Can Jack White do no wrong?

Slamming onto the music scene in 1999 with the White Stripes’ self-titled debut album, Jack White hasn’t slowed down since – and we’re all the better for it. Causing a stir in the music media over his ambiguous relationship with his band mate, there was a point when their notoriety seemed to outshine their talent. Luckily, this did not last for long.

Gradually developing a name for themselves, The White Stripes moved on from their raw debut, to a somewhat more produced sound; though this proved to not necessarily be a bad thing. Most of their better known tracks are from their later offerings, with Fell In Love With A Girl and Blue Orchid featuring on their third and fifth albums respectively. The Fell In Love With A Girl endearingly lego – based video earned them widespread recognition from the MTV crowd and subsequently their record sales rocketed. As with many American rock and indie bands nowadays, their success in the UK was far greater than the initial reception they received in the States, but the American audiences soon caught up. Apparently discontent with only releasing six albums, being named one of Rolling Stones Top 20 Guitarists of All Time and selling over $7 million worth of records, White turned his hand (quite literally) to other musical endeavours.

The Raconteurs developed one balmy summer in the hiatus between the Stripes’ fifth and sixth albums, as White and solo musician Brendan Benson recruited two friends to join them in their side project. Although possessing a perhaps slightly watered down and more pop-based sound in comparison to his previous releases, White consequently toured Europe and the US periodically over the next two years in order to supply the demand for live performances from the band. It seems a pity such demand would have appeared unlikely had White’s name not been attached, though we will never know if this would have been the case.

Bored with one side project alone, White unconsciously moved onto his next ‘supergroup’ – The Dead Weather. Formed after an impromptu jamming session of White, Allison Mosshart from The Kills, Dean Fertita from Queens of the Stone Age and Jack Lawrence from The Raconteurs, the line up is undoubtedly the best accidental music collaboration of recent years. In seemingly unusual fashion, White appears on drums whilst Mosshart appears on vocals, yet many are unaware that Jack was a skilled drummer before he mastered the guitar. The Dead Weather drags White and his fans back to his early musical roots, with a far more raw and edgier sound than we have heard from White since his early Stripes material. Peaking at number 6 in the US chart, a feat that only one of the Stripes albums has beaten, it appears that Jack White’s disciples aren’t fickle when it comes to the variety of sounds he churns out.

White doesn’t just make waves behind the microphone, however. His own record label, Third Man Records, not only acts as home to his three musical projects, but is also preparing to unleash three newly – signed bands upon unsuspecting audiences by the end of the year. Taking a hands-on approach to the Third Man shop in his hometown of Nashville, White often visits and will openly chat to fans who have descended to try and grab a piece of a musical phenomenon. There is absolutely no doubt that White’s influence in the industry is a force to be reckoned with.

Bru-No

Nobody had higher expectations of Bruno than me. After being dragged against my will at uni to see Borat, my pre-conceptions of Sacha Baron Cohen were shattered. Previously, I had presumed him to be crass, unintelligent and uninspired, but his second big screen outing proved otherwise (The Ali G movie is best left ignored). Cohen is one of the most intelligent comedians out there at the moment – his social observation and manipulations of different personalities takes far more skill than I think many of us appreciate.

So what the hell he was thinking when he wrote Bruno, I have no idea. There was not a shred of intelligence in the entire film; just a whole lot of debase humour and sex, and in my mind, a comedian who relies solely on cheap gags displays nothing more than a lack of genuine creativity and intellect. Yep, some people may find a dildo attached to the end of an exercise machine funny the first couple of times, but after its continued appearance in a succession of very similar set-ups, you start to wonder if Baron Cohen had simply run out of ideas.

Whether it was seeing Bruno refer to Bin Laden as a ‘dirty Santa Claus’, or overtly try and hit on to men at a heterosexual swingers party, it felt too forced. Comedy should seem natural and it should have a flow and a purpose; this possessed none of these qualities. Bruno appears to have been made for controversy and publicity motives alone and Baron Cohen’s antics at premieres around the world only serve to reflect that.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all up for slapstick humour and a token comedy sex scene in a film if it suits. But after watching over ninety minutes of the same slapstick and comedy sex scene, it doesn’t seem so funny any more. You are left questioning the standing of the film industry when it deems it acceptable to commission such unconscionable fodder. I fear we are stuck with such inept movie debris cluttering our cinema screens for the near future however, because we all know that dollars are a far greater motive in the system than integrity ever will be.

Obama and the Pork Pie

There is one thing I actually love about commuting. Yes, you did read that correctly. While everyone else is wrapped up in their own little bubble, I burst mine for 45 minutes to listen to people’s conversations and watch their weird behaviours.

It seems as though most people treat the train as an extension of their home time. I’m not innocent of this; I’m usually comatose on the train on the way into work as I try to scrape an extra forty winks. I do, however, know where to draw the line; whereas others seem to have skipped that workshop completely.

Exhibit A – on the train home the other evening, I look up to see a middle aged gent sat across from me, reading Barack Obama’s autobiography. ‘Ah, a fellow intellect!’ I think to myself. Sadly, my presumptions are proven wrong almost immediately as his index finger proceeds to gouge its way up his nose like a dog chasing a rabbit into it’s hole. As if that wasn’t delightful enough, he then removes the rabbit entrails for all to see, and starts rolling it about in his fingers before flicking it somewhere in the direction of the aisle. Unfortunately naïve as to where it landed, all I can do is pray it came nowhere bloody near me.

Exhibit B – get on the train home. Man, somewhat obese, sits sprawling over two seats asleep with his mouth gaping open and snoring loudly. Quite amusing, you might think, and it was. That was until I noticed his stomach trying to greet me as it fought its way out of the holes between the strained buttons. I’m all for being friendly to people on the train but I do have my limits. There is half a pork pie spilling out of it’s packet on the seat next to him – presumably he has already devoured the rest, although a suspicious looking piece of meat is nestled tenderly in the ridge between two rolls of chest fat. How cute. I don’t know whether it was my hysterical laughing (those of you who know my cackle wouldn’t be surprised if it was) but he awoke, and in his semi-conscious state and decided to eat the rest of his pie. Might as well finish what he started, but delays the process by picking up the wrong end of the packet, and watching the pie flop miserably onto the train floor. By all means, it wasn’t a new train; this floor has been trodden on by all kinds of miscreants, and I’ve never seen a train attendant with a mop or a Hoover, have you? I’d much rather sit swamped with my bags on my lap than put them on the train floor, so if I dropped my pasty it would damn well be staying there. Anyway, I’m not sure whether it was his hand or a blob of stomach that reached out to retrieve said produce, but after about ten seconds it was picked up. And promptly put into his mouth. Come on mate, if you really must eat it, at least follow the three second rule! Somewhat thankfully, the food lethargy must have kicked straight back in as he promptly passed back out.

All I have to do is think of that incident and I’ll inwardly chuckle to myself (as well as trying to repress the vomit). So next time you’re on the tube, or bus, or train, wishing you didn’t have to go further than the end of your road to work, take a look around you and see what gems of tales other commuters are just waiting to set up for you. Sometimes, they almost seem worth my extortionate train fare. Almost.

When Two Isn't Enough

There are quite a few things in life that I don’t think I will ever understand. These include religion, advanced mathematics, and how to resist the Selfridges sale. But as much as I’d like to think about shopping, it’s the topic of cheating on a partner that I am going to focus on here.

I believe relationships should be monogamous. By entering into one, two people, especially in marriage, are essentially agreeing to be with each other, and each other alone. If you want to go off and shag someone else then do it – but end the relationship first. I’ve never cheated on any of my boyfriends so I can’t say, but I’m pretty certain that the cheaters would soon have some choice words for their other halves if they found out they’d been screwing their best friend/brother/a randomer from the pub (delete as appropriate) behind their backs.

We live in a greedy society, and cheating is just another example of it. Men, and women, I’m not going to be gender biased here, are having their cake and (literally) eating it. Some people say things like, ‘Oh, I had an affair because I love my partner and don’t want to leave them, but I needed to spice up my sex life.’ I’m sorry, but if you loved your partner even a tiny amount as much as you say you do, then you’d do your damn hardest to discuss your bedroom issues and make things better before the thought of going off with someone else even crossed your mind.

In the paper the other day, I saw Steve Jones the presenter saying that he thought it was preposterous that there’s only one person for everyone and as a result doesn’t want to get into a relationship. At first I thought it was quite sad that he’d never got to experience the great things that people get out of relationships, all because he wants to bed every woman he can get his hands on. But giving it more thought, I realise that I actually admire him in some warped way. I’d much rather a guy like him stood up and recognised the fact that he wants to sleep around than enter into the pretence of a relationship and cheat in order to satisfy himself. Girls that enter into whatever with him know from the very beginning where they stand, and they won’t end up hurt six months down the line when they think everything is perfect, only to discover his indiscretions splashed across the cover of The Sun.

I don’t necessarily agree with the rather promiscuous attitude he seems to flaunt, but I do agree with his honest attitude. The effect it will have on the person who is cheated on will be far greater than the half an hour of fun you might have rolling about with someone else. As a society, we need to become less selfish, and being honest and faithful with your partner seems like a pretty good place to start.

When push comes to shove

As anyone who knows me will be able to tell you, music is one of my major passions in life. Finding a great new band is like discovering a diamond in amongst a crate of rocks, and listening to bands who have been around for as long as you can remember is like cosying up to your favourite blanket as a kid.

One of the best things about music is going to gigs. Not only do you get to see in person the people whose work floods your ears 24/7, but you get to experience it with hundreds of other people who possess just as much bundled enthusiasm as you. But I don’t want to go and see an artist pre-possessing the knowledge that I’ll have bruises all over me and beer in my hair by the end of the night. If you’re at a festival, you might even have the privilege of being soaked by thrown cups of piss.

Seeing Kasabian on Friday night, I sauntered in and headed straight to the second row. Part of me was excited I was going to be so involved in the action, whilst the other part hurriedly tried to convince me that having a decent view wasn’t worth an hour and a half of being elbowed and jumped by people twice my weight. Nevertheless, I stood my ground and in many ways wish I hadn’t. I didn’t enjoy the night very much at all – not because the band weren’t great musically, quite the contrary. But I had to put so much time and energy in keeping myself from literally being trampled, that I couldn’t enjoy the music.

A lot of bands say that UK audiences are quite unlike any other, and I have to say I agree. If you watch footage of gigs in Japan for example, it’s often very civilised and occasionally audiences will even stay seated throughout the duration (though that’s far from my idea of a fun gig). When I saw the Kooks in America, the crowd were having a great time, but at no point did I see anyone being pushed or throw their drink over someone else. The last Kooks gig I went to over here, I had four beers thrown over me and a thirty year old guy tried to pick a fight.

It seems to be the older men, rather than the kids, that cause the most havoc at gigs nowadays. When you’re younger you can almost get away with getting into a bit of a fight with someone outside the school gates. Getting into a brawl on the pavement aged thirty has far different repercussions. It’s almost as if people act violently at gigs because they don’t have a chance to otherwise. Watching a lot of their faces, you can see them plotting their next ‘accidental’ shove rather than a look of genuine excitement.

It’s only the minority that act like this but ruin the experience for so many more people than themselves. I don’t want to be forced to stand at the back so I don’t get hurt by some drunk arse who has got a bit too much pent up aggression that he needs to get rid of. There’s a time and a place for men throwing punches and that’s at the boxing ring, not in the front row of Brixton Academy.

Photo Times

I've got a tip for you, Sir

Whereas it used to be left at the diner’s discretion as to how much they left for the waiter, in recent years, establishments have taken to automatically adding service charges to the end of your bill. An old acquaintance of mine used to refuse to put down any form of tip as he said that the waiters are already paid to do their job – which is to look after the customer and meet their needs. In a similar environment, you wouldn’t pay a shop keeper a tip for being polite at the till, for example. However, I know some restaurants pay their staff slightly less and expect them to make up the rest of their wages in tips, so in that instance it seems somewhat unfair. But I do object to the presumption that a tip should be an automatic right.

After dinner last night with a friend, we received the bill and they had routinely added on a 10% service charge. Usually I am not against tipping if I have enjoyed the meal and the service has been good; I suppose I see a tip as a small way of saying thank you. In this case, the food was good but the service was abominable. After we had been seated, the two waiters on duty (split their time between four tables each, so they were hardly run off their feet) proceeded to nonchalantly ignore us and only provided us with the pleasure of communication once, when they took our food and drinks order. One of the waiters, however, was more that happy to frequently attend to his friend who was sat at the table next to us. Even the kids party that was over the other side of the room received more attention than we did; though perhaps they might not have had the parents not been sitting at a separate table a few feet away. Even when paying our bill the waiter spent the entire time conversing with his friend, and offhandedly mumbled ‘thank you’ over his shoulder as we stood to leave. My friend, paying for dinner (thanks, by the way) insisted on leaving a tip. Whether this is because he is a waiter himself is still yet to be confirmed. I don’t see that service like that deserves any form of reward though, however small. I was certainly not thankful for the attitude the staff displayed and felt that by leaving a tip, it conveyed the message back to them that their behaviour was satisfactory.

I don’t treat restaurant staff like servants and am always conscious of being polite. If a friend disrespected you, then you wouldn’t do them any favours in return. If a waiter disrespects me then why should I honour them for it? Call me old fashioned and I’m probably going to have my food spat in next time I eat out, but I’m leading the campaign to bring back discretionary tips.

The Song Remains The Same

I got into a discussion with my friend on Saturday night over, namely, Coldplay and the Kooks. I’m not afraid to admit that I like either; neither set out with the intention to revolutionise the music industry so we are in no position to criticise when they haven’t.

Anyway, we were not discussing their credibility on the music scene, but more the sound of their songs. My friend believes they are too ‘same-y’ and that their material is essentially just slight variations of each other. I maintain it’s simply their musical style we hear; there is an obvious distinction between ‘Yellow’ and ‘Viva La Vida’, for example.

When you hear a song, you can usually distinguish a band by analysing several components. Soft rock guitar? Check. Sporadic infusions of drums and piano? Check. Chris Martin’s somewhat effeminate voice? Check. It must be Coldplay! But these elements that supposedly makes Coldplay’s work ‘same-y’ are surely applicable to any band. If you listen to many Beatles albums, aside from the natural progression they display as a band, the recognisable Liverpudlian tones and pop permeated guitar strummings conjure up that fuzzy feeling of familiarity inside you. But do you hear anyone really harp on about all the Beatles tracks sounding the same as each other? No, they wouldn’t dare.

Nowadays we expect too much from our music and the artists in general. Fifty years ago popular music was still very much in its developmental stages, and the limited number of recording artists reflected that. Fast forward and we now have hundreds of new bands attempting to infiltrate their way into our musical sub-conscience every day. We are spoilt for choice and as a result expect substantial variety in order to reflect the supply and demand. The fact is, with a band, such as Coldplay, their individual sound is not the repetitive problem we have here. It simply comes down to the fact that the genres have been over-saturated with bands competing for the same audience and our expectant selves have become too gluttonous.