My Favourite Albums of 2015 (Part II): The Ones That (Almost) Got Away

In the second part of the year-end list nobody asked for, I’ll be focusing on the bands and/or artists I have either just started listening to or didn’t even know existed prior to 2015. I’m going to be honest here – most of these were discovered thanks to Spotify playlist recommendations. Yes, I know, I know – streaming services are the devil. Blah, blah, blah. I get it, I really do. Yet, I have little doubt that, if not for these recommendations, I would never have given these albums a shot in the first place. And that would be a massive bummer.

I also should note that the albums listed below are only a select few of the many I liked this year. The ones chosen are simply those that have stuck with me the longest. 

 

Anyhoo, enough rambling. Let’s just move onto what matters  - the music itself. If you like the sound of any of these, I recommend you give ‘em a listen. I doubt you’ll be sorry.

 

 

Ezra Furman – Perpetual Motion People

 

 

 

I’ll start with Ezra Furman’s Perpetual Motion People because it is the only album on this particular section of the list I didn’t discover via Spotify. Rather, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to review the album for Aphra Magazine a month before it’s official release. And boy, was it a revelation. I won’t go into why, as I’d just be repeating myself (for my specific thoughts, you can check out the review here). All I’ll add is this - Mr. Furman is an infuriatingly underrated artist – one I am shocked isn’t making more appearances on the endless parade of ‘year-end’ album lists.

 

If you haven’t given this record (or any of his previous records, for that matter) a spin, I implore you to do so. If your taste buds are not located squarely within the depths of you anus, you should get a kick out of it.

 

 

 

Royal Headache – High

 

 

 

Um… how exactly the fuck did I miss Royal Headache the first time ‘round? Have I been sleepwalking through the last few years? Maybe. Whatever the case may be, I have now made damn sure to catch up on everything they’ve put out into the world up to this point.

 

While I had heard the name ’Royal Headache’ bandied about since their formation, I often thought I was hearing about another band entirely ( ‘Royal Blood’ – who are themselves not too shabby). I certainly wasn’t aware that the name I was hearing belonged to one of the best punk bands to emerge from this country since the heyday of The Saints.

 

Since my first exposure to the group back in August, their two near-perfect albums have been a consistent presence in my life… and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. 

 

Sadly, I don’t think I’m alone in being embarrassingly late to the Royal Headache party. If you do happen to be in the same boat, then it’s something you may need to rectify, ASAP. 

 

 

 

U.S. Girls – Half Free

 

 

 

U.S. Girls (aka Meg Remy) is another project that is already a few albums in, yet somehow only became known to me recently. Better late than never, I suppose. 

 

To me, U.S. Girls is the way pop music should (but rarely does) sound in the year 2015. It’s weird, melodic and catchy in a way that nothing else out there is at the moment. Pitchfork probably said it better than I ever could in their review of the record back in September: ‘The album sounds like your favourite golden-oldies station beamed through a pirate-radio frequency, seamlessly fusing ‘60s-vintage girl group serenades and smooth ‘70s disco into dubby panoramas and horror-movie atmospherics.’

 

 

Low Cut Connie – Hi Honey

 

 

Philadelphia band Low Cut Connie first grabbed my attention with the…uh… rather interesting cover artwork of their third album Hi Honey. Based on that alone, I just had to know what the band sounded like. I’m so damn glad my curiosity got the better of me. Here is a group that is living proof that the often argued point of Rock n’ Roll being a dead genre is complete and utter bullshit.

I have no idea if Low Cut Connie have ever made their way over to this side of the pond, but if and when they do, I will be the first in line. This is music for boozy nights in smoky bars. In other words, music that is well and truly up my alley.

 

 

Radioactivity – Silent Kill

 

 

 

Silent Kill is the second record by the previously unheard of (by me) Texas group Radioactivity, which the internet tells me consists of members of other bands that have been hanging around the garage punk scene for the better part of a decade. Like Rock N’ Roll, Punk is another genre some have stupidly proclaimed to be dead. What crap. I have lost count of the current bands doing interesting things within the consistently expanding genre of punk. Many, like Radioactivity, are offering up vital reminders of just how great and fresh the genre can be in the right hands.

 

If you are a music fan who misses the glory days of bands such as The Ramones and The Jam, then stop whinging already. Radioactivity are here to fill that horrible void in your punk-loving hearts.

 

 

 

 

To be concluded…

 

My Favourite Albums of 2015 (Part I): Old is New Again

 

It has been another year overflowing with the kind of musical swill many of us have now sadly become accustomed to. As I write this, an unstoppable scourge of generic, over-produced trash is poisoning our airwaves. Worse still, there’s very little indication that any of the ghouls responsible will be fading into obscurity anytime soon. In fact, the horror show that is corporate mainstream music culture is now being embraced not only by the unadventurous pop-music loving masses, but also growing numbers of confused writers within the ‘alternative’ music press who have, for whatever reason, decided to give in to it all and start bowing at the altar of these ‘artists’.

But anyway, I’m getting slightly off course here. Believe it or not, it is not actually my intention to spend the length of this post bitching about the sorry state of the music industry. On the contrary, my aim is a far more positive one - to shine some much-needed light on the bands and artists who have made it possible for me to say without even the slightest amount of sarcasm that 2015 has also been a great year for music. Yes, that’s right –there is actually, at present, a metric fuck-tonne of awesome music out there – almost too much for an unmotivated sod like me to write about at any great length here.

Still, I feel it’s only fair that I dedicate at least a little bit of time to these artists and say a few words about the albums they unleashed onto those who cared to listen. And due to the number of releases I really, really dug, I feel it may be best to separate them into three very specific categories:

 

1) those successfully returning to the spotlight after insanely long hiatus’s

2) those I had no idea even existed 12 months ago

3) those on unstoppable winning streaks

For this particular post (the first of a planned three), I will focus on the older artists returning with new albums after far too long in the wilderness. What is particularly special about this group is the fact that the bands/musicians created records that demonstrated beyond the shadow of a doubt that it is actually possible to successfully return after an extended break, remain relevant and grow old gracefully. Who woulda thunk it?

Anyhoo, without further ado, here they are, in no particular order…

 

Desaparecidos - Payola

 

Okay, so Conor Oberst and co. can hardly be considered old, per se. But screw it, they’ve definitely been off the radar long enough to justify their inclusion within this particular section of the list.

Payola (the group’s second LP) had the wonderful distinction of being the record released this year that took me most by surpris,. It’s not because I didn’t expect greatness from Mr. Oberst - hell, over the course of his career he has rarely, if ever, put his name to anything that was’t worthwhile. Still, releasing an album with an old punk band that, to put things in perspective, haven’t had a record out since NSYNC were infecting the charts – didn’t exactly fill me with excitement… for whatever reason.

My slight curiosity about the whole deal, however, quickly became something much more the second I hit play that first magical time. Payola immediately announced itself as Conor’s strongest work in over a decade - a fun, timely, catchy, angry, exciting, filler-free masterpiece that, six months on, still hasn’t lost any of the charm I knew it had upon that first listen.

I have no idea what Desaparecidos are planning beyond this release.... I can only hope there are future plans, and that the space between this album and the next one is nowhere near as drawn out.

 

Faith No More – Sol Invictus

 

As surprising as the Desaparecidos release was, it was nowhere near as miraculous as the fact that, in 2015, we were given the gift of a new Faith No More record.

For close to twenty years fans like me didn’t for a second consider the idea of a new record from this legendary group even a remote possibility.  Even after a string of highly successful reunion shows in which the band seemed as though they were happy and invested, it still seemed like a far off dream. Yet, somehow, we finally got our follow up to 1997’s Album of the Year. And holy shit, was it good.

Sol Invictus achieved the impossible by not only retaining the bands ultra-unique personality, but also by bringing this personality into the present while somehow avoiding that overly nostalgic, bordering-on-stale feeling that has plagued so many bands before them.

So how did they do it? What the hell's their secret? Was it the luxury of having no record company interference? Maturity? Experience? Whatever the case may be, I hope this winning creative streak continues for these middle-aged rapscallions. After all, the world is undeniably a far better place with FNM around. 

 

Blur – The Magic Whip

 

Another band that dared to take the plunge and add another record to their so far bullet proof discography was Blur who, thankfully, were both smart and talented enough to only make a follow u that was worthy of their name.

The albums quality should’ve come as zero surprise to those who have followed Albarn’s career though out his years outside of Blur – the dude is prolific as hell and rarely releases anything that isn’t at the very least interesting.  

What was especially great about The Magic Whip was that it presented a band that was in no way interested in repeating themselves. Instead, they revealed another side of themselves to us,  one that was only interested in evolving and bettering themselves in the process. Somehow, they did it without losing that indefinable quality that made them one of the 90’s most-loved bands.

 

Dr Dre - Compton

 

Despite having an album on the boil for close to two decades, Dre’s eventual return still came as a total shock– mostly because we’d all given up on hearing anything new from him ever again.  And while the album we were all promised (Detox) never materialised, we perhaps got something better.

Compton - released just as F. Gary Grey’s Straight Outta Compton was hitting multiplexes - immediately silenced the doubters and rewarded patient fans. It was, from first song to last, a beast of a record that made it feel as though no time has passed at all since the now legendary 2001.

Like every other release on this list, Compton wasn’t the sad story of some strapped-for-cash old-timer trying to relive former glories, but rather a thrilling return to form that served as a crystal clear reminder (if one was even needed) the Dre is still in a league of his own.

It’s rare for a record to sound good enough to warrant a sixteen year gap, but Compton was just that - absolute proof that occasionally, good things come to those who wait…and wait…and wait...

 

 Refused - Freedom

 

 

Refused returned in 2015 to a somewhat mixed response. Such divisiveness wasn’t exactly a surprise - after all, if your last album was The Shape of Punk to Come, you'd probably have a difficult time pleasing absolutely everyone as well. Hell, even I wasn’t exactly an instant convert. The first single did next to nothing for me (at least upon first listen), and the bleak early reviews kept me well away for the first couple of weeks following its official release. I needn’t have worried. Freedom is the sound of a revitalised band that is still angry about… well, a lot of things. For my money, there isn’t a weak spot across its entire runtime.

Refused did the smart thing with Freedom by completely avoiding any attempts to rebottle their old sound. Instead, they made the record they wanted to make (even bringing a revered pop producer on board for a couple of tracks).

Again, not everyone agreed with my opinion on this surprisingly modern-sounding punk rock record, but at the end of the day, who cares - this post is all about me, after all.  And for me, Freedom is a total success.

 

Sleater Kinney - No Cities to Love

 

 

Last but not least, we come to Sleater Kinney.

What could I possibly add to the zillion glowing reviews and articles that have already been committed to print regarding the glorious return of this powerful trio? Not much, really. Cities to Love was as great as we all hoped it would be, while the live shows have, by all accounts, been going off (I’ll find out for myself in March). Best of all, Carrie Brownstein - kickass front woman, exceptional writer, comedic actor - has been everywhere in 2015. She can seemingly do it all.

Even though the album was released almost 12 months ago now, it has been making appearances on year end lists all over the place, which should be as good an indication as any of this records impressive quality.

To be continued …

Benjamin vs The Age of Disposability

 

A link from a friend. A tour announcement. Two new movie trailers. A long form article. An album stream. A film review. A breaking news story. An interview. A viral video. A new podcast. A book recommendation. A ‘best of’ list. Competitions! Sales! Fuuuuuck!
 

It's just hit seven am, and even before my first sip of cheap instant coffee I am dangerously at risk of my brain melting out through my ear holes, and not just because of how great the new Julian Casablancas album I am midway through streaming sounds. A majority of the blame goes to the various social media feeds flinging content my way at ludicrously unbearable levels. And It never stops.

So why exactly do I put myself through it, then? Can I not just choose to look away? Do I have some kind of sick addiction? Is it time for a good ole' fashioned 'social media intervention'? Maybe. But I also think there is something far more important going on here.

 

Only recently, I woke up to the fact that online content, in its many forms, had officially taken the place of the morning newspaper. Now, however, instead of walking out through the front door, half-dressed and bare foot, stumbling zombie-like across the lawn to retrieve the daily addition of the City News, I can simply roll over, tap the screen of my smart phone and scroll through the hundreds of new developments that have occurred the world over since my head last hit the pillows. Usually, it's a whole helluva lot to take in through my foggy - occasionally groggy - early morning daze.
 

One news item may appear multiple times over across various news feeds, with each featuring links to numerous sites offering up the very same story, though often from extremely different viewpoints. This is most definitely a positive. We are insanely spoilt for choice when it comes to the information we receive. And so we should be. I mean, why settle for the Fox News version of any given story when there are so many other - saner - options?
 

As the avenues for choice regarding online news content continue to expand, however, so too have the avenues for almost everything else. This is where, along with the pros, the cons begin to show their ugly faces. The most glaring downside is the really most obvious, at least for me - stuff no longer sticks in the mind like it used to. And it's because of this sad truth that many are now referring to our modern information age as 'the age of disposability'.

 

One area close to my heart that appears to be suffering in this regard is the world of Cinema. To illustrate, allow me to take you back to a great year for film: 1994. If you were to ask me what my favourites during that rather impressive twelve month period were, there would be little hesitation to my answer:  Just off the top of my head, there was Clerks, Pulp Fiction, Natural Born Killers and Ed Wood (I still think Shawshank Redemption is overrated - sue me).

Now, if you were  to ask me the same question relating to any recent year, I would honestly struggle to conjure up any kind answer. But why? Do I think the quality of cinematic fare has dipped of late? No, not really. It's just that twenty, hell, even ten years ago, there was a build-up and anticipation that would keep a film somewhere in the front of one’s mind, not only leading up to its initial release, but also long after viewing the finished product. Simply put, there wasn't an avalanche of content diluting the experience - or helping to erase the films from the mind completely.

 

Things are very different now. There is so much out there now that I often struggle to remember when the recent films I liked/loved even arrived on our screens... Was Drive 2012 or 2011? The Master was only released a year ago, right? And what of the masterpieces I may have somehow missed? Will I ever find the time for them?

Honestly, who the fuck knows… The only thing I am really sure of any more is that films are now but a small component of an overcrowded wave of information and entertainment that's damn near impossible to keep up. For a borderline-crazy cinefile like myself, this is proving to be increasingly problematic.
  

A quick search through the occasionally reliable IMDB reveals that in 1994, 3165 films were released theatrically. Alternatively, in 2013, 8769 films were released, via a variety of platforms: DVD, bluray, iTunes, and VOD among them. Because of the substantial increase in numbers, films that at one time may have been on people's radars, either because of their quality (Cold in July, Blue Ruin, Listen Up, Philip) or controversy (Cheap Thrills, God Bless America), no longer are. In fact, if a movie like Bobcat Goldthwait’s brilliant God Bless America were released at an earlier point in time, there is no way it could have managed to keep such a low profile, given the uproar it would likely have caused with the more sensitive and/or right leaning members of the American public. 

 

 

 

Music, sadly, sits in a similar boat. There are so many bands out there releasing new or re-issued work that a large chunk of it can't help but fall by the way side. I mean, with the exception of Arcade Fire, has any band from the last five years built up a large enough profile to command a headlining spot at a major music festival? Probably not, and the reasons are much the same - it's harder to standout in such a content-heavy world. From a listeners perspective, it is nigh on impossible to find the time to see and hear it all... and to not forget about it when the next shiny thing inevitably comes along.
 

Last year, I attempted to post quarterly lists of the music I had recently heard and loved. Challenging doesn't begin to cover it - after making the lists I would, without fail, discover around ten or so other albums/bands I had somehow missed out on along the way. Like films, great music is constantly at risk of being lost amongst the massive, soon-to-be-forgotten herd.

I am not alone when it comes to (over)thinking about all this, either. On a recent episode of his podcast, author Bret Easton Ellis broached the subject, making mention of a recent article by New York Times film critic A.O. Scott. In the article, Scott posed the question "What does it even mean to be a cinefile anymore in such a disposable culture?"  Ellis, quite the film buff himself, admitted to initially felling "kind of shitty" upon reading the article, actually going as far as giving serious consideration to the idea that perhaps A.O. may just  have a point. Thankfully, he just as quickly snapped out of this negative mind-frame, realising that it is now more important than ever to be a supporter of film, given the present state of things. 

I couldn't agree more.

Look, I will always hate the idea that great films - along with great music and literature, for that matter - could ever possibly be considered only short term distractions. I don't want any form of worthy art to be diluted, or worse, forgotten. I want fans to remain passionate. I want interest to be sustained.  I am not ready to surrender to the idea that cinema is dying, that new bands are doomed, that novels no longer have a place.  And it is because of this that I will continue watching, reading and hearing all that I possibly can, no matter how colossal the wave of content ultimately becomes.

Either that, or I'll drown in the process.

 

Return To Big Sound

 

There are many reasons I love attending gigs and festivals, but positioned firmly at the top of that list is the whole "discovery" aspect of it all. Very few things get me wetter than randomly stumbling across a band I had no idea existed, only to be transformed into a salivating, borderline-psychotic fan over the course of their set.

I often repeat to friends, ad nauseam, the story of how I once came across a tent located on the outer edges of some now long-forgotten music festival. Stopping in for what I only planned to be a brief gander, I was met with the sight of three noisy unknowns putting on a show so intense it almost made everyone else playing that day seem unquestionably lame in comparison. I was won over immediately, and in the weeks and months to follow I made every effort to keep track of these inspiring young fellows, utterly convinced that they somehow were going to be the next big thing.

The band I saw that fateful day was a pre-lightshow, pre-theatrical, pre-crap version of Muse. And while I could give two shits about the Muse of today, the feeling I had upon first seeing them all those many moons ago is the very feeling I continue to chase at any festival I am lucky enough to attend. And this, in essence, goes a long way in explaining the over-the-top feelings of pure, undiluted love I have for Big Sound, the annual festival/showcase that plays out very much like a little brother version of Austin’s  SXSW Festival - that awesome sense of discovery.
 
Last year, I attended Big Sound for the very first time... hey, better late than never, right? There were countless glowing reports from many of my like-minded, live-music-loving friends and acquaintances over the years, but somehow the stories were still not enough to push me into actually showing up. Well, at least until 2012. After many failed attempts and empty promises, I finally got around to making my way into the belly of the dirty two-day musical beast, located right in the heart of the always welcoming, family-friendly Fortitude Valley.

What transpired was a fun, lively and inspiring experience.... though it could hardly be called perfect.  It is never advisable to attend two nights at Big Sound - or any festival, for that matter - without first getting time off work, which is already painful enough without the addition of a relentless hangover.

So, with that in mind, I decided early on that this year I would not be rushing home midway through the last set of the night, or worse, passing up the after parties in a misguided attempt to make the last train home. This time, I would be attending Big Sound as it was meant to be attended  - with a complete disregard for time, day or personal health and safety. If I want to be drunk and deranged at Alhambra Lounge at three o'clock on a Thursday morning, then so fucking be it!





When the first day of this years event finally rolled around, I stumbled out of the office with an unfamiliar sense of optimism. For the first time since, well, the last Big Sound, I was actually looking forward to the rest of the week, for once not feeling paralysed by the horrific thought of having to survive two more days in my air-conditioned nightmare. My working week was over.

Over a few post-work,  pre-Big Sound drinks, I began to look over this year's program, making attempts to recall the bands I had seen the previous year. I reached for my iPhone, vaguely remembering taking notes during the previous year's shenanigans for inclusion in a blog post that never came to be.

Oddly, the drunken notes I soon found listing the venues visited on each of the two days, but absolutely nothing about the actual bands I saw. If I could give you any kind of explanation as to why I did this, then believe me, I would...
 
 

I promised myself that this year would be different: I would take actual, detailed notes relating to the bands I saw, regardless of how many beers I ended up consuming. In a move very out of character for me, I actually ended up sticking to my promise. Listed below are the resulting entries from night one of Big Sound. Some of it actually makes sense. And the rest? Eh...

 

Night One

08:00pm

Fabian, Kelly and myself,  probably the most pathetically indecisive group in existence, take a little over half an hour to decide where we are going to start. After an extended period of procrastination, we collectively decide  to move over and catch Billy Bragg at Baker Lane.

Upon arriving, we are met with the line up from hell and a fifteen minute wait to get in. Eventually, we are let into the venue, where we quickly endeavour to move ourselves into a position where we are lucky enough to get a great view... of Billy's arm, and occasionally the top of his head.

It matters not, though, because the songs are loud and clear, and they're amazing. One of the great things about events like Big Sound is that the crowd is actually here to watch the music. The Billy Bragg crowd hang off every line, every note. But really, how could you not? Every person in attendance is completely transfixed... even those of us who can only see his goddamn arm.

09:20 pm

Post-Bragg, we head down the road a little to Electric Playground in order to catch the rest of the Dune Rats set.

Because I have seen Dune Rats multiple times before, it doesn't really bother me that the place packed to the gills, and that any chance of seeing anything at all is an impossible dream.

Defeated, I grab a beer and settle for simply listening to what sounds like another great set. Sometimes being a little vertically challenged can be a real fucking bummer.

Yes, queue the violins...

10:00 pm

Somewhat reluctantly, we head over to Rics to catch Bad//Dreems. I say "reluctantly" not because of the venue or the band, but rather due to how insanely crowded the front bar/stage area can get during Big Sound sets.

Luckily, we time our arrival perfectly. For one, the front bar is empty, which allows us to grab some awesomely positioned seats to the left of the stage. Of course, when the band get going, the last thing I want to do is sit... 

The area in front of the stage predictably grows more and more crowded, so much so that being inappropriately rubbed up against by one hundred sweaty strangers simply becomes unavoidable. While I wouldn't go as far a comparing it to catching public transport at peak hour, it's still pretty fucking crammed.

I emerge from the crowd around half an hour later, drenched in sweat and booze and God knows what else. I would have been disappointed if my first time seeing Bad//Dreems ended any other way.

10:50 pm

We decide to head back to Electric Playground to catch Bleeding Knees Club. This plays out very much the same way as the Dune Rats experience from earlier in the evening (in other words, I see nothing). Frustrated, I head off for  a long overdue toilet break.

While standing at the urinals, I somehow find myself in a random conversation with a complete stranger about, among other things, our shared artistic aspirations, being at the age we are without having achieved our goals (I don't mention the fact that I'm likely ten years older and thus, twice as fucking bummed out about my lack of advancement in the area) and last but not least, death. Yes - all very uplifting stuff.

Ten minutes and another Canadian Club later, I grow impatient with the crowds and choose to make a break for it, taking off in the direction of Alhambra Lounge for the I Oh You after party.

11:50 pm

In my Canadian Club-induced haze, I mistakenly turn up waaay too early for the after party.

This turns out to be for the best, though, because Gay Paris are on, and they're the very definition of fun. They put on such an great show, in fact, that I forget for a brief moment that I'm here for the after party at all.

The time for the after party finally arrives, with Philadelphia Grand Jury  kicking it all off with a set that I am only able to see snippets of in the brief moments I am not either a) lined up for the bar or b) struggling through the intimidatingly attractive crowd in a desperate dash for the bathroom.

Midway through the PGD set, my body starts to ache, telling me in a not-so-subtle way that it might be time to call it a night. My response - more Canadian Club! (Thursday will not be pretty).

I manage to soldier on until around 2:30 am, when I finally decide to chuck it in for the evening/morning. There is, after all, a whole other night to go, and I highly it's possible to consume any more booze than I already have.

With that, I head on home for some much needed shut-eye, already preparing myself for round two in around about twelve hours from now...*



* So, the original plan was to have a "to be continued..." at this point, with a follow-up post focusing on the Thursday night to come soon after. However, my memories of night #2 are vague at best, and any report on the events of that evening would only be pieced together, with minimal accuracy, from photos, (more) unintelligible notes on my phone, and equally foggy recollections from friends I was in attendance with. Given that, I have decided to skip that entry all together and simply say with the utmost confidence that it was a great end to a great festival. Or so the photos on my phone tell me...

Your Local Multiplex: The Ultimate Experience In Gruelling Terror

There is a scene midway through the film God Bless America that I probably shouldn't admit to finding as hysterically funny as I do, given the events of the past year. But to hell with it, it is only a movie, and if one can't laugh along with a work of fiction simply because it happens to mirror recent real life tragedy, then surely the bad guys have won... or something... right??

The scene in question involves the films protagonists, Frank (Joel Murray, brother of Bill) and Roxy (Tara Lynne Barr), taking a break from their cross country, reality-television-celebrity-murder-spree to kick back and enjoy a film within a seemingly quiet multiplex. What eventuates within those cinema walls - rude, ignorant, inconsiderate asshole patrons being violently dispatched of one by one, is darkly funny, especially to those of us who have ever had to sit smack-bang in the middle of a cinema overflowing with groups of loud, obnoxious bastards fucking up the experience for the rest of us.

Now this is certainly not to say I would ever think of disposing of these jerks in such a grisly manner - a more realistic and relatable example of where my mind drifts to in these unpleasant moments can be found within the pilot episode of Californication, where, during a solo-trip to the cinema,  struggling writer Hank Moody (David Duchovny) angrily removes a phone from the hands of the obnoxious douche-bag cinema parton talking loudly in front of him, eventually hurling the offending handset across the room and smashing it into a million pieces. As a grand finale, he then wrestles the owner of said phone to the ground, much to the delight of the audience in attendance. Classic stuff.

Now, I count myself as a fairly serious movie goer/buff/nerd, with my visits to catch a flick on the big screen being on the upper-end of regular. Yet, no matter how many times I've been made to sit next to some ghastly cretin intent on destroying my afternoon, I  still naively continue to hand over my hard earned cash in exchange for a cinema ticket, deliriously optimistic that the experience will turn out to be a positive one.

Unfortunately, more often than not, there will be all manner of horrors waiting for me beyond those cinema doors.

It can all be a bit of a bummer at times, given the fact I love nothing more than experiencing a great film by a great director on a massive screen, backed up by an absolutely kick ass sound system, just the way the filmmaker intended. Sadly, it's starting to feel as if the days of sitting down with an audience displaying any level of respect for the entire cinema-going experience are quickly disappearing into the ether, and that once-obeyed message played in cinemas all over the globe advising those in attendance to "please turn off their motherfucking mobile phones" is now as ignored as anti-drug warnings at a Summer music festival, or Paul Shore at an Academy Awards Ceremony.

So, who or what is to blame for the alarming increase in horrible patrons? I mean, obviously, people have always been dicks, and dicks enjoy movies as much as anyone else. It just seems that lately, the dick/non-dick ratio has shifted, with a higher percentage now positioned firmly over on the dick side of the fence.

The most blatantly obvious reason for all this, to my mind at least, appears to be the shortening of attention spans the world over. In the age of Twitter, Facebook, Tumblr and Instagram, sitting down to watch a great film on a big screen while consuming bucket loads of buttered popcorn simply isn't enough. Things have been steadily tumbling downhill, and fast, to the point where now, a great deal of the population can no longer so much as take a dump without tweeting about it (or heaven forbid Instagramming it).

Even those who are able to manage a little social-media self-control during a films runtime can still be both visibly and audibly restless.  A large of the modern movie going public, it seems, have grown so accustomed to watered down, lifeless, CGI-crammed crap, that anything produced with a little heart or originality is usually dismissed out of hand.

I still remember one particularly painful Sunday afternoon back in 2011. I had decided to make my way to the nearby moron-magnet of a multiplex to catch Nicolas Winding Refn's Drive, a film I had been looking forward to for quite sometime. Twenty or so minutes into the film, I began to notice awkward shuffling throughout the crowd. It soon got to the point where any scene in the film not involving a fast car was met with either sighing, whispering, or flat-out conversations about the lack of fast cars.

The only time the audience actually shut the fuck up and sat still was during the sudden bursts of brutal violence scattered throughout the film. I guess there's nothing like the sight of Ryan Gosling crushing in some dude's skull with his boot to force an audience to behave.

A couple of days after the screening, I stumbled across an article about a useless waste of space from Michigan who was suing the distributors of Drive for what she claimed was a "misleading trailer". The preview in question had, according to this zombie, presented the film as a "Fast and the Furious" style action piece, not the stylish cinematic triumph it actually turned out to be.

My reaction to the story was neither surprise, nor amusement, nor anger. It was acceptance. This is the headspace a great many members of today’s cinema-going audiences now reside in.

Another recent, similarly asinine example is a story involving some senseless dumb-fuck who thought it only fair to file a complaint with the Advertising Standards Authority against Hollywood Studio Paramount Pictures because... wait for it... an explosion that made a split second appearance in the trailer for the film Jack Reacher did not find its way into the final 130 minute cut of the film. A COMPLAINT. FILED. FOR A MISSING EXPLOSION. Yes. This. Actually. Happened.

If the above stories serve any purpose at all (besides providing fleeting amusement), it is to help to make sense of why certain people or groups act the way they do within the cosy confines of the local multiplex. It's because of the very same reason shows like The Biggest Loser remain ratings mammoths, why Justin Bieber continues to sell millions upon millions of albums, and why planking was once "a thing": Simply put, a great percentage of the human race are insufferable morons. Nothing new, really. The late, great George Carlin said it best decades ago: "Think of how stupid the average person is, and realise half of them are stupider than that". Disturbing, depressing, true.

The whole "Drive" scenario has continued to happen countless times since that particular cinema outing, and while it is annoying, I have found ways to minimise the possibility of having another great film ruined, mainly by avoiding big-time modern multiplexes altogether. While smaller cinema chains and boutique art house theatres may be steadily decreasing in numbers, they are still out there, and are a refreshing alternative, especially considering that, more often than not, the audiences in attendance are there because they fucking well wanna be, not because they are just "killing time." It's hard to imagine finding a  tweeting teen sitting in the audience of an art house cinema watching Michael Haneke's Amour, correct?

If you pride yourself on being even a semi-serious cinema goer, isn't it best to give the film you're planning on seeing the respect it deserves, by watching it with an audience worthy of it's time? Where possible, why not leave the larger commercial multiplexes for the uncaring tweeters, tweekers, texters and talkers, happy to sit and barely watch the latest in a never ending line of crap-tastic crowd pleasers.

If, however, you're only choice is the multiplex, as is the case in many parts of the country, then you had better hope to high hell that you have your own Hank Moody in the audience, ready and willing to knock the problem patrons on their fat asses, and hopefully before the start of the Coming Attractions.

Keeping Inspired in the 9 to 5 World

That damn alarm first thing in the morning is absolutely my worst enemy on this planet. There is no birds-are-chirping-it’s-a-beautiful day-in-the-neighbourhood crap upon hearing that horrible fucking thing come to life in the early a.m. My hatred for it cannot be overstated.

I have made attempts to improve my “morning alarm experience" by setting songs that are alive with raw attitude, such as McClusky’s “To Hell with Good Intentions”, to play just as the time arrives for me to emerge from my dream state and re-enter the cold, shitty real world. Sadly, it does little to help. In fact, I have come to hate “To Hell with Good Intentions”, now forever associated with those rude, unwanted wake-ups.

For the first few hours after my alarm, my outlook usually remains dour, especially when it comes to the horrors I will inevitably be facing outside my apartment on any given weekday:  crammed buses, street-walking sales people, junkies attempting to bum change, and, most prominently, endless office drones, looking more like extras from The Walking Dead than actual living, breathing human beings, mournfully making their way to one of many office buildings spread out across the city - it’s all painful, soul-crushing stuff. Oh, and speaking of soul-crushing, let’s not forget about that little destination we're all hurriedly making our way towards - work. Ah yes, work - the glorious, time-killer/life-waster that for many of us, usually takes place between the hours of nine to five.





I'm sure I'm not alone in saying this whole "work" thing I just made reference to really only serves a single purpose: paying the bills (barely). That is where my interest begins and ends. Beyond that, it only keeps me from spending my days doing anything I actually enjoy.

The depressing daily grind can really get to you, especially if you're not really designed for the line of work in which you now find yourself. Many, like myself, no doubt stumbled into their respective jobs as a means to an end, a stepping stone, or a temporary source of income until something better and more promising came along. But time has a funny way of disappearing into the ether, and before you know it, you will have been sitting at the same desk, working in the same factory, or waiting the same tables, for more years than you care to remember (or admit to).

Worse, getting bogged down working a thankless job can lead to your real passion fading into the abyss, long before you even realise it. Then, one lonely night, sitting on your couch, watching Conan and enjoying a quiet nightcap, your mind will randomly flash back to a better time, a happier time, and for a brief, sad moment, you will remember that you were once a much more interesting person.
I have found myself in the very same position, on more than one occasion... It is a strange feeling to suddenly recall and miss something you hadn't realised had even gone away, until that painful moment when memories of the real you come rushing back.

Hopefully, this quick flashback to a better version of you will be enough to kick-start you into once again getting yourself back on the right path. If a little more motivation is required, trying thinking about what the eighteen year old version of yourself would think if he or she were ever unlucky enough to somehow look into the future and catch a glimpse of the present-day version. Would they be happy, or would they not think twice about taking a dive off the nearest roof and ending it all right then and there?

What also works, as I recently found out, is an honest, no-bullshit, just-the-hard-facts style talking to / lecture courtesy of a concerned - and understandably frustrated - friend. It may feel like a cold, hard slap to the face, but damn if it doesn't work. Bottom line, if you're not in a job that is your passion or your dream; one that fills you with an absolute joy for life, then at the very least try spending a few hours outside of said job doing something that is. It will make one helluva difference to your whole outlook.

All this is easier said than done, though. Whether your bag is painting, volunteer work, bondage nights, or writing a shitty blog that no one reads, keeping motivated enough to continue pursuing that special something you actually enjoy – the reason you feel you were put on this earth - while spending five days a week in an air-conditioned nightmare, can prove quite the challenge.

Let's take my typical working day, for example - Usually, it will take me until around about eleven
am to reach a point I would consider “fully awake” (again - not a morning person). Then, around one - post-coffee, post - lunch, when the blood is flowing and focus finally returns, inspiration will finally begin to kick in - not for anything actually work-related, mind you, just the post-work activities I actually give a shit about. The important stuff.

From here, the struggle will be to then hold onto this inspiration until the clock strikes five, and even after this, there will be further hurdles, the most glaring of which will be the strong desire to partake in a little post-office relaxation time. Avoiding the couch, in particular, is far from easy;  it's pretty damn tempting to head straight to a comfortable three-seater after eight straight hours of soul-crushing, mental ass-fuckery.

On the days where I am personally able to pass the "couch test", there are still further considerations – cooking dinner, washing those dishes that are now stacked all the way to the ceiling, doing something about that pile of clothing that has somehow grown into something resembling Everest.

After all those obstacles are out of the way, it will finally be time to focus on my passion profect. At this point, however, it will likely not be early, and by the time I am finally on some kind of a roll, the unwanted realisation will hit that it’s now about five hours until I have to get up and do the whole "work" thing all over again. This is the part I struggle with the most - cutting myself off to get a little shut eye before doing it all again the following day.

If I am motivated enough to stick to this schedule,  I will find myself growing more and more zombie-like as the week progresses until, on Friday, I will enter through my front door to collapse on my couch to catch up on the sleep missed over the course of the last four days.

Surely there's a better way to pay the rent and follow your dreams right? Perhaps that is a better questions for Anthony Robins. As far as I'm concerned, there's really only two choices: 1) Quit your job, live like a true artist (poor and starving) and commit full time to your life’s dream, or 2) Stick with your job and learn to live with a complete lack of sleep, happy in the knowledge that you are not wasting the moments that truly count, the hours outside of 9am - 5pm.

For me, it will need to remain option two, at least for the time being, because livin’ ain’t cheap, and fuck it, sleep in overrated anyhow.

Besides, no matter how sleep deprived you ultimately are, or how much of a struggle it can all prove to be at times, it's a hell of a lot better than the alternative - finding yourself sitting alone on your couch late one night, well rested but desperately unhappy, reminiscing of a time long since passed, a time when you actually gave a damn about yourself.