Shimmering on the horizon
Sometime last year, I caught this documentary on cable. I didn't have high hopes for it. The very title, Live Forever, an allusion to an Oasis song, probably meant that it would use the Gallagher brothers as its focal point, and there's not much room for other artists when Noel and Liam's egos are involved. That part went as expected, but the pleasant surprise was in seeing these bits of interviews from bands that orbited that scene, who provided insights that were more piercing and insightful than the superficial proxy class war that was Blur v. Oasis. Driving around with Robert Del Naja as he reminisces on the early days of Massive Attack, hanging out in a flat with Jarvis Cocker as he wryly reflects1 on how many people just didn't get "Common People." That's all fun stuff, but the real pleasant surprise was Louise Wener from Sleeper, who turns out to be the unlikely chronicler for the entire era. Front-woman for a band that never got out of second-tier, Ms. Wener never did the marriage of convenience thing-- you know, going out with another, more famous, rockstar like Justine from Elastica + Damon Albarn from Blur -- but Sleeper managed to stick around long enough to open for most of the bands that counted. So, she had the inside scoop and the backstage gossip for everyone in the film, and unlike everyone else, she doesn't sound like she melted most her brains on amphetamines and cocaine. I hope that some day she writes a tell-all book about that whole era, featuring a young Tony Blair, eager to earn the Cool Britannia2 vote, snorting coke off Patsy Kensit's tit, because I think that would be awesome.
A couple of months ago, I had _perihelion_ and rojagato over dinner -- partially because I needed help devouring a leg of lamb and partially because I wanted to fob off Jen Trynin's autobiography. I was never a big Jen Trynin fan, but the excerpt of the book that ran in the Phoenix caught my eye with its purported claims of life in the Boston indie music scene circa early 90's, post Pixies, post Throwing Muses, when Mark Sandman was still alive. The book wasn't bad, though not nearly as dishy as I hoped for. The chapters on record label courtship, auditioning lawyers and agents, and dealing with journalists were suitably absurd and entertaining, though increasingly archaic and quaint in this day of MySpace promotions and blog buzz, but it's still told from the perspective of a shy, privileged, white collar girl who never quites embrace the rockstar lifestyle -- which, you know, is totally wise and sensible, but it makes for boring soap operas. Still, I wanted to loan the book to _perihelion_ because I figure he'd get a kick out of the old memories, and he did. For that, I was happy.
A couple of days ago, while listening to Morning Edition on WBUR, I caught this gush-crazy interview with Kristin Hersh, and she was talking about how she and Tanya Donnelly got their start playing clubs when they were fifteen years old; and just how messed it up was to be negotiating record contracts when you're just barely old enough to drive. You could probably make a pretty compelling biopic out of that one statement alone. I've had "Bright Yellow Gun" stuck in my head for the last three days, and I don't mind that much at all.
1Does Jarvis Cocker have any other mode of observation besides wry reflection?
2God, it's almost sad to remember that Tony Blair, when he first came into office, was such a promising, cool guy. He was like Bill Clinton without the unfortunate taste in trashy interns.
A couple of months ago, I had _perihelion_ and rojagato over dinner -- partially because I needed help devouring a leg of lamb and partially because I wanted to fob off Jen Trynin's autobiography. I was never a big Jen Trynin fan, but the excerpt of the book that ran in the Phoenix caught my eye with its purported claims of life in the Boston indie music scene circa early 90's, post Pixies, post Throwing Muses, when Mark Sandman was still alive. The book wasn't bad, though not nearly as dishy as I hoped for. The chapters on record label courtship, auditioning lawyers and agents, and dealing with journalists were suitably absurd and entertaining, though increasingly archaic and quaint in this day of MySpace promotions and blog buzz, but it's still told from the perspective of a shy, privileged, white collar girl who never quites embrace the rockstar lifestyle -- which, you know, is totally wise and sensible, but it makes for boring soap operas. Still, I wanted to loan the book to _perihelion_ because I figure he'd get a kick out of the old memories, and he did. For that, I was happy.
A couple of days ago, while listening to Morning Edition on WBUR, I caught this gush-crazy interview with Kristin Hersh, and she was talking about how she and Tanya Donnelly got their start playing clubs when they were fifteen years old; and just how messed it up was to be negotiating record contracts when you're just barely old enough to drive. You could probably make a pretty compelling biopic out of that one statement alone. I've had "Bright Yellow Gun" stuck in my head for the last three days, and I don't mind that much at all.
1Does Jarvis Cocker have any other mode of observation besides wry reflection?
2God, it's almost sad to remember that Tony Blair, when he first came into office, was such a promising, cool guy. He was like Bill Clinton without the unfortunate taste in trashy interns.