Deptford X

Deptford X, which declares itself "London's foremost contemporary visual arts festival", returns tonight for a ten-day run in sunny south London. The full programme is online, but last night I interrupted artist-unlicensed architect Mitch McEwen as she wired up her installation Black Site #2 at the Old Police Station before the opening tonight.

Based in New York, McEwen works with spaces and how people think about them. For this work, she has re-created a full size representation of a black site used by the CIA for interrogating prisoners. We had a bit of a chat, will go out next week on Odd Girl Out, but McEwen explained her starting point was imagining that the CIA asked her to design such a site. Basing her construction on legal depositions given to the ACLU, McEwen used plywood to construct a cell draped with transducers, used to pump music in to induce sleep deprivation. With a laugh, she acknowledged that visitors to the installation will not experience anything like the discomfort of the real thing, but the work questions the relationship between military and civilian society.

Surround Sound

This week I have been immersed in archive tape, sorting through various interviews to use to mark my 20th anniversary in journalism. I wanted to share a selection of clips from my encounters with amazing women in a range of creative pursuits--mostly music, but also writing, film and other, uncategorisable, fields.

It's pretty daunting: how to choose? How to edit? How to present? I am looking at doing a series of short clips for my show and then putting them up online.

This week I tried out a five-channel option on Soundtrack Pro. It's designed for a five-speaker surround sound effect, but I just listened on headphones and rather liked the panning, albeit with several tracks competing for attention.

Recently, I had an interesting conversation with someone who does video interviews and she said she always found audio a bit uncomfortable, a bit too intimate. "That's what I like about it," I replied. I find audio a delightful medium. I like the immediacy, the closeness and the mystery of the unseen. Conducting a one-to-one conversation is one of life's great joys. A pity so many regard audio as the unwanted stepchild of video.

Flying Squirrel

Back in London on a busy Saturday afternoon, catching up on errands, I spot a rather panicked squirrel dodging traffic in a busy high street. Concerned, I watch its progress until it disappears behind a wall. "Mum! A squirrel!" pipes up a small boy ahead of me. The squirrel has now raced up the cement railing of a staircase of a block of flats.

Realising it is no closer to safety, it turns 90 degrees and, before my wondering eyes, makes a flying leap off the staircase, landing on the concrete of the front yard. It must be 3m high and a distance of 4m. Ouch. More to-ing and fro-ing before it returns to the relative shelter of the small shrublike tree of a side road.

Looking about, I realise how few tall trees are in this street. But, another five minutes' (human) walk takes me to a beautiful expansive tree, bursting with branches and shade. Squirrel Paradise.

Dual Action

Another double dose, as I took in two gigs in one evening, albeit just around the corner from one another. Missy magazine's relaunch was held at the ever-so-secretive West Germany, a venue which displays the abundant charm of a distressed dentist's waiting room, but books some fantastic acts. I was there to see opener Golden Disko Ship, having missed her gigs in London some months back. Time was of the essence as I wanted to check out Ich bin ein Berliner at SO36 later that night.

As it happened, GDS took the stage just after 11pm, slipping into her gigwear of poker cap and sparkly top, as she addressed her computer keyboard. Not sure of the significance of this look, but perhaps it gets her in the mood. The performance was a marvel of multi-tasking as she worked in guitar, violin, squeezebox and assorted other musical paraphernalia. I thought the images projected on the screen behind her really worked, adding to the ambience. Or maybe it was the sparkly top.

Then it was on to the fabled SO36, which I had never, ever visited. I found it surprisingly posy, as if one had wandered onto the set of the Blitz Club, ca 1983. Great sound and lights, though. I needn't have worried about time, because I was there early enough to see the opening acts, but I was keen to see Mona Mur and En Esch, who absolutely rocked. The live show very much lets the album off its leash, even if a lot of the music comes from a computer. They also had a live drummer, which helps. Mur is the quintessential show-woman, all aggression and blood lust, while guitarist Esch is an unusual mixture of menace and knock-kneed geekiness. Set-closer "Die Ballade vom Ertrunkenen Mädchen" was the icing on the cake.

Family Gatherings

Two gatherings in a space of 15 hours in extremely chilly Berlin: the Queer Punk Thingy in Kreuzberg and Suppe und Mucke in Friedrichshain. The first was at the long-standing Köpi project and featured an array of bands, performance artists and a film programme catering to the queer punkerati.

First stop was a showing of Taxi zum Klo, viewed from extremely uncomfortable benches in freezing conditions. It's December in September! Then off to see a coprophilic performance duo, then some electro pop with glitter. All in all, a fine evening's entertainment, even if now I find myself flagging where once I got a second wind. Am I still a night person?


The next day was a blur of strollers, face-painting and long queues for soup at the Kiez event Suppe und Mucke. I don't know whose idea it was to mix soup and music, but, hey, why not? Didn't actually sample much of either, but for mere minutes the sun shone and it almost seemed like summer.

The art of eccentricity

As I write this, I am listening to Jude Cowan's CD, Doodlebug Alley, handed to me by the artist as I left last night's 12-Bar Club gig, part of the London Fringe. It was an enjoyable evening, full of poets and musicians and plenty of amusing audience-performer interaction (some unwanted).

In all the years I have lived in London, I've never actually set foot in the club, and I was fascinated to see a forge dated 1635 form part of the back wall of the main stage. The sound engineer informed me it was used to make horseshoes. I am impressed to think it must have survived the Great Fire. But, I digress...

Cowan performed in the front room, a quirky, pigtailed figure adopting a knock-kneed stance usually seen by rockabilly guitarists, but here matched with a concert ukulele, face scrunched up, the better to add a melodramatic visual element to her idiosyncratic songs. I would have termed her style "English eccentric", had I not been warned via a pre-gig comment by fellow performer Helen McCookerybook, that they are neither English nor singer-songwriters. So, perhaps "British eccentric" is more accurate. Cowan's is quite a melodramatic style, full of dramatic pauses, knowing intonations and clever wordplay. "The Lure of Paris" made repeated mention of a "boring banker" in such a barbed way as to suggest it was cockney rhyming slang. Another number very amusingly riffed on "red Berlin" and the narrator's various romantic escapades.


Later, Helen McCookerybook took to the main stage for her soundcheck and was immediately engaged by a grizzled eccentric-in-residence who questioned her as to whether they had met before. Barefoot, she then carried on a running dialogue with the folk in the balcony, flashing a steely smile to go with her deceptively gentle tunes. Speak softly and carry a big Gretsch, I think. I recognised a few songs, as she was my first live performing guest on Odd Girl Out, but this was the first time I saw her play electric guitar. Seeking the sympathy vote for her sore thumb, she showed off her jazz chords, and played a brisk, engaging set, selected from the luggage tag she had tied to her guitar neck. She was very proud of this innovation and predicted it will sweep the folkerati circuit.

Among the audience was Cowan's and McCookerybook's colleague Kath Tait, the third member of their tongue-in-cheek group the Desperado Housewives ("on the run from husbands and housework"). Their next themed gig, on the subject of cowboys, is on 9 September at the Montague Arms in New Cross.

Sound in Vision

I just found out my film War With Love is screening next Saturday as part of the Sound in Vision Festival at the Clapham Picturehouse in South London.

Although it's been online, it's only the second screening of War With Love, my lo-fi-black-and-white-super-imposed-melancholic epic, shot in wintry Berlin.

As I quite like mixing visuals with music, it's a pleasure to be part of this bill. There doesn't seem to be a line-up online yet, but I have received details.

Sound in Vision Festival, 28 August:

2pm – The Henry Brothers

3pm – Short Films – The Best from Local Film makers

4pm – Marta Fontanals-Simmons

4.30pm – Short Films – The Best from Local Film makers

5pm – Benjamin Folk Thomas & Jack Day - Country Folk Duo

6pm – Short Films – The Best from Local Film makers

7pm – Amaziah

8pm – The Stepsons

There is no admission fee, but, as it's a benefit for PLAN International, donations are welcome.

New Odd Girl Out Radio blog

I had been posting playlists for Odd Girl Out on MySpace, but I now have a dedicated site for my radio show, Odd Girl Out Radio.

The new site will feature playlists from the show, as well as other features, which will be introduced over time. I shall also be moving a few of my Blogroll sites over there. Keep checking back!

Tonight at Old Police Station: Yuck house

Tonight is a benefit for Optical and pH7 radio stations at the Old Police Station in New Cross, London.

It features performances in the garden, live bands in the interview room and will be streamed live on the two stations. An exhibition, Yuck house, will be on in the cells. The bar opens at 5pm. £5 donation entry.

Sleigh Bells

Rough Trade East, London
10 August

At last, a foray out of my contemplative, tree-hugging reverie and back into gigland! Well, an in-store at Rough Trade's hipster eastie offspring in Brick Lane. I used to live in this 'hood earlier in the century, just as it was becoming achingly trendified. I still enjoy the odd visit, mostly to pick up bagels, but also to wander the cobblestones and gaze in the windows of shops that probably wouldn't allow me to darken their doors.

But, this jaunt was prompted by the appearance of Brooklyn noise-beats duo Sleigh Bells, whom I have played a little bit on my show. I have yet to hear the debut album, Treats, which prompted this visit to ye olde record store. And, given that much of their recorded work is highly produced, I wondered how it would translate live. As indeed, perhaps did they, because before the show, I bumped into vocalist Alexis Krauss wandering the aisles of the shop and she commented approvingly that the sound was much better than she expected. Off-stage she and bandmate Derek Miller were the model of polite, well-mannered young people (said to be in short supply nowadays)--both of them shook hands with me and Krauss offered a 120-watt smile, to boot.

Onstage they turned into raging rock beasts, with Krauss the epitome of RAWK frontwoman, complemented by Miller's choppy guitar playing. But, RAWK in a very, very good way--high energy, loud enough for ear plugs and with charisma to burn. She has the full range of poses and dance moves, as well. The only drawback was the limited "liveness" of the show, as all of the music, save Miller's guitar, came from a laptop. And when he left the stage for two or three songs, Krauss was effectively performing karaoke. But.... it's hard in the digital age to truly be live and it was a very enjoyable 35 minutes.

Afterward, the two glowing performers wandered the shop, wondering what the heck was going on, until they were ushered behind the counter to sign merchandise. Not having a copy of the record, I made my way out, back into the rain of a grey, rainswept London, bagel in hand.

Walking is good for you...

Spent a good three hours walking from Tottenham Hale to Lea Bridge Road along the Lea (or Lee) River, with a brief detour to Springfield Park for a cuppa (but the care was not yet open), back to the river, through marshes, past posing heron, following the trail of assorted geese and discarded footballs (an England one was going in circles, much like the team) and then had a cursory picnic at the standing stones of the Middlesex Filter Beds. Felt marvellously invigorated. Then slept for three hours. Now off to find something cultural to see, as this is an arts blog.

Early Riser

Up ridiculously today, owing to insomnia. Pottering about at 03:12, I took a peek toward the north, in hopes of spotting Aurora Borealis, visible because of solar storms. No such luck. Would have been a marvellous birthday present.

That's twice I have missed out. I actually visited Reykjavik a few years ago mainly to see the Northern Lights but fell foul of overcast conditions. This morning in London the stars were twinkling, the rain had moved off, but... no lights, except for human-made ones. Ah, well. Since I'm up, may as well start the day.

Making Berry

I tried to think of a more clever pun for the title, honestly I did. Anyway, just back from a glorious hour in the forest picking blackberries. Surprisingly, it's still early in the season and most are not yet ripe. The gnats were out in force, thanks to yesterday's rain. Nevertheless, I persevered and returned with two yoghurt pots' full--that's 2 kg. More than enough for a week's worth of smoothies and a decent crumble. Unless I put one pot in the freezer for the winter.

It's only recently, rather late in life, that I have discovered the joy of berrying in the summer, having moved to a flat near a forest some four years ago. With nothing else to do in the area, I took to wandering the forest, glorying in nature and discovering that some of those things growing were actually edible! Imagine. At the time, I could jump up of a morning and, still in my pyjamas, dash out for a quick forage to get enough berries for a smoothie. A reminder that city life isn't all technology and hustle bustle. Lovely.

Now, living a bit farther away, it's more of an effort, but I do try to get out there once a week, sometimes combined with some softball or a kickabout. Today, though, it was all about the berries. Previous trips have involved quite a bit of bloodshed, as those thorns are hazardous, but today the toll was merely a few scratches. Now I just have to sort the b____rs.

Frontier Blues

Due out on 30 July in the UK, the indie film Frontier Blues is the debut feature from Babak Jalali. Set in his native Iran along the northern border with Turkmenistan, the film is an absurdist meditation on loss and getting on with life. Four male characters are the leads and the film often alludes to the absence of women from their lives without ever really explaining how this came to be.

I wondered at the meaning myself: is the filmmaker commenting on the lack of visibility of women in Iran, or in his own life, or does it have some other meaning?

The characters are not especially sympathetic: one is an irascible minstrel who spends most of the film posing for an annoying photographer from Teheran keen to photograph the native population in situ, setting up one ridiculous, contrived pose after another; a second character is a frustrated factory worker in love with a woman who never speaks (the sole female character); a third is mentally and socially deficient and only really bonds with a donkey; and the fourth is the third character's uncle, running a failing clothes shop and given to long pauses staring into the middle distance.

This is a film long on atmosphere and short on plot. Many will find it annoying. I was impressed by the cinematography and the stylised way Jalali told his story, but was left a bit confused about the point he was making. And what happened to the women?

Cool as a Uke: Amanda Palmer Plays Radiohead

Or to give it its full, splendidly retro title: Amanda Palmer Performs the Popular Hits of Radiohead on Her Magical Ukulele, in which the newly-liberated-from-major-label-hell Palmer tackles six songs by prog-indie mopesters Radiohead. Perhaps it is not such a stretch, as the Oxford band share Ms. Palmer's penchant for pay-as-you-like releases: this one is available for download at 84 cents and up, to pay for licencing and admin costs. Anything above the minimum goes to Palmer and the other musicians.

So, it's totally DIY, direct selling, which is a natural progression of Palmer's online adventuring, which includes active Tweeting, aggressive merchandising and irregular webcasting. This past week, for example, she delivered a marvellously ramshackle webcast to launch the record, highlights of which were a performance of her song "Gaga, Palmer, Madonna" in the bath, as well as two versions of "Creep", one tense and a bit detached, the other rather more intimate, if tinged with fatigue. It was a gripping, if chaotic, set.

So, what do you get for your 84 cents' worth? Well, for me, the first two cuts are the weakest. "Fake Plastic Trees" and "High and Dry" sound a bit detached, as if she is still warming up. "No Surprises" sounds as if she is too close to the mic, and her downward vocal swoops are a bit melodramatic for my taste. This is a performer steeped in the stage tradition, with charisma to burn. But, these recordings are not her finest work.

Things get much more interesting on "Idioteque". There is intriguing online footage of her recording this in Australia, and the live version on the webcast was also a standout, featuring her musician chums Cormac Bride and Molly on vocals and piano. Palmer (or AFP, as she prefers to be known) also contributed some discordant percussion by striking the piano strings. On record, this song works beautifully, emotionally, and technically (if you see what I mean), whereas the preceding ones seemed almost Palmer-by-rote.

Then there are two versions of "Creep" to contend with. Having seen her perform it on ukulele earlier this year in Vienna, I am well aware how brilliantly this song works in a live setting. The album contains a soundchecked version, as well as a live one, neither of them as good as in Vienna, but what can you do? Given that the soundcheck version is parenthesised as "hungover in Berlin", one might view it with suspicion, but it actually adds a great deal of pathos to hear Palmer's rather strained vocal on the high notes. She has impressive breath control, to say the least.

In between the two "Creep"s is a piano and strings version of "Exit Music (for a Film)", the dark, reflective song with which she closed the webcast in fine style.

It will be interesting to see how Palmer negotiates the post-record label digital future. As she explained in her blog: "This whole radiohead release is a GRAND EXPERIMENT. it’s my first self-release off the label. i have no idea how the hell it’s gonna go and i’m not claiming to know what the answers are. i’m figuring out how to do this as i go along, and you’re helping me do it."

Solitary Woman: the rise of the one-woman band

I don't know if it's the allure of total control or simple economics, but I do notice a plethora of one-woman bands knocking about at the moment, laden with guitars, laptops and effects pedals.

I have had the pleasure of meeting a few of these acts recently and, indeed, next week's (22 July) Odd Girl Out features the session Golden Disko Ship did when she came in last month on a visit to the UK. She referred jokingly to her set-up as her "ego trip", albeit in a very self-deprecating way.

This week also saw the release of Girl In a Thunderbolt's album, Seven Sisters, recorded some time ago in Norway. She is already well underway with fresh material, but the tracks on here are well-produced, showcasing a distinctive vocal style keeping just this side of overly mannered and set to some moody, brooding tunes.

Also out is Lianne Hall's album, Crossing Wires. I first came across her when she was in the art-punk band Witchknot, who were mainstays of the DIY Bradford scene back in the '90s, but then lost touch with what she was doing once she moved to Brighton. I know she was in the band Pico and also playing solo, but then saw her playing last month in London. She is what I might call an amplified singer-songwriter. The songs seem to come from a foundation of acoustic guitar, but are then gussied up with electronics. Her voice, too, is made for confessional song-writing, with a plaintive, highly emotive quality. While the songs on Crossing Wires are a mixture of sparse ballads and up-tempo songs, I actually prefer the more produced ones, as they take the songs to new places.

And then there were two...

A slight detour into sport, if I may. So, it's the World Cup final tomorrow, with the 3rd place playoff having been decided today. This means that Paul, the psychic octopus, has a perfect record of predictions going into tomorrow. Will he make it a clean sweep? The suspense is unbearable.

For me, Paul has truly been the find of the tournament, sneaking in under the radar, building up strength slowly and possibly peaking at just the right time. I have mixed feelings for tomorrow, as I would like the Netherlands to win. But, Paul has gone for Spain. And, as they say, the octopus knows best. I do think if Paul finishes with a 100% record, he should get the freedom of Oberhausen. Or perhaps, just freedom.

The joys of live webcasting....

Just spent a few frustrating minutes at Sofia Talvik's webcast, having logged in an hour early as the message on her site said it would be "Live at 8pm", without specifying a time zone. As it's in Sweden, I guessed two hours ahead of BST, but was wrong.

Then, having picked up the gig a few minutes late (as I wandered elsewhere on the web), I found an over-exposed, slightly wonky camera position, a few dropouts and, after two melodious, acoustic songs.... Nothing. The feed went dead. Oh, well. That's live. Ba-dum-bum.

Ah, but it's back now. And she's speaking Swedish. No subtitles, unfortunately. But something about "acoustic Florida" (her record). Despite that sunny title, the songs are quite wintry in feel, albeit delivered in summery, al fresco fashion--acoustic guitar in hand, before an audience that seems to be chatting away, rather obliviously.

Stonewall Uprising

Those who have a vision of the 1960s as a rosy time of flower-bedraped hippies practising free love will have their eyes opened to another culture of "twilight people" slinking into Mafia-owned bars under the watchful eyes of armed police. As the doc Stonewall Uprising illustrates, even in New York City, the city's gay and lesbian population had a hard time of it. And given the criminalisation and pathologisation of alternate sexualities, it's not surprising that frustration bubbled up into violent rebellion, commonly known as the Stonewall Riots.

It's a story well told in the film, which premiered at the London Lesbian and Gay Film Festival and is now playing in the USA. Based on a book by David Carter, the film posits that what is often termed a riot was actually an uprising and that the gay rights struggle is part of a larger civil rights movement. Carter's vision is for lesbian and gay history to be seen "as part of our common human story".

When Ed Koch's grim visage popped up on the screen, I had to stifle a bitter laugh. As a native New Yorker, I well remember the confirmed bachelor's tenure as mayor of the city. But, in the 1960s, as an ambitious city council member, Koch led the "clean-up" of the gay bars in the Village, lest the upstanding straights have to be confronted with the low-life dykes and fairies who patronised places like the Stonewall Inn, which was raided by police on 27 June 1969, providing the touch paper that lit the movement for gay liberation.

One wonders how many people who gather each year for Pride parades (often now with no LGBT or Q signifiers attached, I notice) actually realise that their knees-up commemorates a violent struggle for recognition of basic human rights.

Deptford's Dreaming

It's all happening at the Old Police Station. Last night saw the opening of Ben Graville's photo exhibit, Deptford's Dreaming, in the Metropolitan Tea Rooms. The word "characters" was used a lot in the conversation of guests, as they pointed out local figures of renown or notoriety. Tea Rooms boss Jaine Laine, who presides over the yet-to-be realised Deptford Museum, which will eventually house Graville's photos, struck a sombre note as she lit a candle to honour one subject who was murdered. Graville's eye is drawn to the more marginal areas of life, the "before", rather than the "after" of local gentrification. Photos of security tags on clothes, drug paraphernalia and piles of rubbish probably aren't the face that the local authorities wish to showcase, but they reflect a scruffy defiance of homogenisation.

As guests mingled inside, perusing the pictures and quaffing wine, outside in the courtyard an array of "characters" was drawn to the window, through which the England game played on the tiniest of TVs. Rain fell, a vuvuzela was tooted and one man played guitar as a discordant accompaniment. Extraordinary.

The courtyard houses a collection of freight containers-turned-rehearsal spaces, one of which is now a recording studio, having been opened by royalty-in-residence Jaine Laine last week. The newly dubbed Amersham Vale Studios hosted its first session, as Berlin one-woman-band Golden Diskó Ship recorded five songs for my show on Optical Radio. The session will air next month. I could not be prouder, as it has been my aim to get more live music on the show, another step in our upward surge and, well, scruffy defiance of homogenisation.