we always try to create something imagistic with our videos. All our artwork and videos are created by people from home, people we knew before the band, so they always try to create an image of the song we’re playing”. Competing as they are in a market saturated with guyswith-guitars slung nonchalantly across their chests, Foals and their imagistic-whatevers and nonsensical lyrics are a refreshing break from self-important songs that almost drip with their wetness. Why ‘Foals’, I ask. Why not, say, Ducklings? “Foals is a nice word. It doesn’t mean anything. We want the music to describe us, not our bandname”. And that it does.-
Foals By EmMa Robso n 46
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NEW YORK: a teaming hectic metropolis that has provided the musical backdrop for countless artists, bands and performers. Yet, in the ultimate cityscape, it is surprising to hear the tribal cries of a new musical movement. This unique bunch of rougher, edgier musicians won’t be found amongst the cold skyscrapers of Manhattan or lurking behind J-Lo’s block in the Bronx, but inst ead in the jungles of Brooklyn.
rooklyn has acted as the starting point for many different musical scenes in its time: from R&B (Jay-Z, Aaliyah and RZA) to uncomplicated pop (Neil Diamond and Barry Manilow). However, it soon started to lose some of its credibility – partly due to David Beckham, partly due to the rising prominence of polished, overcool Manhattan bands such as The Strokes and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. Now Brooklyn has returned to its roots to start anew. This time the kids who absorbed the rhythms of their musical forefathers during their youths are taking their turn on the Brooklyn sound scene. This new, fresh sound varies from futuristic rainforest-infused drum beats with a heavy dose of drug-induced psychedelia to an urban jungle of electrified angst that transcends the frustrations of modern life. Both rebel against the stereotypical monochromatic NY sound championed by Interpol, The Strokes and LCD Sound System. This musical revolution is divided into three main tribes.
The first tribe is crammed with that kind of bug-eyed, spaced-out type that ranges from the fast-paced MGMT and Battles to the mellower, hippychildren-of-peace-and-love sounds of Grizzly Bear, Dirty Projectors and High Places (whose undulating and sparkling creations sound as if they issue from a fairy’s rainstick). At times, as the sounds merge and wane causing stars to twinkle before your eyes, these bands can make you feel like you are running backwards through a fantastical clockwork factory, until you slip off the treadmill, dealing yourself a kaleidoscopic blow to the head in the process. So rapidly do these bands arrive and dazzle that MGMT are already sprouting sprog-like protégés in the form of Amazing Babies. Spearheaded by TV on the Radio, the second community breathes a rockier side that still retains a drug influence, but is instead the worldly-wise comedown of the happily tripped-out sound of the aforementioned bands. Ever NME cool, Dave Sitek is mainly responsible for this side of the tribal triptych. He has helped shape the sound of NY cool kids the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, naïve-faced Scarlett Johansson, and Oxford’s Foals. Flicking between “haunted by broken spirits just trying to get high” in the lovelorn lament of Playhouses to “fuck your war ‘cause I’m fat and in love” in Red Dress, TVotR with Sitek have produced a more accessible sound that still retains the oddness of the Brooklyn tribe. This solid and honest experimental rock permeates deeper and resonates longer than the likes of MGMT, as well as satisfying the critics more resolutely; presumably making TVotR more influential in the long-term. As with MGMT, TVotR bring along to the campfire their own protégé, Dragons of Zynth, who along with Clap Your Hands Say Yeah represent the more traditional, rockier side of Brooklyn.
But as these tribal children stagger bewildered from the safe haven of the Brooklyn forest, can they survive in the harsh modern landscape of an industry obsessed with keeping its head above the oncoming tide of financial ruin? Probably what would best identify a common thread to this sound is that of a potluck mix of rhythmic beats and electro-vomit. A sound that, at the moment, satisfyingly scratches your ear-bones, yet is so new and fresh that it probably won’t last in its current state. The younger spawn need to take guidance from the more wizened TVotR and find stable ground in their celebratory sound. Can the tribes survive in the city? Only time will tell.” -
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In the third clan dwell the disco of Hercules and Love Affair (whose members include a mohawked lesbian, gender confused man and towering transgender) and the lounge-tinged, classical undertones of Vampire Weekend. Hercules and Love Affair were co-founded by Mercury-prize winning Antony of Antony and the Johnsons, who blesses his warbling vocals to the merry group of sexually-confused oddballs. His contribution helps render their sound more solemn and distinc tive, preventing it from melting into the swirling club floor of other ’80s/’90s dance-influenced sounds. Vampire Weekend, meanwhile, add a classical influence to this Brooklyn sound which ends up swinging their music somewhere between English prep-school and spring break beach party. Reflecting the high turnover rate, Hercules and Love Affair may become discarded to the roadside as the ’80s revival that heralded their popularity flitters out, whereas Vampire Weekend threaten to remain the summer soundtrack of 2008.
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by hayley fairclough. Days are getTing longer. Hemlines are getTing lower. Knits are getTing thicker. As 2009 comMences but winter stilL progresSes, even your iPod neEds a seasonal shufFle. Here are my sugGestions for ways to keEp your music moving with the chilLier times...
If you were listening to: MGMT Try: Jukebox The Ghost Touted as last sumMer’s ones to watch and their inclusion in the series finale of Skins meant that MGMT were ensured a multitude of music fans humMing along to their zingy synth-pop melodies. Whether revelLing at one of their many festival apPearances kitTed out in welLies and hotpants, or scantily clad and sipPing mojitos on distant shores, MGMT certainly featured heavily on our sumMer audio schedules. Sadly, the sun no longer has its hat on and their electronic sound no longer instils in us the energy it once did. Cue Jukebox The Ghost, a Philadelphiabased trio of indie hipsters who, since forming during their university days, have racked up performances alongside artists such as Kanye West and The Nightmare of You. Songs such as ‘Hold It In’ and ‘GoOd Day’ rely on heavy piano melodies, meaning that Jukebox The Ghost are a heart-warming winter alternative to the sumMery beats of MGMT (while being just as contagious). Their debut LP ‘Let Live and Let Ghosts’ is made up of merRy threE-part harmonies and a bucketful of optimistic lyrics; sure to brighten even the darkest of Yorkshire days. With the musicalLy-savVy drawing comparisons to QueEn and Ben Folds, this relatively young band definitely have large shoes to filL: but so far they’re filLing them welL.
If you were listening to: The Ting Tings Try: Chew Lips RecalL any key moment from your sumMer and you’lL probably hear the argumentative chorus of The Ting Tings’ popular, if somewhat distracting, hit ‘That’s Not My Name’ on a loOp in the background. The Ting Tings were the name on everybody’s lips; and if jazZy electro-pop is your bag then loOk no further than London-based coOl-cats Chew Lips for a wintry update. Since forming in early 2008 and writing ten songs in their first rehearsal, Tigs, WilL and James have scored a Radio 1 sesSion with Steve Lamacq and a slot at the BBC Electric Proms: alL quite impresSive for a band apProaching their first birthday. And the atTention is fulLy justified.
Their brand of melancholy synth with catchy basS hoOks overlaid with clever lyrics have ensured Chew Lips are receiving glowing reviews from even the most hardened of music critics. Lead singer Tigs’ voice is gratingly seductive (think Karen O with a cockney twang), which lends the band a distinctive sound. Chew Lips are definitely ones to watch in 2009. Download ‘CLVRI’ and ‘Salt Air’.
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If you were listening to: Katy PerRy Try: SoKo She kisSed a girl. She liked it. She sang about it. We danced to it. Over and over. Katy PerRy had us hoOked alL sumMer with her individual style and no-nonsense lyrics (let’s seE: “you’re so gay and you don’t even like boys” was a particular favourite). Some loved her, others hated her, yet nobody could deny that MisS PerRy was a breath of fresh air to an uptight music scene. Stéphanie Sokolinski, aka SoKo, is hitching a ride on Katy’s fauxmosexuality bandwagon with the song ‘I WilL Never Love You More’, an ode to a male lover (let’s seE: “I wilL never love you more than kisSing girls’ lips when they’re realLy pretTy”). Her honesty is admirable and refreshing, with other songs in her repertoire covering the topics of dying alone – oh yes, and having wet dreams about people you hate. Simple melodies from her casiotone keyboard combine with haphazard guitar for an individual, bohemian feEl, and her lilting French acCent is sure to soOthe on even the most depresSing of winter days. So far, SoKo has garnered much acClaim and a loyal folLowing the Lily AlLen-Myspace way. Watch this space.-
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What’s On Your iPod?
Matt Abbott, a.k.a. Skint & Demoralised, weaves his concise lyrical tales in a kind of lovelorn Northern drawl that still managed to be upliftingly happy-go-lucky. February 16th sees the release of the new single, ‘This Song is Deﬁnately Not About You’, which coincides with a countrywide tour. He tells Bad Taste about the songs that mean the most to him: The Smiths - ‘There Is A Light That Never Goes Out’ – Probably my favourite song of all time, and Morrissey’s most romantic lyrics as well... you’ve gotta love the melodrama! This song will always put a smile on my face, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. Classic. The Last Shadow Puppets - ‘Standing Next To Me’ – In my mind, the song of 2008. The strings, the arrangement, and even the vibraphone made this an instant classic. Great songwriting from Turner and Kane, and great production from Ford on what was, for me, the most exciting album of the year - despite the fact that it was the least original in terms of ideas.
1. Johnny Foreigner – ‘Salt, Peppa and Spindarella’ 2. Those Dancing Days – ‘Run Run’ 3. Metronomy – ‘A Thing For Me’
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4. DJ Mujava – ‘Township Funk’ 5. Kings of Leon – ‘Knocked Up’ [Lykke Li vs. Rodeo Remix]
Squeeze - ‘Up The Junction’ – Another song that can always make me smile no matter what. Possibly the ﬁnest example of the classic British storyteller, with instant likeability and pleasurable melodies, but again with that addictive hint of melodramatic melancholia.-
6. Frank Mu sik – ‘Done Done’ 7. Pull In Emergency – ‘Why Aren’t You Dancing?’ 8. Frank Turner – ‘Reasons Not To Be An Idiot’ 9. Otis Redding – ‘That’s How Strong My Love Is’ 10. Dizzee Rascal – ‘Bonkers’ 11. Michael Jackson – ‘Tabloid Junkie’ 12. Black Ghosts – ‘Until It Comes Again’ 13. Laura Marling – ‘Your Only Doll (Dora)’ 14. Poney Poney – ‘Cross the Fader’ 15. Cheeky Cheeky and the Nosebleeds – ‘Slow Kids’ BAD TASTE N07
yORKâ€™S LITTLE GEM.
by matt grum / photos Michael brunsden
ossgate Books, located on Fossgate, is a bookshop. If the name wasn't enough to give this away, then the window display comprising an impenetrable wall of books certainly will. Breaching the outer defences reveals a similar situation inside - the limited space has not restricted the quantity of stock available. Anyone who has seen the Channel 4 comedy Black Books will be forgiven for expecting to be greeted by the sight of a surly Irishman slumped over the counter. Instead the proprietor couldn't be more polite and helpful, something of a disappointment for fans of the series. A former teacher, Alex has been running Fossgate Books for the past eight years, and candidly admits he does indeed enjoy reading.
as Amazon Marketplace, are also unable to offer the same experience. "Serendipity plays a large part", I'm told, as the illustrated cover of TALES OF THE CANADIAN MOUNTED POLICE catches my eye. It dawns on me that the second hand bookshop is a metaphor for York itself, narrow passages tower with history and eternally housing great rewards for those willing to seek them out. This goes a long way to explain the prevalence of such stores. The same
In spite of the closure of YUSU's own second hand bookshop just over a year ago it seems the second hand book market in York is alive and well, with four outlets open on Fossgate alone. Alex explains that the savings offered by large highstreet bookshops still can't match the value of a second hand book. Another source of competition, online services such
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traits bring people into the city centre from as far away as Newcastle to do their shopping. It's a little disappointing to hear that relatively few people studying at York make use of this particular gem. Students who come in at the very end of their course to sell their books often remark about having wished they had discovered it earlier. So don't let this happen to you, even if you are in your final year, there is time - go and explore Fossgate Books. It's on Fossgate.-
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