My heart has been utterly charmed by Emmy the Great. I'm smitten, beguiled and completely disarmed. The debut 'First Love' is beautiful, clear, quirky, poignant and a treat in every way imaginable. I'd go further and say the album is just exactly how romantic indie-folky, funky twiddly-dee stuff should sound. It has all the joy of flying kites high into the blue sky and you can get lost listening to each song soar.
Emmy herself has been doing the rounds for a while touring with folks like Martha Wainwright and Tilly and the Wall, not to mention singing away in various festivals and gigs around the indie underground. This album has, by all accounts, had a long gestation period, it's none the worst for it.
Emmy's voice trips along witty lyrics sounding for all the world like a happy version of Laura Marlin - she has the same clarity and the same instantly beautiful voice that makes tuneless people like me green with envy. Then again if you're going to bestow upon yourself the epithet of 'Great' obviously you need some serious gifts, not including modesty - modesty won't pay gas bills. Every band member compliments Emmy, bringing forth songs that crackle with talent. The album affects a carefree air yet there is undeniable depth and skill behind the arrangements; unsurprisingly all band members are involved in their own projects.
As far as the songs go 'We Almost Had a Baby' (acoustic version available to download free via myspace), '24' and 'First Love' stand out as fresh and deft, but the album is a complete whole and a joy to listen to from beginning to end.
As far as pretty pop music for a spring day, you could do far, far worse.... and I venture that Emmy will be around for a lot longer.
Back in 1998 when nervous breakdowns, hair dye, jazz, bloody men and chip stinking seaside towns were still to come in my life, Richard Herring came up with labling February 15th St Skeletor's Day: the anti-Valentine's, headed by a figure who epitomises evilness and the destruction of love (it's about 3 minutes into the youtube video).
Good.
It's not that I'm bitter, it's not that I dislike couples, especially happy ones, or happiness in general, or in fact any and all aspects of life that isn't fermented in barrels (well, maybe it is), but I do hate Valentine's Day. Waste of time, money and just an excuse to have stupid stuffed toys, heart shaped (if you're lucky) balloons, unattractive black and red underwear, not to mention fluffy handcuffs, all bandied from every shop window. Even charity shops, which apparently have no shame these days.... despite being run by little old ladies in floral dresses and knee socks. Very dark.
All across the world people live in misery and poverty; there's starvation, war, misery (more misery), prejudice, hatred and greed, and what do we do? Couples give themselves a nice pat on the back and feel fuzzy smug self congratulation. Most of the time this Carpenter song-like bliss is less about a deep and mutual attraction and more a thankful realisation that there is someone else who can share the responsibility of taking out the bins, chopping onions or unblocking the shower. Valentine's is after all the only day that you have to say thanks for being put up with. It's so caring, thoughtful and charming.
That doesn't cut it for St Skeletor; he doesn't have hair so his shower doesn't get blocked, he has many slaves (who he beats) so he doesn't need to make someone love him for the bins to go away. Being part skeleton he probably doesn't eat much, and all his calcium needs are met by a pestilential milkman. He even smashed the stereo with that ram headed staff of his when "It Had to Be You" came on, and regularly burns DVDs of 'When Harry Met Sally' as a recreational pastime. As Rich reminds us; Skeletor is so evil the only love interest in his life was a woman as diabolical as himself, hence her name; 'Evil Lynn' - and to be fair he didn't seem very keen on her.
So don't make St Skeletor Cards, if you do put some effort into making them equisit and then burn them in front of the potential recipient. Put on your ratty grey underwear safe in the knowledge that no-one is going to see it anyway. If you must buy chocolate hearts do so only to watch them melt into a lake of calorie riddled gloopthat'll only make you feel guilty after you eat it. Oh, and wear capes with hoods so you can glare menacingly at happy couples as they stroll hand in hand clogging up pavements. It needs to be a cape though, or else your powerful social statement will be lost amongst the typical hoodie delinquency.
As for me, well, I'm going to the cinema to watch Casablanca on Valentine's Day; but I won't enjoy it, and at the end I'll be muttering loudly that Rick was better off without that heartless bitch.
The heated towel rail in our bathroom stands as an affront to masculinity. You can bleed it, you can twist valves and/or suck air in through your teeth all you like - it will not be fixed; that it should be so is a source of endless frustration to male visitors. I'm of the opinion that it hasn't been plumbed in correctly and isn't worth the hassle, especially as I've got the quick sprint out of the shower, grabbing the towel and the legging it to warmer climes down to a 't'. This includes strategically placed mats so I don't slip and break a hip.
My flatmate and I aren't inept or otherwise incapable of basic DIY (despite failing to notice all the radiators in the flat needed bleeding, and yes it was rather chilly). We do however know a lost cause when we see one. The frozen implacability of the towel rail will not be compromised. And what doesn't cause hypothermia can only make you stronger.....
After spending a day being slightly melancholy in a head-tilted-at-an-angle/soulful-crease-between-the-eyes/sniffing-occasionally (into a tissue though; I was brought up proper, thank you very much) sort of way, I got slightly bored. Being sad will do that to you: worse it will make you bore other people too... at length! And then you get wine because you think it'll be the answer.
After drinking it all, oops, you remember that sorrows float; so you end up drunk, slumped in a chair with more sniffing and head tilting. Then you get a crick in your neck, and whilst being still drunk, boring, aching, sniffing and sad, you start issuing the occasional plea for understanding about "what I really mean to say is....", or worse "oh god, you really are my bestest mate in all the world" punctuated by the odd reference to "bloody religion/damn those fat girlfriends, and their squints!" or whatever other topic has recently ranckled. On top of this twaddle you force your friends (who are all by this point reconsidering their allegiance) to eat so many home-made chocolate fairy cakes that they start worrying about their weight and become as sad and boring as you.
All that wine, chocolate and wallowing left me seeking some sort of antidote and this is it: 'Trains to Brazil' by the good ol' Guillemots; a band versatile enough to knock out a good life affirming tune one minute and then depress the hell out of you the next. 'Trains to Brazil' happens to be one of my most favouritest songs in the whole wide world and never ceases to make me smile. I particularly like the line which mentions 'erroneous fools', though obviously if it had mentioned foolish atheists I'd have been rather peeved.
The title is a referance to the shooting of Jean Charles deMenezes, which doesn't bode well, but the catchy tune, sweet sentiments and chirpy beat all serve to sweep you up into a jig filled happiness. Lego Izzard and a few Adam and Joe song wars tracks helped me too, but over all if you need a bit of cheering and something to sing along to then you can't go wrong. Just avoid another of Guillemots effort "Blue will still be Blue" like the plague- at least until you feel better!
Flicking through the news and what do I see; a Nazi war criminal may have died in Egypt in 1992, there was one bloody big snake roaming around 58 million years ago, it's snowy in Britain and recession is almost everywhere...
Then there was this article from the Guardian online; an attack on the wonderful atheist buses by Rev. Hargreaves, leader of the Christian Party. The Christian Party doesn't like the idea of ads promoting free enquiry by denying God, and plans to run an campaign of its own telling everyone to take it easy: there not only is a God, but also a Christian Party to look after his/her/its political interests. Similar poster campaigns are being mounted by the Tritarian Bible Society and Russian media mogul Alexander Korobko.
The original idea for the atheist campaign telling people to stop worrying as there 'probably' isn't a god, was dreamt up by comedy writer Ariane Sheridan as a counter to all those posters telling you 'Jesus is the Way' scattered round train, tube and bus stations. Stop worrying about damnation? Certainly; there are plenty of other real problems to address.
I shouldn't get rilled really; posters threatening damnation just aren't enough for some groups. But rather than offer any real argument or criticism, both Rev. Hargreaves and the Tritarian Bible group see fit to label the atheist campaign as run by fools, as is everyone who happens to agree, for according to the Psalms (no.52) only a fool knows there is no God. Back when the Pslams were composed, an impressive timespanning 1190-50 BCE (snakes were normal sized); you'd have been looked at ascance (if not stoned to death) for that kind of unsubstanitated foolishness, and there really wasn't an alternative, but I think we have to seriously question whether that sentiment still rings true.
A further criticism by the Reverand; these athiest/humanist fools are spend-thrifty ones too! The atheist campaign raised £140,000 in donations though the target was a mere £5,500, including a £50 contribution from Theos, a think-tank for the CoE. Perhaps the Rev. Hargreaves should remember the words of the Apostle Paul and that 'the love of money is the root of all evil', he did however fail to mention the cost of his party's refutation.
Religious groups have had long enough to get their message across, and have possessed, and stilll do, tremendous resources to do too; surely a poster campaign isn't too hard to accept. We live in an age of scientific enquiry where it is possible to find alternatives to a supreme being - one of which is of course Richard Dawkins - we've free speech and public forums for debate, including the side of a bus. Debate is always good, but name-calling? 'Fools'? Is that really going to draw anyone in, or just bait ardent atheists like me into giving the archaic, irrelevant and tyrannical institution that is the Christian faith a bit of a mild tutting.
For some reason when I woke up this morning all I could think about was the end of AI. God knows why- I saw the film once, back when it hit the cinemas and became so upset about it all, especially that bloody robot bear, that I tried to repress all memories; though on balance it was an excellent piece of emotive storytelling albeit let down slightly at the end.
I don't get upset about films (generally); I keep my bleeding heart firmly under-wraps and since becoming a deeply jaded person, who gave away their copy of the 'Princess Bride' and has been too disenchanted to buy another (but oh my word, if ever there is a book that absolutely everyone can love it is William Goldman's 'The Princess Bride'; go, go, go get it!), I can do without the mushy stuff and sentimentality.
Today's distraction from the dissertation is making fairy cakes, listening to Ray LaMontagne and indulging being slightly, ever so slightly wistful. Well rounded soulful pining though; not existentialemo angst of the my-parents-didn't-love-me-enough-I-only-had-a-swede-at-halloweenmoribund variety. It must be one of those days; I was even sent an email of a news clipping of a wet baby koala who'd been suffering in the outback heat but luckily found a bucket of water placed outside by nice people to dunk himself in.
So the only films that make me blue:
Land Before Time. Kills me, never did when I was a heartless child; back then I used to get annoyed at the wanton ignorance of dinosaur terminology.
AI. That poor sad little teddy bear who just goes to sleep next to robot boy Osmet.... oh dear me....
Truly, Madly, Deeply. The Minghella film, not the god awful song by Savage Garden. This is one of those touchstones of memory, like the song Summer of '69 (I know, I know) that a million small but very different recollections orbit around; being 21 in London having seen Sean Bean as Macbeth and watching this late at night, hundreds of nights with a man who couldn't play the cello (or anything actually), but who I ran through the streets of Newcastle with because we needed mushrooms for rissotto.....
Oh I'm going for a bloody walk in the snow! And I'll listen to 'Feeling Good', both the Nina Simone and Muse versions.
