music to my ears
A girl has to do what a girl's got to do to satisfy her craving for music.
In the past four days I've managed to acquire the following twelve albums, all of which are rated below on the Muse-0-Meter (don't laugh) out of five, one being rubbish and five being, well, you get the idea.
Travis, 12 Memories
Our favourite wee lads from Glasgow have opted for a slightly darker sound than the usual sun-drenched pop we're used to. Not as solid nor as cohesive as
The Man Who, but the material here is worth listening to, at least once. The hidden track is a tearjerker, so have those tissues at the ready.
3.5
Interpol, Antics
Another stunning album from these sharp-suited blokes, combining the best of Joy Division, The Cure, and the rest of those 80s bands we love so much. The rumbling, funky basslines and spiky rhythms perfectly complement the electro beats and layers of synths. A near-perfect follow-up to
Turn On the Bright Lights.
4.5
Depeche Mode, Exciter
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. It combines layer upon layer of pulsating synths and shimmering basslines, a perfect backdrop for Dave Gahan's honeyed vocals. It's melodious, guitar-driven, and yet feels tense, foreboding, and slightly creepy. Best for nighttime. Sensual and brilliant.
5
Manic Street Preachers, Lifeblood
After a brief stint into the nonsense that was
Know Your Enemy, the Manics have returned to familiar territory. It depends on what you like, though. Those seeking influences from the era of
The Holy Bible are going to be disappointed, for this is contemporary pop at its greatest (think
This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours).
4
Depeche Mode, Remixes 81...04
This is the sort of music you'd want blaring from your iPod earbuds at lawnmower volumes, on nights walking through rain-soaked nightclub districts in London, with city lights shimmering in the background. It's bearable, but repetitive after listening to the whole lot, which spans three discs. Some tracks ought never to be remixed as they're perfect as they are.
3
The Strokes, Room On Fire
After having spawned countless imitation bands the world over, Julian Casablancas and co. are back, doing what they do best, with jerky, spiky, garage-guitar rock. Fortunately, The Strokes really are brilliant in creating
that trademark sound, and this really is a stellar follow-up to
Is This It? Copycat bands permeating the radiowaves pale in comparison. Don't listen to them. The Strokes really are as bloody brilliant as they're hyped up to be.
4
Scissor Sisters, Scissor Sisters
Brilliant, sly pop for the gay disco crowd, stylish fashionistas,
and grotty indie kids with greasy hair. This is as close to a perfect debut as it gets. Perfect for nights in a sweaty packed club and getting jacked up on cheap champagne, as they say. It's retro, Elton-esque, slightly kitsch, with heavy disco influences - of the cool sort. A must-hear.
4.5
The Cure, The Cure
Don't get me wrong - I love The Cure, I really do. But I could barely finish listening to their latest offering after having
Disintegration on repeat for the past while. On the other hand, Robert Smith never fails to churn out albums that become truly influential, and this is no doubt another one of those records. There's an obvious reason why they're still around (and one of the most important bands to walk this earth) - The Cure are geniuses, but this genius is better displayed on their other albums.
2
The Libertines, The Libertines
It's a shame, really, how the press chooses to focus on this band's very well-documented internal strife - drug problems, break-ins, drunken punch-ups, missed gigs, etc. There's real talent here, and it perfectly showcases cocaine-addicted Pete Doherty's abilities, being the album recorded before things started really going downhill. The opener, "Can't Stand Me Now", is brilliant, with best mates Pete and Carl chucking disgruntled words back and forth at each other like a grumpy married couple. Which they were. Almost.
4.5
Razorlight, Up All Night
A solid debut, although not as brilliant as pompous frontman Johnny Borrell would have you believe. It's basically shameless imitation of
those bands - namely the pioneers of spunky, punky pop-rock who happen to do it so much better than Razorlight. That being said, "Rip It Up" is fantastic, and the album portrays London as a romantically grotty, boozy place where rock-n-roll dreams come alive. I reckon only a London-based band could get away with that...
3
Depeche Mode, Violator
A much more organic, natural album than
Exciter, this is equally brilliant, and currently my favourite album. It's less guitar-driven, a touch less sensual, but dark as heck and extremely evocative. It's best played very loud, and in very dark places. I was speechless after hearing it. Frankly, I cannot think of a more perfect song than "Enjoy the Silence" or "Policy of Truth". Unforgettable. I love it.
5
Zero 7, When It Falls
This album is gorgeous, but really, could I have expected any less? Taking the same tried-and-true formula that made
Simple Things so popular, Zero 7 have turned it up a notch, infusing more folk influences, more sensual vocals, and more warmth into their trademark lying-in-bed-on-a-Sunday-morning sound. There is not a weak track on this album, and "Home", with its sun-soaked vocals set against a crescendo of ominous horns, is especially breathtaking.
5
[Edited on 01.11.04 - Depeche Mode's album should read Remixes 81...04, not the rubbish I had written earlier.]
"dear limey assholes"
We in Britain are having a right laugh about
this. (The letter from Wading River is a classic.)
Enjoy. I certainly did. Americans are terribly articulate, aren't they?
[
Edited to add: It is becoming embarrassingly evident that I am rubbish at creating hyperlinks. Theoretically, the link should
work now.]
some things must go this way
I remember the feeling very well. In the early hours of 26 October 2003, I momentarily stopped breathing. For weeks thereafter, I walked through London in a trance. I felt dried up - my eyes ached from crying, my head was pounding, and I kept thinking,
this can't be happening. This can't be happening.
But it
was happening. The anguish of a relationship's ending drags every human through the lowest possible physical and mental states, that it is difficult to believe that any feeling could be worse. For two weeks after it happened, I still wore the jewellry that had been a Valentine's Day gift. I still had photos of happier times taped to my walls. I still wore his t-shirt to bed.
What happens in our lives - the people we meet, the things we do, the things we
don't do - are a result of fate, whether we understand that at a particular moment or not. Our relationship was doomed from the start. It began as an end-of-summer fling that evolved into what we both perhaps mistook for something deeper. Although an ocean apart, we experienced an intensity within two weeks that most couples take years to cultivate. We didn't think of the problems - the distance, the families, the cultural (not racial) differences. They only caught up with us later.
I could not have imagined that a year's passing would have turned me into who I am today. It was not my doing - it was my family's. I have never done better in school. I've seen what I should have seen of London, had I not been constantly on the phone with my then-boyfriend. I feel truly happy and at peace, not bound or restricted by the constraints of a relationship and everything it entailed. I now see very clearly why so many said that he wasn't worth it. I don't miss him. Happiness, self-reliance, and inner strength are quite possibly the most valuable traits I am fortunate to have today. Distancing myself, with little emotion, from those who don't give much in relationships is a skill I've learnt. Heartless? No. I no longer let anyone hurt me. Consequently, I have never been happier. I love my life, and regret nothing.
Sometimes feeling as if your life is ending makes you realise that it truly is just beginning. Things happen for a reason, and those reasons are never for us to decide.
what's it all about?
A and I saw Alfie in the cinema last night, and it was enjoyable, if you don't think too hard about it. For those who are out of the loop, Alfie is a remake of the 1960s classic starring Michael Caine as, well, a womanising wanker who refers to his female conquests as 'it' and dumps them as soon as they display any signs of neediness. Jude Law, our modern-day commitment-phobe, is a Londoner transplanted in Manhattan (gorgeously shot during the holiday season), who wears fancy Gucci suits, zips off on his Vespa as soon as his latest victim gets clingy, and shags anyone with (a nice pair of) legs.
Given the fact that Alfie is a prick, it is surprising how Jude Law is so deftly able to turn him into a moderately loveable creature (due mostly to the fact that aside from the sharp suits and beautiful women, he really is pathetic and you do start feeling rather sorry for him). The supporting cast is wonderful - Marisa Tomei, a lovely single mother and Alfie's quasi-girlfriend; Susan Sarandon, an older woman whom Alfie seduces; Sienna Miller (Jude Law's real life girlfriend) as the far-too-loose nightclubber; and Nia Long, who really does give a standout performance. The best scenes in the film, and also the most heartwrenching, are her scenes.
The film has several good points - the supporting cast, deft dialogue, good pacing, and a hilarious scene involving a topless Sienna Miller chopping a zucchini. On the other hand, most of it is utter rubbish. Since when do limousine drivers get paid so much as to afford crisp designer suits and live the sort of lifestyle Alfie does? ("I'm a blessed man," he smirks at the beginning of the film.) Given the subject matter of the film, it was surprisingly short on sex, except for a scene at the beginning with a rich Jane Krakowski relieving her boredom in the backseat of Alfie's limo. I won't even get into the horrendous, offensive portrayal of the only two Asian characters in this film. Should I have expected anything else, really?
But the film's fundamental problem is this. When it was first released in the 1960s, it caused an uproar, what with the blatant womanising and virtual slap in the face of gender equality. Is there anything that will make it as special as the original, if it's set in the noughties? The answer is - not really.
"What's it all about?" Alfie asks at the end of the film. He discovers that relationships in the 21st century are all about commitment and fidelity. Gee, it doesn't take a genius to figure that one out. Oh well - at least we get delicious eye candy for a couple of hours.
space dementia
14 website visits, 57 page reloads, two follow-up phone calls, and one cardiac arrest later, I have managed to secure a standing ticket for Muse's gig at Earls Court on 19 December.
This is brilliant, but I'm starting to get a bit nervous. I'm an intimate-club-gig type of girl. I love standing tickets, but I've never been in the pit in a venue with a capacity of nearly 20,000 (no doubt rowdy and drunk) individuals before. If I attempt to get into the front row, I'll probably get stomped on, pushed over the barrier, or have someone's armpit in my face all night. On the other hand, if I stand near the back by the sound equipment, I won't be able to see as well (I hear that this venue sells binoculars), but then again I wouldn't get trampled on by tall, drunk British men. At a height of five feet, this
is something to be concerned about, particularly at a Muse gig - Muse don't exactly attract a Coldplay-loving crowd, if you know what I mean.
me, myself and muse
i am not :: who you think i am
i love :: my life
i hate :: arrogance, philistines, stupidity, ignorance, and goodbyes
i fear :: poor health, dark alleys, and loneliness
i hear :: thom yorke crooning into my ear
i crave :: a better sense of the future
i regret :: nothing
i cry :: during goodbyes involving long periods of separation
i care :: about people who don’t think i do
i always :: put perfume on my collarbone
i believe :: in love, happiness, and dermalogica moisturiser
i feel alone :: when the nights are long, cold and sleepless
i listen :: just as well as i can speak
i hide :: under my covers if there’s a spooky sound
i drive :: a mini cooper (in my dreams)
i sing :: along to everything, and albeit quite poorly
i dance :: even when i’m at home in my knickers
i write :: all the bloody time
i play :: hard, but work harder
i miss :: my family
i search :: for a prettier way of deriving the gamma function
i learn :: audio-visually
i feel :: intense emotions, all the time
i know :: just a couple of little things about statistics
i say :: live and let live
i succeed :: when i put my mind to it
i dream :: in high resolution, 32-bit colour
i wonder :: why loved ones must be taken from us so soon
i want :: money (don’t we all?)
i have :: far too many black clothes
i give :: myself entirely when someone needs me
i fell :: out of a moving vehicle when i was younger
i fight :: daily battles with my hair and my conscience
i need :: a better sense of financial management
if i were a month, i'd be :: october – cool outside, but cosy inside
if i were a day of the week, i'd be :: friday and in love
if i were a time of day, i'd be :: the moment when the sun dips below the horizon
if i were a planet, i'd be :: saturn
if i were a sea animal, i'd be :: a starfish
if i were a direction, i'd be :: higher
if i were a piece of furniture, i'd be :: a philip treacy armchair
if i were a sin, i'd be :: lust
if i were a flower, i'd be :: a night-blooming cereus
if i were a kind of weather, i'd be :: a sunshower
if i were a musical instrument, i'd be :: a bass guitar
if i were an animal, i'd be :: erm…a starfish? (sorry – creativity isn’t my forte)
if i were a color, i'd be :: teal
if i were a sound, i'd be :: a whisper
if i were a movie, i'd be :: one with lovely cinematography
if i were a food, i'd be :: chocolate – very addictive
if i were a material, i'd be :: cashmere
if i were a taste, i'd be :: sugar and spice
if i were a facial expression, i'd be :: an intense gaze
if i were a part of a house, i'd be :: the greenhouse
if i were a shape, i'd be :: a circle
if i were a number, i'd be :: the sample mean - absolutely fundamental
I reckon I've been thinking too much about Statistics lately...
the great divide
It never fails to astound me just how rampant stereotyping of ethnic groups is. No wonder racism still underlies many problems in today's society, whether we admit it or not. We'd like to think that we've come a long way, but certain everyday occurrences still serve to remind us that we harbour thoughts - most often subconscious - that lead us to generalise about particular ethnic groups.
We all categorise, and it is not always wrong - in its simplest form, it is a method of sorting information. However, it becomes wrong (not to mention insulting and offensive) when blatant generalisations are said directly to a member of a particular ethnic group.
Consider this:
-Someone (Caucasian) at the dinner table says that "Asians are all hardworking";
-Someone (Caucasian) at a friend's dinner table that "Asians are terrible drivers";
-An ex-(Caucasian) boyfriend liked seeing a flower in my hair "because that's what a proper Asian girl should have";
-People believe that female Asians all must play some form of musical instrument, usually piano, violin, or flute;
-People believe that female Asians ought to be subservient, undemanding, and quiet;
-The media feeds off the stereotype of male Asians being sexually undesirable and devoid of sexuality;
-Men view female Asians as exotic, hyper-sexualised 'creatures';
-And would you believe that people
still dare to refer to us as 'Oriental'?
No, not everything in the list above is outright offensive. I believe, however, that most of us will admit to thinking one or more of the above thoughts. Asians are, according to the 'rule', good at mathematics (lucky us), correct? Asians are also intelligent and hardworking, yes? I guess Asians should be grateful that we have, generally speaking, positive attributes associated with our ethnic group, right?
Wrong.
The other day, during a conversation with a close (Caucasian) friend, I mentioned that I still hadn't seen the latest Harry Potter film. His response? "Asians and their Harry Potter!" This was not offensive nor derogatory. However, it was inappropriate. It did not need to be said, and certainly not directly to me. It was not hastily or mistakenly blurted out in conversation - it was a conscious,
typed thought.
I informed this person that hearing these generalisations is something that I
do not tolerate. His response made me angrier than his original comment did. Would you believe that he had the nerve to tell
me, an Asian, that "people need to lighten up and not take things so personally"? Since when does someone devoid of any colour whatsoever have the right to tell someone of obvious ethnic minority what I can and cannot get offended about?
The conversation went dead promptly thereafter. I was shocked not to have received some form of apology, or a simple 'I take that back'. I had to prompt him for a response, only to receive a cold "I got it". More appallingly, later that same night, this person came online to ask me yet another question. "[A question] for you," he wrote. "Is it okay for an Indian man to make fun of Asians?"
Why was he asking me this? Was he trying to test my limits, or gauge how hypocritical I am? He asked because he had, apparently, a 45-minute clip of a stand-up comic making fun of immigrants, including Asians, to send to me. If your jaw isn't dropping right now, it ought to be.
I could not believe that someone would have the
nerve to even suggest that I view this video, a mere few
hours after I expressed, to the point of exhaustion, how I felt about the issue. I did my best to remain normal about it, but admittedly, there were certain things I should have said right at that moment that I didn't say till later. The full impact of his words started to sink in soon thereafter. No, I do
not think it right for anyone to make crude jokes about other ethnic groups. If you can laugh at these jokes, please keep that to yourself. I highly doubt that anyone who finds humour in this can
truly view that ethnic group in the same light afterwards.
In short, this individual was inappropriate, offensive, insensitive, ignorant, crass, and - perhaps most sickening - incredibly smug about it. You get the picture.
There is something to be said - and forgive me, for I'm generalising here - about those who live in multicultural cities and who can appreciate multiculturalism much more so than those living in cities that are not as multiculturally diverse. Unless someone is of an ethnic minority (and by that, I mean of colour), it seems very difficult for them to comprehend just how much words can sting.
And words, as empty as they might seem at first, really do hurt to the core. This was not - and undoubtedly will not be the last - racially-charged comment I have experienced directly from someone. Anyone of colour will attest to the fact that these comments are offensive. Whether you are of an ethnic minority or not, always think twice about what you want to say before you say it. Please treat issues with sensitivity, and people you perceive to be 'different' with equal respect. Things are never - forgive the pun - as black and white as they seem.
travis @ mean fiddler, 14.10.04
Last Thursday was Travis's gig at the Mean Fiddler - the last show of a UK tour to promote their forthcoming greatest hits LP.
What can I say except Travis are always such fun in gigs (I've seen them four times now), very sweet lads really, and they are still as down-to-earth now as they were before they got famous. I was stood in front of the bass speakers, in the front row and smack in front of the stage, which probably explains why my ears are
still ringing.
They played 21 songs in total - all 16 singles and a five-song encore that was brilliant, consisting of the cover 'Baby One More Time'; Dougie and Andy on David Bowie's classic 'All the Young Dudes'; Fran's stunning microphone-free acoustic version of '20' (you could hear a pin drop in that room); the lovely 'The Weight' sung by Travis and joined by their opening act, The Magic Numbers; and to close, the crowd favourite - the hidden track from The Man Who. Other memorable songs included 'U16 Girls', 'Tied to the 90s', 'Happy', and 'Writing to Reach You'.
"See you next year," Fran called out at the end of the show. Right now, next year seems quite far away, and we shall miss Travis very much in the meantime.
born lippy
Let Muse share a thought with you all. Muse has many strange theories, and she reckons that most of them have probably already been scientifically proven in reputable scientific journals somewhere in, say, Pittsburgh. Theories such as how the fingers indicate how much money one spends, how eating seaweed makes one's hair lovely and shiny, and how clams really do have- erm, reproduce. All very important things in science, really.
One of these oh-so-astounding theories states that there is a positive, directly proportional relationship between lip size and horniness. You see, Muse has never come across a person with large, pillowy lips who
didn't constantly want to shag. Although males always seem to want to participate in such activities, we shall make use of relativity here (another important scientific discovery) - males with thinner lips tend to be on one side of the spectrum, and, well, the fuller-lipped ones on the other. In Muse's experience, the worst offender was a male - whom Muse didn't know - with admittedly lovely, full lips who asked Muse which she'd prefer first: 'lunch, or a fuck' (both with him). Muse politely (well, she thought it was polite, but others may not have) declined both invitations. The friendliness of the drunken British male truly is legendary.
So you see - we have convincing evidence that those with full lips are more likely to want a shag for breakfast, brunch, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, dessert,
and midnight snack, not to mention other unmentionable times during the day...and night...and...
(Following a schedule like that would most certainly present cardiac problems at some point, would it not?)
a few hodge-podgey things to note
1. I realised that I made the error of incorrectly spelling the link for Freefalling, not once, not twice, but
three times on
three different parts of this website. Apologies. It's of little use advertising our new blog if I'm going to bugger it up every time. (It also doesn't help that the address is so bloody long.) Let's hope I finally
get it right.
2. Statistical Inference is
bloody difficult. My lecturer may as well fail me now. I can't even do question 1 (a) of our first problem set, and even if I did, I probably made a mess of it.
3. Someone left these messages in my Inbox the other day:
Meat + mushroom perogs.
Two guesses: (a) that this had to do with the 'Eat' section of the blog, and (b) that 'perogs' are short for 'perogies'. I did not know that there was a slang version of perogie.
The best Hollywood cop of all time is actually McLean (i.e. Bruce Willis).
Erm...McLean? Who? Clearly I don't watch enough films.
Why isn't McLean ever mentioned as the greatest Hollywood cop??? I think you should apologize to him in one of your posts. Yeah, I've got nothing against Riggs in Lethal Weapon, but he's NOT the best cop out there. Yippee-ka-yay...mutha****er!
...Right.
4. HL, my stylist at the Charles Worthington salon on Percy Street, is brilliant. I love her. I don't think she's capable of making my hair look anything but gorgeous. I walked away from the salon this afternoon with my hair looking like Dido's (minus the blonde part). Brilliant.
5. I was informed yesterday that the Statistics Society elected me as their Academic Officer. Weren't elections in April? Even if they were, did I run? No. I'm happy, but why can't people tell me these things a little sooner?
6. Have any of you got any clever hypotheses for the strange behaviour of the people living in the flat above mine? One person will come home at 17:35 on average. Half an hour later, the incessant hammering begins, coupled with hoovering, banging, furniture moving across the floor. At 18:27 the other person enters. The hammering etc continues till 21:30, at which point I hear the two of them taking several bags of rubbish outside with them. The door slams. They don't come home again until 17:35 the following evening, and the cycle repeats itself. I appreciate the fact that perhaps they're doing a bit of refitting, but I can't possibly understand how a tiny little flat takes over three weeks to refit...
for those who visit this site regularly...
...I'd greatly appreciate it if you could please take a minute to comment on whether you like the look of the previous colour scheme, or this one.
The old scheme felt as if it was on the verge of being bubblegummy - I'm trying to get a more tailored, modern look. The photograph in 'Vision' has also been removed.
Comments and/or suggestions?
Cheers.
secondhand whatever
The other day I was walking behind someone who was smoking the most amazing-smelling cigarette. I'm not a smoker by any means, I usually hate the smell of cigarettes, and I've never touched one in my life. But the scent of this one was enough to make me seriously reconsider. It wasn't the standard Silk Cut, Marlboro etc, it was something much more...fragrant? Herbal? (It wasn't weed or any other related drug.) Actually, it smelled somewhat like the John Galliano candle I've been obsessed with. My guess is that it was a clove cigarette, but I couldn't be sure. And it's best that I don't find out.
the old-fashioned way
If there's one thing I always get excited about, it's seeing something in the post - snail mail - with my name on it (minus, of course, anything asking me for money). Such was the case this afternoon - after three weeks of receiving endless move-in welcome letters from British Telecom, Camden Council Tax, TV Licensing etc. (all organisations, I'm convinced, that have nothing better to do than to bother me for money) - I was rather pleased to have received a nice little package from someone unexpected. I love that. The sender chose to keep himself a mystery, although I reckon I could guess who it was. He enclosed a copy of the film that sparked my somewhat worrying affection for a certain blue-collar worker, famous for abusing his pregnant wife and promptly bedding her thereafter (not to mention another related and unmentionable activity involving his wife's sister).
Who cares. He looks bloody amazing in that ripped white t-shirt. Mmm.
bam bou
On Saturday night, I went to dinner with D, who has the whitest teeth you and I have ever seen, and is from Bermuda. This year he is living in a studio flat about 45 seconds' walk from my place, which makes meeting up much easier, and something to be taken advantage of this year.
He is extremely cultured - wine with meals, etc. - so there was none of this 'let's-go-somewhere-where-meals-cost-less-than-£10' that I often hear (and catch myself saying) to my other friends. He took me to Bam Bou, which is a gorgeous, exotic, dimly-lit modern Thai restaurant on Charlotte Street, and although I was slightly in awe of the prices on the dinner menu, I tried not to let it show on my face. I had still water; he had a gin & tonic. We ordered a bowl of coconut rice to share, sauteed king prawns for him, and caramelised ginger chicken with chilli for me. For dessert, we ordered something based purely on its name: 'chocolate spring rolls with orange blossom sauce'. It was pure, melted chocolate wrapped in a spring roll, with a heavenly, delicate orange sauce for dipping.
I had one complaint about the restaurant however - the location of its toilets, involving a difficult and perilous journey up six flights of dark, wooden, creaky and unbalanced steps, through a bar pulsating with hordes of Beautiful People, past a lounge with bodies strewn about on satin sofas and large silk pillows, around a corner, past a bamboo screen, and up yet another flight of stairs. There is no doubt that the British
love their stairs, but the good news is, I did manage to locate the toilet.
Afterwards, we tried to catch a film in Leicester Square, but missed, by half an hour, the set of shows that had just started playing. The masses of drunk clubbers, dodgy men on the pull, and women wearing far too little, were too much to handle, so we opted for a walk through Piccadilly and up Regent Street instead. If there's one thing London needs more of, it's late-night dessert places (ignoring the fact that I already had one) and late-night cafes. We did find one that was open late - namely a Starbucks on Oxford Street - and stopped for refreshments before heading home. I think I've gained five pounds in the last two days. *Sigh* I love food far too much.
