so it we were on the roof and it was like 2am in the morning, man, it was a crazy night…

I’d love to say that this was my story, but it wasn’t. I overheard the conversation between a bunch of beautiful people over by the turtle pond and I have to admit, it sounded like an awesome story. I think that’s the way ever story should begin.

I’m posting whilst Tom sleeps again, I’m gonna go wake him up when I’m done because I want to hit up this pasta joint I saw on the cab ride back to hotel this earlier this evening. We’d ducked out of the park around 90th west to visit the American Museum of National History cos’ Tom had never been there. There were a couple of parts that I didn’t remember and they were holding a promo for the newest space film at the planetarium they’ve got up there so we couldn’t see all of the space stuff but we saw most of it.

There was a interesting bit on display in the geology exhibit; firstly they stated that to be a geologist, the most important thing you need is an imagination. This was brought up during a particularly gripping “collection and analysis” montage in part of a documentary they were showing which wasn’t the best way to try and put that point across. I’m not so sure if that’s really the case, but I guess that it can’t help.

Secondly in the same section there was a display that showed the estimated amount of energy the sun has been putting out over its lifetime and that it was steadily increasing. It was rationalised that the end of the ice age all those millions of years ago was, in part, down to the rising amount of heat coming from that big ol’ star of ours. Now, playing devil’s advocate I asked if anyone had thought about this little fact as a cause of global warming. They hadn’t, but it isn’t related apparently.

I guess that’s why I’m not a scientist. I guess I’m a bit of a social scientist though.

So we just changed rooms because whilst Tom was sleeping I nearly killed a cockroach and I’ll be honest with you, the idea of sleeping in a room with a cockroach doesn’t really bother me that much, its just that, well I think I pissed it off a bit. I don’t want to sleep in the same room as an angry cockroach. He has every right to be angry, don’t get me wrong; I tried to kill it. My reaction was one of surprise more than anything else and with hindsight; I probably should have tried talking to the roach before going straight to smacking it with my shoe.

This new room has two double beds but less of a view. The air conditioner works much better though.

Check out Mark’s story below, it’s great!

I’ve got the TV on in the background and it’s getting hard to tell where the Jon Cena’s 12 Rounds commercials end and the Miller Light ads start. Man, I missed this country!

Ben

July 2nd, 2009 | Tags: air con, ben, central park, cockroach, geology, global warming, Jon cena, miller light, museum of natural history, new york, no footnotes tonight, Tom | Category: off-topic, playing catch-up | Comments (3)

Hello there, Mark here. While Ben’s off on his journey of self-discovery (read: eating hot dogs and marvelling at how ‘great’ American pronunciations of words are), I’ve been working on a little something to keep you entertained, a short story told in three parts (partly so I can get three posts, partly because it can work interestingly this way, but mostly because I haven’t finished it yet).

This is probably my first real work of prose not written as part of a school assignment, so excuse me if I misuse the occasional narrative tool; but then what are all words if not tools, to be used in whatever manner suits our purposes? Hurm.

But enough of that. Enjoy.

Part I

‘I think it’s still out there,’ the shrill voice inside the tape recorder whispered. ‘I don’t know what it is, but it can’t be real. It’s a nightmare. A nightmare made real…But it can’t be! Please, just let me wake up now. If this isn’t a dream…’ The voice trailed off, subsiding into gentle, suppressed sobs.

Kieron cocked his head to the side sceptically, and let out a dismissive snort. Lilly, herself somewhat rattled by the recording, observed his features and saw through his macho pretense; his brow was ruffled in concern. ‘What do you think it is?’ she sheepishly asked.

‘A hoax,’ he replied, almost instantly. His eyes flicked to her face, to see if she was at all convinced. She was fixated on the little black device, her hand clutching it tightly, so his guess would be: no. ‘I mean, it sounds like a pretty good hoax, this one might even have a b–’

He was interrupted by an eruption of noise from the recorder, the sounds of large, supposedly tough sheets of metal stretching and creaking under enormous pressure, and the distant but clear noise of waves lapping against the metal, coming from the tinny little speaker on the box, which added a loud crackle every five seconds or so, which Kieron quickly got used to but made Lilly start every time. The strangest thing was that the sea sounded so calm on the tape, yet the metal made sounds like it was tearing apart, which meant that something other than the sea was the cause of this poor girl’s screams, which were so piercing when they began that Kieron flinched, almost dropping the recorder in surprise.

After half a minute or so, her harsh sobbing subsided with the retching metal, and scraping wood could be heard. ‘Is it gone?’ she whispered, sniffing shortly (to remove the gunk that had probably accumulated on her face during the “crying” session, Kieron thought; Lilly didn’t think, only listened). ‘I, I, oh…God, what am I doing with this thing?’ She paused for a second and a second faint sniff came in the relative silence. When she resumed speaking, her sentence were broken and jittery, obviously in an attempt to hide her own crying. ‘I suppose, I guess if somebody finds this, that means I…please, please don’t be real…then that means I’m not around…anymore.’

Lilly, having turned suddenly pale during the earlier noise, turned to Kieron, attempting to give him a look of incredulity, but only coming off aghast. She could see that he, too had turned a different shade, but this was grey as opposed to white. She touched his right hand to steady it. It was holding the tape recorder and shaking rather alarmingly - so much so that the ambience of the recording’s background, added to the original tinniness of the tape quality, gave a bizarre effect alien to the pair, the wavering speaker and faint waves meeting as if they were normal sounds to any starship crew on an undersea voyage). His apparent dislike of her touch and subsequent forced stillness suggested to Lilly that he might be sick at any moment, and she knew he wouldn’t want that to happen near her, especially not on their first date.

Her hand still on his to instill comfort, Lilly pushed Kieron’s index finger down with her own in order to stop the tape. ‘Are you gonna puke? Because if you are, we should just get out of here. This place gives me–’

‘Don’t you want to hear it?’

‘Well…no, not really.’ Lilly bit her lip. She was never much good at lying, especially to boys. Kieron gave her the best “oh really?” face he could muster, and her cheeks turned crimson. This new-found self-consciousness led her to hurriedly take her hand from his, and as Kieron gave Lilly a wry smile and started to look better already.

But he had a suspicion, some feeling hidden in the depths of his gut, that was going to change soon enough.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he shrugged.

‘Do you want to hear the rest?’ she said, already knowing the answer and even making herself slightly more comfortable by sitting on a half-rusted beam.

‘We kind of have to, don’t we?’ said Kieron, sidling next to Lilly and placing his recorder-holding hand into hers. They looked to each other for suitable preparation, but found none.

They pressed PLAY.

Mark

July 2nd, 2009 | Tags: horror, novella, preamble, pretentious blather, prose, short story | Category: off-topic | Comments (1)

hey guys, I’m in NYC today!

I guess this is a first for the site, what with publishing some sort of travel blog or adventure of some kind! – oh wait…?

Apparently this internet is $4/hr so I’m gonna’ make this quick. Tom would say “hi” but he’s crashed out opposite me at the moment. My feet are absolutely killing me and I think I’m going to finally have to throw those “trainers like Glen’s” trainers out that I love so much. Half because all the walking we’ve done today has hurt like heck and secondly because they smell terrible. Just awful! Now I don’t have smelly feet you got to understand; at least I never used too, but it smells like a mix between underground and sweaty men’s-room floor down there. I blame the humidity, and the fact I regularly work twelve hour days without washing my feet.

We started out early, like 8am Eastern with breakfast and then train tickets. The transport guy at the hotel’s information desk said that we should head to Grand Central Station to get tickets which is great because Tom hadn’t been there and it’s quite a nice walk, what with the NY Public Library and Bryant Park and all. The nice black lady there told us that we needed to head back to Penn St Station to get our tickets. It’s funny that she told us that cos’ that’s what I thought. Grand Central Terminal serves part of the Manhattan subway and transit system for that borough of New York. We wanted tickets for Rhode Island.

On the way back we were collared by a girl from Brooklyn who needed directions. It took her longer than “Erm… we’re not from around here, so, I guess you can look at my map if you want…?” to work out our accents and after giggling a lot and getting Tommy to say “Hello?” once she was sorted and on her way. Short story, I got them later, after a detour to Times Square. Back at the hotel I gave the transport guy a look, I think he understood because I didn’t see him again all day.

We headed north for a light lunch, all the adverts on TV were telling us to loose weight and they were making me a little self conscious so I got a “dog” and we passed Times Square again on the search for a music store. I’d say shop but after today, I’m worried that you wouldn’t understand me. There is one that I’ve been too but I can’t for the life of me remember where it is on this crazy but wonderful city, it would seem that the locals don’t know either.

The cops can guess your height and age down to a tea though. Have a read of this extract that actually happened today:

If you see that one in a film you’ll know it’s one of mine. Or that I’ve been plagiarised.

As a general rule I don’t like cities. New York is not just any city. Tom said earlier today that it is the exception that proves the existence of the rule and I think that makes no sense to my human mind. I’d rationalise it like this; NYC is not a city, its beyond that, it’s somewhere between city and shopping center, somewhere between a giant restaurant and a massive toilet, somewhere between the VW Bug and the Ford F-650 Pickup Truck.

As I lie here watching the sun set on the MetLife and the skyline begin to light up it’s own silhouette with Mets game on in the background I can only say that this is New York City.

June 30th, 2009 | Category: off-topic | Comments Off

It finally happened. I have become everything I have ever hated. Let me explain: a couple of Christmases ago I received a book called “I Lick My Cheese” by Oonagh O’Hagan (good name). This was one of those novelty coffee table type books (see also: “Is Just Me or is Everything Brilliant/Shit” , “F in Exams” and etc) with the notable distinction of being rather great. Within its pages were copies of notes sent to the author’s website left by people’s room-mates. Highlights include “the washing up you didn’t do is in your bed; cheers, Al” and “I pay rent, what do you do?”.

The joy of the book is not only in the general hilarity of the notes and the consequences of their creation, but in the small but significant approximations we can make about the characters of the note-writer and the addressee. Apparently there are a hell of a lot of incredibly anal people living with a hell of lot of incredible slobs. And today I realised I am one of these two people: it’s the former.

I caught myself leaving not one, but two notes this afternoon and then noticed a third I had left last week. The first two where of similar content, requesting that once the bin and recycling bag were full, that the filler should take them out to the bins instead of relentlessly stuffing rubbish into them, causing undesirable overflowing. The third was requesting that foodstuffs (peas, rice and etc) should not be washed down the sink. I wrote this after spending a morning unblocking an overflowing drain outside. This was one of the most disgusting jobs I’ve ever done, so I felt pretty vindicated in leaving a reasonably polite notice in regard to it.

This is only recently however. I have in the past left many notes, the apex of which was probably “WASH YOUR SHIT”, which I left next to a veritable mountain of dirty pots and pans whilst in halls. Deservedly, I found a response asking whether clean excrement should go in the drawers or cupboards.

So, I ask you the reader, what annoying habits are you the recipient of, or the perpetrator of in your various living arrangements? I am aware that many of you are in home-shares and the like, surely I am not the only insufferable co-habitee out there? Anyone?

Jack

June 28th, 2009 | Tags: annoying, bad habits, bins, drains, Flat share, I Lick My Cheese, notes, Oonagh O'Hagan, roommates | Category: off-topic | Comments (2)

writing for the opposite gender is a mine-field, no matter what gender you are. In fact I should re-phrase that, ‘writing for either two genders that you are not’ is hard. A lot of the writing you do is critiqued first by your own mind and so being self-conscious of your work which we all are, however hard it is for us to admit, is a massive block to what you produce and when you’re in unfamiliar territory; like the mind of the opposite sex, it really doesn’t help.

You may write something down, or it may come to you whilst you’re writing pages and you’ll stop and look it at for a bit thinking “Would they really say that?”. You decide that they wouldn’t and it gets deleted. That happens with all your characters, or at least it should because if you’re not thinking “is that what that character sounds like?” then how can you be writing for more than one character¹? I think that’s the thing that kills me most when writing for the ladies. Don’t get me wrong, you have to be able to do it, but it is harder than writing for yourself.

John August said during a Q&A in Rancho Mirage that writers are pretty good actors too, but only in their mind, and that’s true, you should have all the characters in your head and they should look, sound and even smell different; so you need to write them different.

The other thing I’m thinking here is that most writers have a pretty good working understanding of anthropology and can pick up on the differences between people of all sex and gender. The must help with writing for the opposite sex so long as you take the same steps towards writing your guys as you would if they were the same gender as you. If I was writing a piece about basketball players, I’d want to spend some time with them² to get to know how they talk, how they construct sentences, topic control, any specific semantics, that kind of thing. If it was a WNBA³ then I’d do all that but with some tall girls, instead of tall guys. There is a difference in how men and women talk and behave, to write strong male and female characters you have to not only observe the difference, but be able to replicate it in your work. You don’t have to understand it though, just know what it is. You could spend your whole life trying to understand it.

Taking that on board, perhaps Peace and Dickens only ever came into contact with prostitutes. It has to be said, after all, they tell you to ‘write what you know’.

A great way to overcome some of those issues is to write characters that you feel comfortable with, ones you’ve seen before and ones that are less complicated. Getting into the mind of a prostitute is fairly complex, don’t get me wrong, but just to “throw in the odd hooker” here and there is way easier.

I think the strongest female lead I’ve ever written is Vicky in My Long Journey, and that’s only because I needed the audience to become as involved with her as much as James gets and to understand her and so she became as complex and as much of a lead character as James. Ellie, Maverick’s childhood sweetheart in Maverick and Slater: Dirty Shield, was another particularly strong leading lady. Sassy, loud, street-wise and still weak enough to love. The only thing is she was actually a prostitute, or at least she is working as one at the beginning of the movie. I think I just implied that there’s a lifestyle/job split with being a prostitute which is pretty awful.

Characters like Susan, Annie, Sarah, Maggie, Linda…. in fact the list is massive; they’re good characters but I suspect that you would struggle to say that they are strongest of roles. They each play their part, and we like them or loathe them when we need too but they’re there more because I needed them there to help me tell the story rather than them having an influence on it. That’s fine too, I write a bunch of male characters that do exactly the same, you have to achieve a balance somewhere though, and it’s a fine one. Glen has my Linda Seger book on characters at the moment else I would quote something from her right now.

There is one character in the Eddy film series, and she’s a female Time Ranger, they don’t get stronger than that⁴.

This started as a comment for Jack’s post below - check it out - but I figured I’d post it when it got to 700 words. The gist: writing for the opposite sex is hard enough to do in 120 minutes, I bet it’s even harder to do in a novel and you did get a scrippet out of me!

Tell your friends about the site, and follow me on twitter, we’re getting ever closer to the big event.

Ben

1. The answer is “twins”? [↩]
2. Or at least watching them on YouTube, or reading about them or something….! [↩]
3. Women’s National Basketball Association [↩]
4. It’s been too long since the last Time Ranger reference! [↩]

June 26th, 2009 | Tags: ben, character, charles dickens, check mates, David Peace, jack, john august, linda seger, Maverick and Slater: Dirty Shield, my long journey, opposite sex, the bridge, twitter, wnba | Category: Check-Matez, off-topic, playing catch-up, scrippets, the bridge | Comments (2)

Hi. Today I want to talk about David Peace. David Peace is a novelist and a damn good one at that. Peace was born and raised in Yorkshire and is now located in Tokyo. He is the author of seven published novels with his eighth being released this soon. I am discussing these books in the order I came to them.

I first became aware of Peace through the recent adaptations of his Red Riding Quartet, 1974, 1977, 1980 and 1983 (though 1977 was not adapted, making the film versions a trilogy). Having tremendously enjoyed the films, I decided to read the source texts, which were even better. The books depict the crimes of the Yorkshire ripper and paedophiles who abduct local school girls, the invariably bent police force on the various cases (and covering their own trails) and journalists covering the stories. Layer upon layer of intrigue, corruption, lies, murder, gore, twists and (eventual) revelations build up through the quartet through a web of murdered prostitutes and mutilated children. Tales as black as the night are told through apocalyptic tones in an almost biblical fashion. The books are often described as occult and despite the often quaint domesticity of setting, they truly are the stuff of hell.

Peace embodies numerous characters throughout the quartet to give stream of consciousness accounts of their experiences. This narrative style doesn’t suit everyone, but is responsible for the book’s unrelenting realism. They are the most satisfying books I have read in a long time.

Peace’s most famous and celebrated novel is the also recently-adapted The Damned Utd, which is an account of the legendary Brian Clough’s 44 day reign as manger of Leeds United. Past and future intertwine as Clough’s rise and (temporary) fall from grace are simultaneously charted. Peace paints Clough as a fascinatingly flawed hero, a brilliant but reckless and arrogant leader who is tormented by his own insatiable drives. Even I, a casual football fan at best, was immovably gripped.

By far the lightest book in Peace’s canon, The Damned Utd is nevertheless a grim character study of a very fallible, that despite his flaws, you find yourself helplessly rooting for.

Tokyo Year Zero is Peace’s latest novel and the first of a trilogy. Though set in Japan in 1946, many of the themes of Peace’s Yorkshire of the 70s and 80s are translocated to his new homeland. Police corruption, murdered prostitutes, adultery and the same impenetrable intrigue are abound in Year Zero. What distinguishes it is the sense of defeat in Tokyo. I have never read such a visceral account of an occupied nation in shambles. Peace conveys such a sense of broken subjection it is impossible not to feel sympathy for the losers of the Second World War.

Finally is Peace’s GB84, a week by week account of the year long miner’s strike in 1984. Told from several perspectives (and in the third person for the majority of it, unique among Peace’s work) we are again convincingly moved in time into a country ripped in two. A damning account of a government in a direct and sustained attack on its own people, GB84 is perhaps Peace’s most tragic tale. Heady and as detailed as a text book on the subject, Peace’s novel serves as an apocalyptic tribute to both the resilience of the striking miners and the death of socialism in the UK.

Peace’s novels are notable for their astonishingly detailed research into their various subject matters as well as their common themes of corruption, death and the lack of redemption for both sinners and innocents. A single criticism of Peace is that he has yet to write a strong female character, or at least a prominent one. His novels are very much a boy’s only club, females usually represented by (murdered) prostitutes or betrayed wives. Other than that, I would recommend his work without hesitation.

Jack

June 23rd, 2009 | Tags: 1974, 1977, 1980, 1983, Books, Brian Clough, David Peace, GB84, Red Riding, The Damned Utd, Tokyo Year Zero | Category: off-topic | Comments (2)

Hi. Today, I want to tell you how to make one of my favourite dishes, devilled chicken. I first tasted this at my godparent’s house several years ago. I wrote to them afterwards for the recipe, which they sent and my mam made for us afterwards. Since going away to university, I have been making my own variations on the recipe ever since. Devilled chicken is essentially a spicy and sweet sauce/marinade that goes well with chicken in many forms. To make it, you will need:

Method

Chop up the onion and put in a pan with the oil on a moderate heat. Add all of the ingredients and cook until the onions are soft. Stir regularly. This should take 10-15 minutes. If adding the chillis and the pepper, chop them fairly small. You can add the seeds from the chilli if extra heat is desired.

Once the sauce is cooked, allow it to cool. Depending on how much time you have, you can now marinade your chicken. I find the sauce works best with chicken fillets either chopped into bite-sized chunks or left whole. Wings also work well, but decide for yourself; you could use any meat you want, but I think chicken works best. Ideally, leave the chicken with the sauce to marinade in a container in the fridge overnight. If this isn’t possible, a good half hour or so will do, or it is possible to cook straight away.

Put your chicken and sauce in an oven proof dish and oven cook at 200 degrees for 30-45 minutes. Make sure the chicken is cooked through. Serve. I usually have roast potatoes and peas with it, but again, that’s up to you!

Bit much on one plate!

If anyone makes this dish, do tell me what you think of it. Of course, you can experiment with the ingredients and the quantities you use them in (I have been known to add a little syrup if the sauce needs sweetening) and if you think of any ingredients that might complement the recipe, let me know!

Happy eating,

Jack

June 22nd, 2009 | Tags: Chicken, delicious, Devilled, food, Recipe, Spicy, Sweet, tasty treat | Category: off-topic | Leave a comment

John Woo Versus The World

For those of you unfamiliar with Woo’s work,¹at least one of these touchstones should jog your memory: Hard Boiled, Face/Off and Mission: Impossible II. Yeah. Thought so. You’ve probably seen two of those, and aren’t quite sure what the other is - at least, going by the people in my town, anyway. I’m sure if I was in a more cultured place, I wouldn’t have a hard time filling everyone in on Hard Boiled. But here I go: Probably the high point (at least in China) in Woo’s career, it cemented both his and Chow Yun-Fat’s iconic statuses in Hong Kong Cinema, in addition to giving the ever-likeable Tony Leung a chance to shine in a support role.

Hard Boiled takes glee in having the protagonist Tequila²(Yun-Fat as the eponymously cooked cop) dispatch vast amounts of criminals with ever-more-unlikely methods, his partner Leung sometimes by his side, his pistol always gripped firmly and squeezed liberally. If there’s a warehouse full of henchmen and a bunch of not-particularly-innoccuous barrels, you know there’s going to be at least 30 villains slain, with nary a scratch on our hero.  It’s like the most satisfying action videogame ever, with the ‘infinite ammo’ cheat most definitely ON.

(Before you ask - yes, I have played Stranglehold, the spiritual [videogame] successor to the above)

This wanton and obviously completely unrealistic level of carnage isn’t uncommon in John Woo films - Early effort A Better Tomorrow II actually managed to double the body count of its predecessor, thanks to a a final, all-out action scene in a gangster’s house in which Chow Yun-Fat almost dies in an explosion. For real. Bullet In The Head naturally follows this pattern, being a war film.

Up until just recently, Woo had been floundering a little after breaking into the Hollywood consciousness with Broken Arrow and the aforementioned Face/Off, with a few misfires (Paycheck, Windtalkers) and only the occasional success (M:I2, at least commercially). So how to resolve this funk?

Go back to Hong Kong, obviously!³

So off he went, to reinvigorate himself and his films, and as a sidenote make the most expensive Hong Kong film in history ($80 million). And everything I’ve mentioned above could be considered as practice for the big game - what some might call his magnum opus, Red Cliff is, to cut to the chase, a damn good time, you’ll be glad/indifferent to know. For those who appreciate Woo’s signature balletic-but-hard action sequences, this is a little sprinkle of old mixed with a dash of new. New being that he swapped guns for swords & arrows, and modern, crime-filled Hong Kong harbours for ancient Chinese, um, harbours. Old being that there are still those bloody doves. So, having now seen the much-hyped return to form for the old master (coincidentally at the same time Wood Allen regained the approval of critics with Vicky Cristina Barcelona), is it his masterwork?

Well, I wouldn’t know, really, having only seen half the movie.

Did I walk out? It couldn’t have been that dire, right? Of course not! Here’s why: In China, because of its genuinely epic scale - the runtime hits somewhere around five hours - Red Cliff was released in two parts, the first late last year and the second early this year. But unfortunately, due to Western (read: American) suits deciding that the non-Mandarin-speaking world couldn’t possibly sit through two full-length foreign movies, regardless of whether or not that’s how the film was made to be seen. That’s half the movie we can’t see, which is surely wrong to other people? The Lord Of The Rings is one story, the films split into three parts with, what, a 12-hour total runtime?⁴Frankly, I find LOTR more than a little bloated, but if that amount of time can be dedicated to one fictional story told in English, why can’t we dedicate–in fact, scratch that, the time already has been dedicated! I repeat: You just cut out half the freaking film. Who knows how many extra sub-plots, and even characters were excised for our cut? Thankfully, Woo alumni Tony Leung does (not exactly surprising, seeing as he’s the star, but still good) and gives a measured but powerful performance as Viceroy Zhou You.⁵ But still.

The whole thing stinks, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t me.⁶Regardless, I’d definitely urge you to go see it. For half a movie, it still manages to hit the right buttons, awe-inspiring and compelling without resorting to flying sword fights among the tree tops. Frankly, you don’t really need me to tell you what to think of a film you haven’t seen - just go see it and get your own opinion!

Mark

Bit of a rant this time, I know. But I felt like it needed to be said. Let me know if any of you have seen the movie, and if so, what you thought!

My next post should have some more varied content, so look forward to that. Please?

1. Philistines! [↩]
2. Yes, he is called Tequila [↩]
3. Don’t misconstrue that. [↩]
4. Counting extended editions, of course [↩]
5. If that means anything to you? [↩]
6. Actually, it might be [↩]

June 20th, 2009 | Tags: China, Chow Yun Fat, films, Hard Boiled, Hong Kong Cinema, John Woo, Red Cliff, Suits, Tony Leung | Category: off-topic | Comments (6)

Hullo again. It is I, the dormant music journalist, but still half-burning below the surface. Oh yes. Gordon’s alive. This week I’ve been meaning to tell you about two unrelated things; good things, both. The first is the latest Junior Boys album, Begone Dull Care. The second is a webcomic called Ellerbisms. Trying to draw a nice summative link between the two has sprained all my journalistic muscles, so… here, just take it, in two dull thuds. Welcome to the internet, home of disjointed information.

So. Junior Boys are two guys, in a band, who sometimes have beards, and they bring out uncomfortable feelings in yours truly. It’s hard to explain. No, it’s not, it’s awkward to explain. A sex thing. The way the one Boy, Jeremy Greenspan, is far, far too alluring despite always looking like a hopped-up and horny member of Herman Düne in photographs. The way he does his trademark vocals - breathe, gasp, croon. And most alarmingly, to me, how this new record shunted me back in time to my ye olde Daft Punk obsession so fast I almost got whiplash. Took a few seconds to acclimatise but yup, there I was, in 2001 and crashing into teenhood and being suddenly accosted by sexy, bachelor-paddy dance music. They had a song called “Face to Face” in Discovery that was just so why-doncha-scoot-over-here-baby that I was too embarrassed to listen to it. But man was it catchy, and oh oh man was it elegantly structured. That’s what these guys seem to do, both Daft Punk and Junior Boys: they rip the beautiful skeleton clean out of otherwise cheesy songs, and polish it up nice, till all that’s left is dark, spacious, do-me electronica. The song I’m thinking of on Begone Dull Care in particular is called “Bits and Pieces” - which I’m 99% sure uses a chord progression right outta somewhere in Discovery, but it’s god damn delicious, despite/because of this. Synths melting and quivering in and out of 8-bit, close to those which Calvin Harris has been meddling with. Barely-there little funk organs keeping time. “I see you better when the lights are out”. Finger on the dimmer switch. A tiny Barry White on your shoulder instructs you what to do.

If you’ve never heard the band before, this album wouldn’t be a bad place to start, as it has yet more hooks to it than their previous, Double Shadow, and way more scope, in terms of huddling up among the instruments, welcoming delicate, eclectic new sounds in alongside The Breath and The Beeps. (Acoustic guitars! Violins!) But if you want a little history, “In The Morning” from that aforementioned predecessor is a good indicator of what the dudes are about. The original instigator of beard/sex appeal-induced computational errors in the brain. To Spotify with you! - but no, no, wait, after this, after this!

All right. Marc Ellerby. A man, without a beard, who also brings out uncomfortable feelings, lately. Different ones. Same primal side to it, maybe, same core to ourselves we are embarrassed by, but this time, right now, it’s fear, not sex. In the current story arc of his webcomic, Ellerbisms (if you can call autobiography a story), Ellerby’s thoughts are utterly corraled by the stuff. In the last month or so he made the bold move of sharing a comic about his girlfriend’s self-harm, and the obvious, heart-grating horror of it. And somehow the very colour of this black-and-white chronicle changed entirely. It was already a diamond in the webcomics rough because his style was so bloody big-eyedly affable, and his supporting cast so genuinely witty and interesting - none of those dry, Cathy-style non-events many comics (including, er, mine) feel fit to include. What was already a great little record of moments in Ellerby’s life - drawing comics, mosh pits and a cute, smart girlfriend, kind of thing - has (and here’s where I’m one, twice, three times uncomfortable) actually gotten even better since including something so sad and personal.

A couple previous reviews tried to explain this by comparison to James Kochalka’s American Elf, chalking up the splendour of his work to how his generally amusing, anecdotal daily is punctuated with his own fits of rage and melancholy, and the shit that indeed just suddenly happens, like 9/11, or his wife Amy’s miscarriage. Because of the nature of the subject here I’m more inclined to compare Ellerby to Jeffrey Brown, whose exes, as enshrined in his books, are littered with their own vices and miseries, self-harm among them. And all three artists have a simplicity of style in common that makes them all the more arresting. I suppose it’s that for a time in our childhoods we only associate cartoons with silly antics, bloodless, comedic pain, episodic resurrections of Roadrunner, Sylvester and what have you; to then see these dinky, bendy little characters slashing themselves or each other open never completely loses its horror. My friend Sarah has this opinion of Art Spiegelman’s Maus, a Holocaust memoir depicted by cats and mice, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to extend this on to Animal Farm, either. Tragedy via sweet little messengers cuts right through the paper, makes a thumb-wound.

Some will tut and call Ellerby exploitative, probably; “cannibalistic” is a word critics like, for writers who seem to reveal too much. But the real moral outrage is that it’s even an outrage to display human sadness in the first place. It’s everywhere. WORSE to censor than nudity, I’d say, as depression forms a far greater bubble round us than our naked bodies’ circumference. And we need to be able to express it without being thought of as insane or inappropriate. Or, direr still, “emo” or “attention-seeking” - yeesh, the folly of it. Thank you, Marc, for putting it in clean, beautiful black lines on clean white paper or screen. We need to fucking see it.

This doesn’t mean the sky has to fall in every week for Ellerbisms to maintain this new level of quality. It’s just different now. You can sense it. He’s fine-tuned his pacing, that slow-stepping frame by frame approach, and just the right amount of touchingly-written textual narrative. It bodes well for his possible career as a graphic novelist - not just illustrating, as he did for Jamie S. Rich’s Love the Way You Love series, but birthing the whole damn thing kicking and screaming from his head. Buy a copy of his fiction comic, Chloe Noonan, from his website while he’s still vaguely “up and coming” and not “coming over the horizon 50ft tall and drinking money from a small Lloyds TSB”.

I have made my prediction.

June 18th, 2009 | Tags: American Elf, Animal Farm, Art Spiegelman, begone dull care, calvin harris, cathy, Chloe Noonan, daft punk, discovery, double shadow, Ellerbisms, Herman Düne, in the morning, in the shadow of no towers, James Kochalka, Jamie S. Rich, Jeffrey Brown, Jeremy Greenspan, junior boys, lover the way you love, Marc Ellerby, Maus, men with beards, meryl, spotify, the beeps, the breath | Category: off-topic | Comments (3)