Social Media, Zombys and Nicky + Pierre

It seems unlikely, but I make a connection between Zombies and TikTok giants, Nicky and Pierre. No, it’s not that they’re on social media, its something else. I could have written a blog about each, but I like it when things are tied together with a common thread. 

Twitter was the first social media platform I tried, you can scroll and read my very first blog about it if you like. I was sceptical but stayed for years and I cringe when I get a twitter birthday. Today I’m active on Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, YouTube, Reddit, Discord (I know) and also here I suppose, but it’s the platform I use least. When active, I wade through a hell of a lot, it can keep me fully occupied and when life sucks, I like to be fully occupied. 

David Baddiel (@Baddiel) has a great analogy, he says that likes and retweets are the equivalent of getting a laugh. The bigger the numbers are, the louder the laugh. I can’t raise a snigger on Twitter these days, but then I’m not a comedian, and I’ve barely been on there recently anyway. Time was you could have a giggle or ask a random question and get a response. I once asked for the name of an obscure Australian dystopian film I’d seen as a kid, (the name eludes me yet again damn it). I gave the sketchiest of descriptions and a complete stranger come back with the answer. Amazing. I recently experimented with a tweet “Why does adversity breed creativity?”. Two responses came back. A genuine answer from a bestie irl (@_wordfairy_) and a lovely Einstein quote from another Foo Fighter fan I have befriended on that platform (@Whitefeet2). Other than that, tumbleweed. Maybe I didn’t phrase the tweet properly and it came across as rhetorical, or maybe I didn’t use the right hashtags. I’m genuinely interested in the answer too, oh well. Times change. My theory for why Twitter is so acerbic and harsh is that it started not with likes but with favourite stars, remember? You only favourited things you wanted to keep, so a star had to be fought for very hard. There were always those who never, ever liked, even after the hearts were introduced. Not much love there. Today other platforms are much more generous - love you TikTok and YouTube! 

One thing I’ve taken away from Twitter due to years of friendly banter is the art of the comeback, which now proves very useful on the occasional troll - remember, IF you just can’t help yourself and you’re going to answer back, do it with humour folks, and always expect ping-ponging. Twitter now seems to be a seething den of vipers that just want to venomously rant and bitch. I’m dipping a very tentative toe in again, as I like the written word and anyway, I’ve been forced to return by Eoin Macken, actor/novelist/screenwriter/director/cinematographer/cook… (GM @eoincmacken fren, I can’t resist the name drop ;-) ). He has done this mainly due to the amazing @ZombyWorld he and @RyanPotesta have dreamt up, and which their amazing team are developing. 

Run on Discord ZombyWorld uses Twitter Spaces to host AMAs for members, with invited famous guests from the world of film and music etc. and other knowledgeable bods. Where else could I possibly have gone to spend a fascinating hour with director Lee Cronin or a Lunch and Learn with the wonderful One Tree Planted (@onetreeplanted). It’s been fantastic - utter bliss, I can’t wait for more. 

You can find out about ZW and the amazing projects they’re making on their website and in the Discord, reach them via Twitter. It’s not just about minting NTFs, not by any means at all. It’s an innovative long-term project to create actual real stuff - publishing comic books, producing merchandise, even making a TV Show (omg!). At its core lies desire to discuss ecology and the environment, sharing solutions in a decentralised way among members around the world and also incorporating a collaboration with One Tree Planted’s reforestation projects. All of this covers interests that are near to my heart. I’ve chatted on ZW about film, a life-long passion and, I know it sounds unlikely, but I’ve picked up excellent gardening tips! Soon there will be rooms for writing, music and art/design - spaces to come together and create. Moderators keep things safe and there is a no tolerance policy to any form of harassment. I’m loving the warmth and friendliness in the chat rooms, everyone says Good Morning when they join in, regardless of the time wherever they are in the world, and call each other fren and fam. There is an onus on building each other up - it may even be a rule I think, and this is a beautiful thing, it truly is. I’m new to all of this and quite honestly my mind is totally blown. Yes, I’m still hanging on to Eoin’s coat tails. I’m not letting go. The longer I know him the more his talents, imagination, and creativity surprise me. He’s given me a lot over the years. 

Speaking of creativity….. 

So yeah, this is not an excuse, but if life and the news didn’t suck at the moment I wouldn’t be staring at screens so much. I find solace in viewing, be it telly, cinema or phone, all are my escape. Scrolling is a form of self-soothing, and this is how I chanced on Nicky and Pierre on YouTube at first, and thank goodness for it, what a power house of innovative, quality content! 

Blond Guy: 

“Hey Pierre. Why are French people so mean?” 

Dark Haired Guy: 

“We’re not mean, we’re honest. No, but it’s true, you don’t have to sugar coat everything. 

Like there’s too much sugar in America already, and it’s not even real sugar, it’s fake sugar. 

And just to tell you - sugar is only for macarons, ugh!” 

This was my introduction to “NiPi. Reading the above I can hear Pierre’s speak, lol. Macarons - hahaha.

I’m a Francophile and spend a lot of time there, and this astute French boy (@itspierreboo) with a glorious accent and sweet, handsome face made me laugh like a drain. His explanation is so funny and sharp, encapsulating the French/American take on each other cleverly, and correctly in my opinion. 

Who was this Pierre and his friend? I investigated further and came across a thirst trap, a freshly showered, shirtless and wet-haired @nickychampa (TT) from the point of view of his bathroom mirror, singing and shaking his head to the song ‘A Thousand Miles’ by Vanessa Miles. I guess you may not believe me if I tell you that I’m not particularly one for shirtless thirst traps, however gorgeous the drink may be. Okay, not on the whole lol, as I am but flesh and blood. But to me they are usually a ploy, clickbait, a cheap trick, and I’m put off by them. What does it for me is inventiveness and humour. So, I, er,… suffered, what,10 seconds? And then Nicky pulled out a hairdryer and used it like a microphone/wind machine. Hahaha not your ordinary thirst trap - one with added comedy. Who hasn’t done that hairdryer thing? Anyway, I thought it was a glorious punchline, watched it “several” times and poked the screen, how can I heart this more? 

Could their content be consistently good? Well God bless my anxiety - I sometimes can’t sleep and due to insomnia I discovered two individuals who are my type of people, part of that tribe who are performers, are sensitive, wear their hearts on their sleeves and who’s emotions run close to the surface: actors and all types of artists basically. They check all my boxes, namely being genuine, candid, funny, intuitive, vulnerable, naughty, fierce, brave, loyal and above all, creative. They are beautiful and also spectacularly in love with each other. They spread the love. Love is the thing. 

Their stories are totally relatable to me. They remind me so much of me and my husband, back when our relationship was a tender sapling, but they also remind me of how we are today, nothing much has changed, only that the sapling has turned into a giant oak over the years. I have a huge affinity with Pierre, I think we are very alike, we love dance, can fly off the handle dramatically, but can also be the steady rock our other half needs. We big our loved ones up at all times, have an infinite capacity to love, and if I’m not wrong, underneath that cute, angelic, naive facade lies a man of steel who, if necessary, could slap you down a peg or two with a curt word or just a look. Nicky is more like my husband, slightly cooler in temperament, also cool by definition - don’t cross this charmer though, he bites… but at the same time, he’s sensitive, talking sense when Pierre worries, he’s enormously loving and a proper softy. Both seem terribly kind. Nicky is more enigmatic to me, and I’m curious, consequently I’m attracted to him like a freaking magnet. 

Of course they are hugely talented, and successful with over 24 million TikTok followers between them. Its mad and frustrating that even in this day and age there are people, young and old, struggling to come out, being afraid to be unsupported by family and friends. ‘Coming out’ should no longer be a thing, but for so very many it is, and Nicky and Pierre’s wonderful relationship is a thing for all to aspire to, they are role models, not just for the LGBTQ+ community, but for all. They are also actors, and I suspect film-makers to be. So if TV and film aren’t on the cards, like very soon, and they don’t sky rocket in that field too, I’ll eat my hat. I had exactly the same feeling with Eoin years ago - my hat is intact, and you can’t see Eoin for dust. 

The NiPi Fam is international and supportive and I’m so happy to be part of it. We meet live on YouTube on Sundays for chat and the premiere of the next Nicky and Pierre video who also join in with us. It’s a fest of ‘hello’s’ and ‘love yous’ and a blanket of joy. I won’t mention the members by name, cos it’ll only turn into Sunday lol, but I’m waving and saying ‘Love yoooooou!!!”. You know who you are. 

I will however mention two other outrageously talented creatives I’ve met through this global family, and they are Perry Picasshoe (@art_p3rry) and Yiwol (IG: @nipifanart.yiwol/ T: virgo091213) Both are ridiculously talented and prolific artists. Perry takes the time to acknowledge every single comment I send - I can’t get over it. If you don’t know him, please, please check him out. His talent and ambition will carry him far, he’s another polymath of art. Invest in him now. 

I say absolutely the same for Yiwol in whom I think I’ve found a friend for life. Her NiPi art gives me just as much joy as the actual thing! Not a day goes by where we don’t tell each other how much we love and appreciate each other. She is my soulmate in Seoul, and I can feel the love in London, and well, she makes my day, everyday. Because she gets it. 

Whatever the medium you use, there’s an element of the creator in every single character you draw. In ZombyWorld I see Eoin in Jason, Nichole, Gina and Ian (and all the characters in the novels and screenplays he has ever written - prolific so-and-so). He has created a warm-hearted universe, as safe as can be made, with love at the centre. And Zombys. (Can I have an antidote please….?) 

I don’t know Nicky and Pierre personally at all, but I feel that I do. I’m sensing a shift in their output. It’s subtly edgier, slicker, with several TikToks heavy with subtext. I love this. I’m all about the subtext. The clues are there if you look. As is the abundant love. 

Nicky and Pierre have been my inspiration for creating TikToks which fulfils my desire to create and perform. I could never have started without them, and I’m so grateful to them because I’m having a total blast. I’m a goner for everyone I’ve mentioned, I’m unashamedly in love with them all. If you win me over, my love is bottomless and endless, I’m here to stay. Apologies for the gushing outpouring of feelings here, specifically to the stiff upper lipped anglo folk haha. Its just how this Spanish-blooded girl functions. Eoin’s used to this I’m afraid - besides he’s a romantic Irishman, so it’s in his nature too. And Nicky and Pierre, well they ARE love and hand it out all the time, so I’m giving some back. 

Love, of course, is the connecting tread that runs through ZW and N+P, and we all need love, specially in these dark times. We need to share it more now than ever. Not just because of what’s happening with a pandemic kicking its heels for too long before leaving, not just because of the horror happening in the Ukraine, but because of the atrocities happening in so many countries all over the world, and the assault the human race is firing upo_n defenceless nature and our beloved planet. 

Spread the love, its good karma, and inevitably, you get some back. And who doesn’t want that? 

Hearts, flowers and lollipops to my Kings and Queens. Keep spreading the love. Never stop. 

This Queen-ager loves you and always will. 

Carmen

Twitter: @RonniPudding (ZW - Raven)

IG: @thecloudcuckoo

TikTok: @carmen_thecloudcuckoo

"Call Me By Your Name" and What the Hell is Going On with Me?

Attention: Contains spoilers.

This film preoccupies my mind more than it should.  Actually, that’s a tremendous understatement, the truth is I’m obsessed with it - I’m spectacularly lost!  I can’t remember how many times I’ve watched it over the last 4 months and when I’m watching it, it’s truly like I’m there, living it.  When I’m not watching, I just want to go back to it as soon as I can, and until I can return I live in it in my daydreams - rent free.  I’ve recently discovered that I’m far from alone in my reaction to CMBYN and this is a comfort because, yes, I’ve been wondering if this was my midlife crisis.  A better explanation might be that it’s a coping mechanism for me right now.  Of course, it might be neither of these reasons.  It could be that, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve stumbled across The Perfect Film (cue chorus of angels).  Writing this is to do with catharsis and trying to work out the reasons why I CANNOT stop watching this film.  The following is how it happened. 

In the surreal time between the recent death of my mother and the day of her funeral, when it was hard enough to keep breathing, let alone get out of bed and function in a normal way, I sought distraction and escape from the numbing loss in the only thing I thought might help me: film.  On this occasion there had been none of the usual trawling through the ocean of available movie titles. I closed the shutters, got under a throw and flicked on the telly. I cast out an imaginary fishing line and promptly netted ‘Call Me By Your Name’.  There was no rhyme or reason for this choice, I just saw the title, pressed play, and jumped in. 

A few moments later I was transported to a familiar continental setting backed with the sound of crickets and birdsong.  This, and the mixture of languages spoken, recalled my childhood holidays and roused memories of summers in the Spanish countryside, and of course forced to mind the memory of my departed parents. I now realise that what makes becoming an orphan even more painful is that when you lose your remaining parent you not only mourn them, you also mourn the loss of the first parent all over again.  You double down on your mourning - it’s obscene.

  

The protagonists are introduced to each other: “Elio, Oliver. Oliver, Elio.”  Elio is a brooding teenager. Oliver is older and an adonis.  The film is told from Elio’s perspective, and as with every good film, CMBYN draws you in in a way that means more than just being a voyeur.  If the film is particularly good you mentally take on the mantel of one of the main characters and you live the film through that person. I am Elio.   

Oh the sights and sounds of CMBYN! Everything I loved and remembered about the heady summertime days of my teenage years were playing out in front of me - the al fresco eating; the clatter and chatter of putting the world to rights at the dining table; being thrown together with strangers which at first is uncomfortable, but then things change; the bewildering feelings brought on by the first pangs of desire; the heat; coming to terms with your deep obsession; river and lake swimming; braving the dance floor and giving yourself up to music under the stars; dancing near, but not with them; the yearning of wanting something to happen but being afraid to show it for fear of rejection; being overly abrupt and awkward towards the one you long for, not wanting to be found out, yet equally wanting to be found out; the confusion; the utter resignation that you are lost to your obsession day after long summer day, and nobody else - however charming and attractive they may be - nobody, but the object of your fantasy can save you. 

The film’s theme is the trials and tribulations on the journey to a first love that is deeply reciprocated. I welcomed this gratefully, sweeping it up and wrapping it around me like a warm blanket.  The film is told from Elio’s perspective and you cannot help falling in love with him, even though he is petulant and obnoxious.  I related so wholeheartedly to Elio’s struggles, specially the words not spoken between him and Oliver. This is a language extraordinarily identifiable and familiar to me. As a lovelorn teen I was fluent in this dialect as well as English and Spanish.  There’s a pivotal moment in the film when Elio’s mum reads out the story of The Knight and The Princess from the Heptameron in which the Knight wonders, when it came to the love he felt for the Princess, is it “better to speak or to die?”. For some reason this hit me like a sledgehammer.  Back in the day I’d never spoken up - things just played out over time, or simply passed me by.  Now of course I didn’t have to think about it, of course it’s better to speak! Life is short! There is no time to waste! With death you realise this more acutely than at any other time. 

I watch as Elio takes the ‘speak or die’ mantra and acts upon it:

Elio: “If only you knew how little I know about the things that matter.”

Oliver: “Why are you telling me this?”  

Elio: “Because I wanted you to know.” 

What unfurls is a tender and beautiful thing with not a cliché in sight. For both characters, its about struggling with first time situations and feelings and is relatable to anyone who has ever been in love or who wants to find love, and anyone who can remember what it is like to be besotted.  The film gets it right: it feels messy and real. I’m sure many can relate to Elio’s experience of when finally, perhaps to his disbelief, what he has desired for so long finally happens, he wakes the next day and the joy he thought would last forever has suddenly dissipated to be replaced by confusion once more.  Why?  

Author André Aciman and film director Luca Guadagnino have created a relatable world that has tapped into a universal commonality.  Nothing is more relatable than love, nothing is more heartbreaking than unrequited love, and I think this accounts for the vast fan base that exists for this story world-wide.  This love story picks you up, carries you along, delights you, then chews you up and spits you out.  You are left churned up with emotion, and yet, at the same time you know that what you have witnessed is something beautiful that will stay with you forever. 

I applaud the creators but especially Luca Guadagnino for crafting the telling of this story so perfectly with a rare, subtle sensuality that rocks you to the core. He concentrates on the smallest things that other directors rarely do: a lingering closeup of a small caress to the hand, a toe tentatively reaching for the other’s toe - these details are so much better than a full-on banging coupling.

I’m constantly amazed that with every watch I pick up on something new and wonderful, maybe from the set up of the shot, or the dialogue or just from the wonderful performances. Of course I’m also in awe of the phenomenal actors. I love every churned up emotion that flickers and plays over Elio’s face - no words are needed - I could write a whole piece on Timothée Chalamet’s superlative ability.  Equally I’m in awe of the effective mask crafted by Armie Hammer’s Oliver which skilfully leaves us guessing as to his emotions.  For the majority of the film he is cold fire, and totally unreadable. I love the moment Oliver steps into the glacial water at the berm and gasps “Its freezing!”.  The shock of the cold rips away the façade he wears and his exclamation is in fact the first totally unguarded, honest thing that he’s said to Elio up until that point in the film. From then on, the mask begins to melt away, not without a struggle, but ultimately completely and beautifully. You have waited to read this feelings for so long, that when we are at last allowed to see them, they are beautifully and skilfully presented.  Again I say bravo. 

I have to mention the stunning monologue given by Michael Stuhlbarg who delivers astounding words that we should all live by.  They are so heartfelt and wonderful that you hold your breath whilst listening to them.  At this moment in time, he spoke the words I needed to hear, but I will not sully them by repeating them now. Suffice to say I realised I was quietly sobbing by the end of it. André Acimen's and James Ivory's words, with Michael Stuhlbarg's marvellous delivery affected me incredibly deeply, they woke me from my numbed stupor and made me feel again.  This film has changed me forever, for the better. 

Another theme of the story, and this includes the original book and the so-called sequel "Find Me" (which is actually more of a postscript) is to do with loss, revisiting the past, and recalling those you love.  This is all something that again is poignantly relatable to me at this moment in time.  Is this is a trigger for my obsession?  Again no,  I think it is sheer coincidence that I’ve discovered a film that moves me immensely at a time when my emotions are already raw.  Aciman makes a huge deal of time and ageing and dwelling on the past.  In Find Me he talks about Elio and Sami’s ‘vigils’ - the visiting of sites which reminded Elio of Oliver, his first, deepest and lost love.  After my mum’s passing I felt a need to go back to my childhood home, and so I dropped everything and did just that. I hadn’t been back in years, but the pull was strong, exactly like some ritualistic pilgrimage, I needed to be close to the past and what had once taken place with the people I loved.  This made me totally understand the vigils Elio undertakes. I’m coming up to a ritual of my own in a few weeks time - seeing the magnolia tree outside Kenwood House in full bloom.  This will from now on be my vigil in memory of my parents.  

I think I’ve said enough.  I think this is the messiest piece of writing I’ve ever posted.  But 

I wanted the process of writing it to be cathartic, and it has been.  This has taken me ages to put down and has gone through many, many changes and forms, but I’ve worked it out now.  It’s quite simple: I’m sad and somehow ‘Call Me By Your Name’ has given me another focus and helped me through the worst of times.  It has indeed been a coping mechanism, which I feel I won’t need forever.  I will never get over my loss, but it will get better.  I will continue to watch CMBYN until I don’t need to anymore.  However, for reasons of the sheer joy that it gives me, I don’t think that will be any time soon. I’m so grateful for this film and its makers, and I confess, like Elio, I’m in love. I’m in love with the perfect film. 

   20 March 2020. Picture of my 'vigil'.  

Although I have never been to Crema, today in the midst of the madness and death going on in the world, my heart is there and other hotspots around the globe. 

Isaac Gracie - EartH Dalston - 26 Nov 18

Isaac Gracie is funny. It isn’t comedy night, but he gets a laugh out of the EartH audience in Dalston as he holds up his arms and looks down at the vintage top he says he’s invested in especially for this, the final night of his current tour. Being quite long, he wonders whether the top looks a bit like a dress. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind until he says it, but ha-ha yes, it is long and dress-like, in a cool sixties, The Monkees type way. I like it. He looks mighty fine and I admire a person who has distinct style and carries themselves with confidence. I believe ‘confidence’ is the operative word for the night.

The last time I saw Isaac Gracie live was almost seven months ago, in April at the sold out Hackney Empire (see previous entry). In short, back then I was smitten by his vocal talent and incredibly well crafted songs and bewitched by his other worldliness. That gig confirmed what a highly accomplished songwriter he is, but I also felt excited by the sense that this guy was on the threshold of something bigger than the Empire. Promise is a very heady thing, and that promise, I’m happy to say, is being converted into a tangible return.

There’s been a marked change in the man’s set and performance since the spring. What the hell happened? Everything seems to have been tweaked and tightened up. The band doesn’t shuffle on - they make an impressive entrance through smoke and lights to the tune of a swelling celestial choir. What a devine way to arrive! (Note for IG for next time: could you add the smell of church incense please? You may guffaw, but wouldn’t it be gorgeous?) Gracie gets stuck right in, moving around the large stage, sizing it and us up. This isn’t just a showcase for his songs, this is full blown performance. He is charged, giving his best, tearing his thumb on his guitar strings. Adrenaline prevents him from even noticing the blood.. The guy owns the place - his voice seems more assured, louder even, and it fills the venue hitting the ceiling and bouncing off the back of the auditorium. 

In a lineup of solely self-written songs, there’s no space for covers now. The running order of songs is perfectly pitched with ass-kicking highs and heart stopping lows, all in exactly the right place. The new additional songs for his first album are more upbeat, but equally as heartfelt and passionate as the first batch. IG’s songwriting has shifted too, notably in a brand new song I think is called Little Blue House. This song hits us between the eyes. I’d never heard it before, and as with all of his lyrics, Gracie can beautifully translate his feelings into a language we can all relate to. This song conveys an acerbic tone, one which points a finger and says “Oi! I sussed you out!” It is strong and mighty and deliciously cathartic. More! I need to hear it again and sing it loudly on a roadtrip! 

Ending with an invitation to sing along to the beautiful Last Words - a song that is rapidly becoming his Everlong - I realise that a summer of gigging and hard graft has helped Gracie evolve and grow in stature and confidence.  The stage is his home, he smiles as we sing his words and we all bask in his glow. 

Yeah, it was an alright night. ;) 

Isaac Gracie Review. Hackney Empire 26 April 2018

Having been enjoyably warmed up by a lounge-suited and powerfully voiced Matt Maltese (who could probably write and deliver a half decent Bond theme my companion surmised - praise indeed), I contemplated how Isaac Gracie, an accomplished songwriter on record, would come across live. His musical style is a beautiful mixed curiosity, and last Thursday at the Hackney Empire I was delighted to observe that his audience is too.

It's appealing to feel part of a tribe, and the Isaac Gracie party, like his music, is an eclectic one which is both relatable and inclusive. I like it. People are easy to talk to and will tell you, with some passion, how they first discovered ig and what song they first heard. Mine was “Terrified” it was an instant love on first hearing thing and, quite literally and amazingly, the same thing happened over again with each subsequent song I heard. For the ‘analogue’ among us, no one is afraid of buying the vinyl, you know the needle will stay on, from edge to label, times two. On digital, everyone has him on loop. The shared connection is a funny, wonderful thing.  

I cast an eye over the gathering crowd and saw a wonderfully diverse bunch. Not wishing to be robbed of personal identity, many shun a uniform. But the human race is a fickle breed and when it comes to gathering for a gig, consciously or unconsciously, we tend to show our alleigence to an artist by mirroring them, or simply wearing the t-shirt. Over the balcony below, just as I expected, were young girls, wearing floaty seventies retro with long Rossetti tresses parted in the middle, channeling the man they'd come to see. Standing shoulder to shoulder with them were almost an equal number of blokes and a full gamut of ages which made up a composed and expectant mosh. The Gracie appeal is wide and I hazard a guess that, like the Texan we got talking to post gig, the growing throng contained a higher than average number of once broken-hearted. (Chase: if you're reading this, she was mad to let you go, you're going to be fine. Ask that actress out.)

ig took to the stage resplendent in heeled boots, red flares and a red flowered top. I couldn't help thinking that he'd dressed like a young Robert Plant crossed with, well, the venue we were sitting in actually - the Hackney Empire, beautiful and crimson! Between songs, as he thanks us and tells us about seeing Russell Brand here once, the impression is there is something intrinsically likeable about him, there is a transparent shyness and a warmth that escapes him and simply charms. So unlike Robert Plant, ig comes across as more self-deprecating flamingo than full blown strutting peacock.  

"All In My Mind" was the heart-on-sleeve opening number that instaintly drew me in, had me sitting forward, hanging on his every word. It took but a matter of a few lines to confirm that the talent shown in his recordings could be replicated beautifully and skilfully live. He was aided in the majority of the numbers with a backing band numbering two, both expert in their roles, and as is the case with all truly excellent musicians and a receptive atmosphere, live can surpass the recordings. And so it did. I was blissfully hooked and willingly reeled in ever closer throughout the concert by the gift of that expressive voice.

ig's vocals and wonderful songwriting have already been noticed and lauded by the great and the good. All his songs contain poetic lyrics that are from and about the heart. His tender words are delivered in a range covering all bases, from the sorrowful and cracked "Love Ain't Always So Good" (the crowed barely breathed throughout the entire song) to the full blown bang-it-out rock, as in the chorus of the histrionic "Death of You and I" - an epic rollercoaster of a story that dips a toe into bosa nova and Latin. There are moments of showmanship that break through in this song, but I'm not going to spoil it for you here. These two songs alone demonstrate the diversity of the guy and yes, he has proven a consummate writer for the lovelorn, but also brings shades of the more commercial, as in soothing "Telescope" and "Running on Empty" which defies you not to join in with the chorus. 

ig closes the set with an encore and the appropriately named 'Last Words'. Dare I venture to call this song a classic? Yes I do. I love it so, and as a feminist and lover of men who carry the flame for us, the lines "if you only want the woman you saw on TV, then your eyes are open but you just can't see" makes me want to sing them out aloud - which I happily do, because I have been politely invited to do so. Thank you Isaac.

Who can tell where ig will lead us next? More tear jerkers or more showy numbers? I hope not just in one direction (no pun intended). I hope he will remain as humble, diverse and as curious as he is today. One thing is for sure, he is only going up, and where he goes I will follow. I feel comfortable and totally at home in his tribe. 

Me and Foo

For the past three months or so I’ve been taking inspiration for my writing from the Foo Fighters, but until now, I haven’t actually written about the band itself. Here goes.

My writing process has meant immersing myself in the entire Foo Fighters output, some of which helps transport me back to inhabiting the skin of my twenty-something self, and all of which has been a source for moulding characters, personalities and situations. I’ve relished this system and it hasn’t been a case of having the Foos tinkling in the background while I tap out a chapter (I don’t actually think that's possible). What I mean is I’ve been listening intently to the lyrics, just like I used to hang onto the words of The Beatles when I was 12, listening and making up stories in my head. Sometimes I’m not sure if the music brings me the story, or if the story fits the music. Whatever it is, it works for me. 

To look at me, you'd probably never guess I'm pounding the London pavements with ‘White Limo’ blaring on my headphones, or ‘Good Grief’ or ‘The Sky is a Neighbourhood’. I expect you’d see me as mumsie, approachable and probably into James Blunt. No. When the kids watch 'Monsters University' they laugh at Sherri Squibbles, the death-metal loving mum, they point at her and look at me - "that’s you that is", they say. Sigh. I don’t mind, I’m resigned. But I will have you know I don’t wear curlers or a floral dressing gown, but “does anyone need gum?” 

Of course in my head I’m still the fresh faced girl who wiped off the heavy 50s-inspired eye makeup, pulled on the combat trousers and quite literally gave herself whip-lash, head-banging to ‘Breed’ with her mate Paul. Nirvana felt dangerous and sexy and attracted both genders. A couple of girlfriends who were equally into Nirvana back then also liked bands like Stone Temple Pilots and Soundgarden. But in my circle no one (male or female) but me progressed to the Foo Fighters. Until ‘Learn to Fly’ of course. 

I've loved listening to the tracks I've not heard for a while, the whole exercise is a joy, an absolute blast. I’ve concluded that David Grohl needn't write a memoire, although I dearly wish he would as he’s a born raconteur. His life story is all there in the songs: pain, sex, loss, love, sex, resolve, joy, hate, sex, glory, self-doubt, wonderment, melancholia and sex, all in chronological order. Did I mention sex? Is it just me, my interpretation? Isn’t sex the bedrock of, er, rock? Dave bangs hard, we all know that, but he is also a contemplative songwriter. I can’t write poetry and lyrics kill me. I can’t distill a thought or feeling down to its very essence like he does. I’m not here to give examples, fans will know what I mean. If you don’t already know, go and take a listen. 

There’s a novel in all of us, so it goes, and of course I dream of my own ISDN number and the all important cover to be judged on, but I have no illusions that what l’m writing is worthy of printing. Mostly I’m writing just to see if I can. I’m muddling through, trying to create and, no, I don’t want to go to a creative writing class, I read a lot and I just want to figure it out for myself. 

The following thought makes me laugh: if my life were a well-thumbed book, the places where the spine would be cracked and where the pages would voluntarily fall open, would be in the chapters covering the 90s to mid-00s. Things were so exciting. The soundtrack to that magical era is an eclectic, varied one, covering all genres contemporary to the time and from all the preceding 20th century musical epochs. I can think of very few artists whose output has spanned the two decades plus since that time, and fewer still that I’ve kept up with and in fact grown up with. But  many of my life’s significant events have had the Foo Fighters as a backdrop. Nine albums in the bag and still going strong.

Now I have a whole new album to help me write! And with the rest of their discography fresh in my mind, I’m irritated to read reviews of Concrete and Gold that say its just more of the same old Foo Fighters. Firstly, if it were, I’d be fine with that. Secondly, no, no, no, it’s the biggest shift in sound they’ve ever made. I’ve also heard some people coming from a opposite stance saying they don’t like the change. To counteract that, I say embrace change, its the only constant in life you can rely on happening. Who wants to be staid and stand still? Diversity is good too, mixing it up is pretty. (The temptation to get political here is strong but I’ll rein it in.) The same goes for what you create. I suppose you can’t please all the people can you? And musical taste is a very personal thing. 

For me Concrete and Gold is wonderfully different to past Foo Fighters albums. It wasn’t made at home in Dave Grohl’s garage or his super-duper 606 Studio. It was recorded at legendary East West, produced by pop guy Greg Kurstin. Yes, pop. I love the result, the change is not one I’ve had to work at to like. It suits me, I like Dave’s tracked up vocals, I like the intertwining melodies and the fuller layers of instruments and BVs. The Foo sound on this is lusher, fleshier and more harmonic than ever. This makes it huger, I don’t mean in a thump-your-way-through-it type way, the banging on this is more subtle, maybe cleverer even. On the whole the feel of the record is thoughtful and melancholy with an overriding theme of ‘what the hell is happening in the world?’, which I think at least half of the planet can relate to right now. This record hangs together brilliantly and flows easily from track to track in the style of a concept album of old. I love that Concrete and Gold makes me want to lie in green grass staring at the stars. 

So not everyone likes this new record, and you know, that’s OK. I don’t like everything the The Beatles ever did and they are the best band that ever were (I will fight you on this one). ‘Octopus’s Garden’ reviles me, and don’t give me ‘Savoy Truffle’, I’ll only tell you where to put it. I don’t like ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’ (I’m ducking here) and there’s more than one area on my old White Album vinyl that is still as glossy as the day I bought it. But I love The Beatles just as passionately, possibly more so, as the ‘flaws’ only help the brilliance stand out. However, again, its all a matter of personal taste.

I love that this band like that they are viewed by some as a, wait for it…. ‘Dad Band’. What impresses me is that they don’t stand still or exploit their past glory. Maybe what keeps creative people going is the fact that they’re never fully satisfied with what they create. They constantly strive to reach some sort of artistic nirvana (forgive me), where everything formed is a perfect representation of what they imagined when they first set out. I think we all do that, I hope so, just keep moving forward. 

I know that its important for the Foo Fighters to write songs that can be replicated well in concert. Run works live, so does Sky and La Dee Da. Not all fans will agree, but I think it would be exiting to have more experiments, even more risk taking. I want more Taylor Hawkins vocals and Dave on drums. I want Shifty up front and centre too (do it). I always want Pat - the epitome of state-side punk. And Mendel? Oh, I’m a bass player lover and the guy has hidden depths. He likes February Stars - left-field? Not at all. It has a killer baseline and a freaking firework display at the end. Give me Rami giving the band more layers. Give me more. Never stop. Ever. I just hope that by the time the next record comes out I won’t need any more writing inspiration! I want to be done, done, on to the next one. 

By the way, I can’t pick a favourite new Foo song, I love them all for different reasons, but ‘Run’ was a genius choice for first single as it covers everything a Foo Fighter fan might desire: pretty buildup, punk shouty bit, melodic release, and who in their right mind could refuse Dave’s invitation to run with him? Not me. Pulls on trainers.

Arlandria - 3. Rosemary

A Backstory

There were some mornings when, before she opened her eyes, Rosemary could sense Steve's presence even though she had not seen him in two years. She felt his warmth envelope her and an invisible connection would tug and pull at her until she surfaced from sleep. On mornings such as these, she would rather surrender to the memory of him than face the pain and bewilderment of his disappearance, which always lay just below the surface of everything. She told herself over and over that she was one day closer to seeing Steve again. 

But the day Rosemary’s baby was stung by a bee, was the day Rosemary gave up on Steve, the love of her life. The sound of her daughter's cries made her feel like someone had ripped Rosemary open, reached deep inside her and squeezed her vital organs. She had never felt such a visceral and excruciating pain.

Of course she'd fallen in love with her newborn the moment the midwife had placed Arlandria in her arms. Rosemary was delirious with pain and exhaustion, but mostly with the wonderment of the tiny pink thing that lay quietly at her breast, black eyes wide open, staring sagely back at her. What had been growing inside her as part of her very being for nine months, was now on the outside, unattached, an entity in her own right. Rosemary found this incomprehensible and trembled at her little baby's vulnerability, wanting to protect her fiercely, forevermore.

Rosemary held Arlandria close, torn between joy and despair. "It's just you and me for now sweet thing. But not forever, Daddy will find us, he is part of us."

There were times when Rosemary fought from sinking into a deep blue depression, however her saving grace was that she came innately well-equipped for motherhood, taking in her stride everything that having a newborn entails, including having her life turned upside down. Thankfully Arlandria was as easy as a newborn could be, she fussed when she was hungry but slept like an angel. This allowed Arlandria time to get on with her life designing jewellery from a workshop at the bottom of her garden, close to Hampstead Heath. She rented this and the adjoining basement flat from an eccentric widow, Dorothy - known as Dot, who in truth needed the company more than she needed the rent.

In the garden, under the bows of a giant horse chestnut tree, stood a sturdy World War II prefab which overlooked a row of mews buildings behind, housing more craft folk and artisans. The place where Rosemary felt most at home was within the hessian covered walls of the workshop. The light poured in from the North and the East and Rosemary drew sketches and made prototypes while Arlandria slept soundly in her Moses basket. Dot would make Rosemary builder's tea and sit with them. When she wasn't cooing over Arlandria, Dot played patience at a fold-away card table, pondering the game, tapping on the Waddington's cards with her immaculately manicured fingernails. Rosemary loved the sound of the tap-tapping and the crackling of ice in Dorothy's pink gin, always resting by the cards, regardless of the time of day.

Rosemary's talent for design had been spotted early during her very first show at Goldsmiths. She'd received commissions even before she'd finished college and delivered designs and pieces well before her graduation results arrived. She always was the lucky one and had been regularly commissioned by a buyer from Liberty since that first Goldsmith's show. This client alone allowed her the ability to employ a small workforce at the production stage and meant that she lived comfortably.

By the time Arlandria was four months old Rosemary had designed and made a ring that she planned to give her daughter once she was old enough to wear it. She wanted her to understand what the ring represented. It was made of two differing shades of gold entwined together to make the band that lead  seamlessly to the top of the ring where the hexagonal shapes of the stones from the Giant's Causeway were formed. It was on these slippery stones that Rosemary had met and fallen in love with Steve, Arlandria's father. At that time she had been travelling around Ireland gathering inspiration and ideas for a collection influenced by nature and celtic design. They started to talk about the surreal landscape and ended up wasting away a day together, walking side by side with their hands stuffed deep inside their pockets, each fearing that if they took them out they might high-dive into the other's arms. And what if the other didn't feel the same way?

It had been a whirlwind affair, both of them being swept along, recognising a connection that was stronger than a shared love of bands or books or political ideals. Their attraction was primitive and ardent and left them depleted of surplus energy to exert on anyone but themselves. They rode a wave of fervour for a couple of months, travelling the country around the coastline, and finally ending up in Dublin. 

Rosemary was tangled up in her love and desire and felt no need to return to London. They settled in the capital for a few months, Steve worked in bars and Rosemary found a workshop from which she fashioned mock ups and posted them back to Liberty and other clients for approval. She loved their domesticity and couldn't wait to run home to Steve, or until he fell through the door and into bed after a long shift. 

Eventually there was no option but to return back to London to honour work commitments and she was relieved and overjoyed when Steve suggested he move back with her.

Rosemary headed home first, and on the day of Steve's arrival, spent the time scrubbing the flat clean. 

"Good Lord Rosemary darling, who the hell are you expecting? Royalty?" Her hippy landlady and surrogate mother could not believe the sterile state of the place. Dorothy wrinkled her nose at the smell of disinfectant. "Really Rosie darling, I spent very good money on a professional deep clean before you took the place on, and I swear it's cleaner now than it was on the day you moved in!" Out of the pocket of her vintage 1970s wide-legged trousers she pulled out a packet of Player's Filterless along with an ebony cigarette holder. Dot fancied herself as Dorothy Parker. She lit up, wafting clouds of smoke about in the hope of covering the stench of Dettol. "He arrives at three-ish doesn't he?" Rosemary nodded, opening the garden door to let out the plumes of smoke. "Good. Plenty of time to tell me all about him." She eyed Rosemary conspiratorially. "Now then, what's he like between the sheets?"

Three o'clock came and went, as did four, five and six o'clock. Dorothy reluctantly returned upstairs, loathing having to leave Rosemary alone and upset. Rosemary sat on the sofa, rocking. What had happened to Steve? Her efforts to locate him had all drawn blanks. The airline would relinquish no passenger information at all, the hospitals had no one by his name, and all her old Dublin landlord could tell her was that Steve had packed-up, paid up and left no forwarding address. Mystified and distraught she cried herself to sleep. She cried all of the next day, in-between straining to hear the doorbell. 

The day after that she didn't wake up until the afternoon. The postman delivered and Rosemary's heart jumped into her mouth. She ran to the door and on the floor lay a letter addressed to her in Steve's handwriting. Rosemary went numb and she sank to the doormat, her ears ringing. Why had he written and not come to her? Not good. Not good. How had she read the situation so badly? They had shared so much and she felt it had been real, genuine, passionate. How could she have been so wrong? Suddenly her despair turned to anger and she didn't know whether to burn the letter or tear it open.

She tore it open.

Dear Rosemary

I can't explain why I can't come to you. Nor do I know when I'll be able to do so.

Rosemary - you're part of me. please pardon me.

I love you,

Steve

Rosemary didn't surface for four days and Dot could not bare to see her so low. She adored the girl who had woken a latent maternal instinct within her. She called her doctor to visit Rosemary at home and was unsurprised to hear he believed she was having anxiety attacks. He also suggested Dot go to the chemist, he couldn't be sure, but a pregnancy test would prove his suspicions one way or another. 

Together, with the help of their friends, and with a quiet hope that Steve would appear, Rosemary and Dot managed to get through the next seven months. Dot brought Rosemary and the new baby home, made sure all their friends knew about the birth and organised a naming party. Arlandria grew up fast,  bonny and bright and Rosemary saw Steve's features reflected in her every hour of the day. 

One morning while pushing Arandria in her buggy under the London plane trees that lined the fringes of the Heath, Rosemary was suddenly stunned into almost complete inaction by the inhuman sounding cries that burst from her toddler at an ear piercing volume. She could barely function and accepted a stranger's help to inspect the toddler. "I think I may have seen a bee or wasp fly away." said the kind woman. Together they inspected each of the chubby exposed limbs while trying to calm the child. Sure enough they found a welt on her thigh that seemed to swell before their eyes. Suddenly Arlandria stopped her screaming and went limp.

The Royal Free Hospital was some two hundred meters away and something in Rosemary clicked into place, she shook off the stupor that had almost paralysed her, and sprinted to A&E.

The NHS staff were efficient, evaluating the situation in a matter of moments and immediately administered medication for anaphylactic shock. Once Arlandria was made comfortable and Rosemary had also begun to recover from the trauma, the doctor calmly explained that it had been touch and go. Rosemary let the doctor's words sink in, knowing that both she and her girl would forever live in fear of another sting and the after affects. 

During the episode something inside Rosemary shifted and she realised she had to make a change in herself. No longer could she live on the tenuous hope of Steve's return, nor the longing of sharing whatever life threw at them together as a family unit. The dreaming had to end, she knew it was time to walk life's lonely road on her own. 

Rosemary and Dorothy will appear in Arlandria.

Foo Fighters songs: Dear Rosemary, Cold Day in the Sun, Still.

Arlandria - 2. Mark

Mark’s chiselled knees poked out from the rips in his washed-out skinny jeans, the tears and fraying led all the way up his thighs. Even though it was twilight, he moved up the High Street in his aviators checking out the women undetected as they spilled out of the tube station. The prominent Standard headline screamed fire and brimstone, but Mark didn’t notice. This was not due to his sunglasses, but because he had no interest in headlines. The Pussy Cat Lounge’s doorman Frank saw Mark making his way up the hill, walking to the rhythm of the beats banging through his headphones. When he arrived, the door was conveniently held open and Mark flashed Frank a smile of recently bleached pearly whites. Frank’s acknowledgement was reserved.

Mark didn’t know everyone, he just knew the ‘right’ people. So, even though he’d never seen her before and hadn’t introduced himself, he got to know her name within about a minute of having spotted her on the dance floor. He’d surreptitiously taken a photo on his phone and distributed it to his mates. Jake’s phone had pinged and as he was in the club too, he sauntered over to Mark, bumped fists with him and leant in to divulge the name right up close to Mark’s ear:

“Arlandria.”

Mark’s mind slipped away to a place in the country. He lay under a willow tree in the lush grass and warm dappled light. Arlandria lay with him. She sucked his thumb.

Mark snapped himself out of it.

Mark had looks, the kind that would catch a girl’s eye and make her forget what she was saying in mid-sentence. He wore his t-shirts tight to accentuate his pecs and biceps. His physique was one that, thanks to lucky genes, needed a minimum of physical attention, and a mind that retained only details that would get him where he wanted to go. Effort was alien to Mark.

Mark’s modelling career was successful, but it was also his perfected charm that got him places. He had honed a disarming friendliness that made strangers accept him quickly, treating him like they’d known him for years, happily lulled by a nagging familiarity. They couldn’t quite place him and didn’t remember seeing him on a billboard or in the pages of a magazine. If you were lucky enough to befriend him, he had a way of gathering you into his exclusive fold, making you feel wanted and special. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t procure or a threshold he couldn’t pass. If a mate asked a favour, a favour was delivered, with bells on. All of these attributes contributed to his achieving all he wanted in life, always.

Mark scanned Arlandria up and down as she moved and swayed to the music. She had everything going for her and didn’t even know it, this in itself enhanced her standing with the opposite sex, same sex, anything with a heartbeat actually, and the ill-disguised longing on the faces of the other men and women on the floor only made Mark want her more.

Mark locked eyes with her, flashing his professional lightbulb grin, looked away at the floor for a beat, then looked back at her, this time smiling shyly. He could tell she hadn’t broken her gaze, hadn't even blinked, and she looked flushed.

Mark projected past the first couple of dates he’d have with her, past the first few encounters where he’d give her all he thought she wanted. He couldn’t wait for the moment he could stop calling her baby, for the time he would flip her over, pin her down and call her bitch.

Mark jumped off the barstool and made his way to the dance floor.

Foo Fighters song: For All The Cows 

Mark will be mentioned in Arlandria.
He may even make an appearance depending on how generous I feel. 

One thing’s for sure: he has a small part. 

Richard Curtis always writes a ‘Bernard’ into his films. The story goes that there was once a Bernard in his life whom he hated for whatever reason: Mark is my Bernard. This version is harsh and two dimensional and is entirely intentional. Each paragraph starts with his name, because it was always about Mark.

Should I give Mark a bigger part? Comments welcome. x C x 

Arlandria - 1. Gravy

Gravy liked to wear skirts. He didn’t wear them every day, but when he did he matched them with a pair of women’s thongs. He didn’t shave his legs as the upkeep was too time consuming, but he liked to paint his toenails weekly in every shade the spectrum offered, just as long as the tone complimented his lipstick.

On skirt days he’d kneel down between the legs of his girlfriend Lily as she sat on the edge of the bed. He watched her concentrating as she applied creamy crimson or matt black or nude gloss to his cushiony lips. She didn’t actually need to do this for him as he was more than capable of doing it himself, however it was a ritual they both enjoyed, ending with Gravy pressing both lips together, coquettishly merging them slightly, then quickly releasing, causing a seductive smack. He knew this sound made Lily lose her shit. They were often late for work.

This particular morning, he smacked his lips together and looked straight into Lily’s eyes, searching for a delicious spark, but her stare was vacant. He put it down to stress over the impending deadline she’d been working towards. He kissed her anyway, smearing her with fuschia, but his kiss was barely reciprocated. An alarm bell rang in him, he recognised the familiar rebuff, girls never stuck around for very long and, lets face it, Lily had lasted longer than most, to the point where he’d begun to feel a certain domestic comfort. He’d only ever felt that way once before. The thing was he was just too obscure and not even his success could help to hold a partner for long. It was obvious Lily’s tiny tell spelt the end of the relationship, how many time’s had he seen it? He lingered, staring at her but saying nothing. She replaced the lipstick lid firmly, with a certain finality, avoiding his gaze. He stood up and fondled a tress of her long dark hair, so similar in colour and length to his own. She’d been good fun, but they both knew neither was the other’s ‘one’. He knew fighting for her was useless. For a moment he felt her loss acutely, the impending loneliness creeping over his life like a thunderous cloud blotting out the stars in the darkness.

“One more time, for the last time?” He whispered softly.

She smiled, nodded sadly and tugged at his skirt. He’d have to be late again today.

Work was based in an old converted Porter bottling factory on the canal basin parallel to Platform One of Kings Cross Station. When Gravy had first started In-Deep Design the studio occupied one small rented corner of the block, he now owned the entire building. At first he’d commuted from his shared flat in Tufnell Park and the favourite part of the journey was the walk along the entire length of Platform One, up the ancient cobbled slip-way, onto York Way. Being a creature of habit, he always left home at roughly the same time and encountered the same people walking in the opposite direction. He made up names and imaginary lives for them. That’s where he had first noticed Arlandria. 

Nowadays the route had been closed off and after his spectacularly immodest success, his commute consisted of hopping along the road from the Home building, some one-hundred paces from In-Deep’s front door. Today he used those slow one-hundred steps to think about Lily. He forced a false relief to wash over him, he would only let Lily leave a temporary scar. 

He pushed open the large glass doors and walked up the low-ceilinged concrete incline, reaching the main reception where the ceiling opened up to a glass roof four floors above.

Nigel, the ancient handyman, was up a step ladder changing one of the many spot lights in the low ceiling that washed the sandblasted brick walls with fan shapes of creamy light.

“’s’up Nige?”

“What’s up?” replied Nigel in a thick North London accent from another era, “I’ll tell you what’s up Grave - you designed sixty-nine fucking light bulbs into this here reception area. Sixty-nine. And its still as dark your arsehole.”

Angie, the bottled blond receptionist, gave a stoner chuckle that made her bangles jangle. Gravy grinned at her. “Yeah, maybe Nige, but isn’t it a gorgeous arsehole?” he bent and lifted a corner of his skirt, turned on his heel swooshing the material up so Nigel caught the benefit of his arse cheeks and sky-blue thong. 

Nigel blew out and rolled his eyes to the heavens.

Gravy took the stairs to the mezzanine level two at a time, got in the glass lift and waved at Angie as he made his way up. 

Gravy will appear in Arlandria.

Foo Fighters Songs: Low. Lonely As You. February Stars.

Do you like Gravy? Comments welcome. x C x