Released earlier this month, I Am Kloot's fifth album received a richly deserved Mercury Music Prize nomination last week, and I wanted to take this opportunity to talk about what is a slightly quirky but utterly compelling collection of songs.
This trio of gnarled, scruffy Mancunians certainly don't look like rock stars, which is probably because they're not. For the past decade, they've chugged along very much on the margins of the north west's music scene, a secret cherished by the few in the know but largely a footnote compared to more successful neighbours such as Doves and Elbow. Their bittersweet songs lack the epic dynamics of both those bands, but singer Jonny Bramwell's eloquent tales of outsiders, underachievers, drinkers and dreamers on the margins of society are nevertheless just as memorable in their own way.
Take second track The Brink for example, which paints a vivid picture of a down at heel pub of the same name. 'They've got no rule of thumb, so on the counter I strum with my fingers. And I adore the surprise, of tomorrow's sunrise, so I linger," Bramwell croons lugubriously, backed by a sumptuous string arrangement that, like much of this album, brings to mind the best work of Richard Hawley, another highly literate northern songwriter. The pace throughout The Sky At Night is stately and unhurried, showing a group comfortable in their own skins and confident in their musicianship.
Other highlights are Lately, a bluesy late night delight, Proof, an early song re-recorded here and boasting an unforgettable hook, the country-inflected ballad It's Just The Night, and The Moon Is A Blind Eye, which matches anything in Elbow's canon for soaring atmospherics without succumbing to Guy Garvey and company's empty bombast.
Funnily enough, Garvey and his bandmate Craig Potter produce The Sky At Night, seemingly keen to help I Am Kloot join Manchester's musical aristocracy, and you wouldn't bet against them succeeding. This often sublime album may be a little understated and melancholy for some tastes, but the quality is undeniable throughout, with added orchestration bringing a fuller, more accessible sound than Kloot's early, stubbornly lo-fi releases.
Rating: 8 out of 10. There's few better songwriters in Britain today than Bramwell, and The Sky At Night may gain this splendid band a wider audience at last. A surprise Mercury winner?
Wednesday 28 July 2010
Sunday 25 July 2010
A morning with the Doctor
This morning, my friend Peter and I decided to forego our usual weekend brunch catch-up to attend the Dr Who prom at the Royal Albert Hall. This was prompted by a number of factors - Peter is a Prom addict who also has his own Dr Who connection (sharing a name with the Doctor's fifth regeneration, you can work it out) while I as a teenage Whonatic (Derby branch) wanted the opportunity to revel in childhood nostalgia while shamelessly eyeing up the delectable Karen Gillan (aka Amy Pond) who was hosting the performance.
The Proms is a wonderfully egalitarian institution, allowing anyone who fancies it to simply rock up on the day and queue up to pay a ridiculously good value £5 to stand right next to the stage and experience some world class music. Granted, you wouldn't normally be sharing the space with small children wearing gold all in one Dalek suits and Cyberman helmets, but at a Dr Who prom, you wouldn't really expect a crowd of scholarly Albonini afficionados or flag-waving Elgar enthusiasts. I began to regret not bringing my 8 foot long Tom Baker scarf that my mother knitted for me in 1987.
Once we'd got over the fact that apart from two bemused looking Chinese women, we were the only people over 25 in the audience not accompanying their offspring, we had a thoroughly enjoyable two hours. Music from the TV show, composed by Murray Gold, alternated with vintage classic pieces that had a (usually tenuous or completely non-existent) space, time and adventure theme - for example Mars from Holst's The Planets, Wagner's Ride Of The Valkyries and O Fortuna from Orff's Carmina Burana. Holding court serenely over proceedings wearing a most fetching evening dress was the aforementioned Ms Gillan, reading off an autocue with applomb despite being dazzled by the flashing of hundreds of camera phones.
Performed by the BBC National Orchestra of Wales accompanied by the London Philharmonic Choir, the compositions from the Dr Who series swung from breathless bombast to lumpen schmaltz, characterised by the kind of derivative blandness that one generally comes to expect from incidental music. To stop everyone getting bored during these sections, big screens showed clips of the most recent series and best of all, a random selection of monsters were occasionally let loose in the arena and allowed to wander around. As a result, I was able to enjoy a brief flirtation with a Venetian vampire girl, photograph the back of a Silurian's head and watch a Dalek appear from under the floorboards and order us to switch off our mobile phones or be exterminated. In the second half, the current Doctor (Matt Smith) himself made an appearance, teaming up with a randomly selected, bow-tie sporting small boy sat in the stalls to save the Albert Hall from a flouresecent glowing chemistery set that was apparently going to blow us all sky high. Great stuff.
Proceedings closed with a predictable gallop through the programme's timeless theme tune, which in its own way is just as memorable a piece of music as the more established classics we'd heard earlier on. On the bus back to Stockwell, after debating the full array of Dr Who villains Peter and I agreed that for a supposedly elitist activity, classical music is in fact incredibly accessible. What other type of performance in London could you enjoy for the price of a pint of imported Belgian wheat beer? Or even looking across the whole country, when was the last time you could get into any professional football match for £5?
The Proms is a wonderfully egalitarian institution, allowing anyone who fancies it to simply rock up on the day and queue up to pay a ridiculously good value £5 to stand right next to the stage and experience some world class music. Granted, you wouldn't normally be sharing the space with small children wearing gold all in one Dalek suits and Cyberman helmets, but at a Dr Who prom, you wouldn't really expect a crowd of scholarly Albonini afficionados or flag-waving Elgar enthusiasts. I began to regret not bringing my 8 foot long Tom Baker scarf that my mother knitted for me in 1987.
Once we'd got over the fact that apart from two bemused looking Chinese women, we were the only people over 25 in the audience not accompanying their offspring, we had a thoroughly enjoyable two hours. Music from the TV show, composed by Murray Gold, alternated with vintage classic pieces that had a (usually tenuous or completely non-existent) space, time and adventure theme - for example Mars from Holst's The Planets, Wagner's Ride Of The Valkyries and O Fortuna from Orff's Carmina Burana. Holding court serenely over proceedings wearing a most fetching evening dress was the aforementioned Ms Gillan, reading off an autocue with applomb despite being dazzled by the flashing of hundreds of camera phones.
Performed by the BBC National Orchestra of Wales accompanied by the London Philharmonic Choir, the compositions from the Dr Who series swung from breathless bombast to lumpen schmaltz, characterised by the kind of derivative blandness that one generally comes to expect from incidental music. To stop everyone getting bored during these sections, big screens showed clips of the most recent series and best of all, a random selection of monsters were occasionally let loose in the arena and allowed to wander around. As a result, I was able to enjoy a brief flirtation with a Venetian vampire girl, photograph the back of a Silurian's head and watch a Dalek appear from under the floorboards and order us to switch off our mobile phones or be exterminated. In the second half, the current Doctor (Matt Smith) himself made an appearance, teaming up with a randomly selected, bow-tie sporting small boy sat in the stalls to save the Albert Hall from a flouresecent glowing chemistery set that was apparently going to blow us all sky high. Great stuff.
Proceedings closed with a predictable gallop through the programme's timeless theme tune, which in its own way is just as memorable a piece of music as the more established classics we'd heard earlier on. On the bus back to Stockwell, after debating the full array of Dr Who villains Peter and I agreed that for a supposedly elitist activity, classical music is in fact incredibly accessible. What other type of performance in London could you enjoy for the price of a pint of imported Belgian wheat beer? Or even looking across the whole country, when was the last time you could get into any professional football match for £5?
Wednesday 21 July 2010
DVD review - Mesrine: Killer Instinct & Public Enemy No.1
Traditionally, French cinema is better know for its slow burning, intellectually challenging arthouse films than for action packed gangster movies. But recent efforts such as A Prophet and last year's Mesrine double bill have proved that our friends across the channel are capable of kicking ass as well as filming ass delicately and tastefully through a soft focus lense.
The latter films, a two part biopic of legendary armed robber and prison breaker Jacques Mesrine directed by Jean Francois Richet, were recently released together in the UK on DVD. They tell the story of Mesrine's journey from a reluctant killer while serving in the army in Algeria in the 1950s to the gun toting underworld kingpin who was the most wanted man in France for much of the 1970s.
The first film, Killer Instinct, is the better of the two, showing how Jacques, played by top French actor Vincent Cassel (La Haine, Oceans 12 & 13) used the ruthlessness he acquired in the army to rise swiftly through the ranks of the Parisian organised crime fraternity, headed by an always charismatic (and now immensely fat) Gerard Depardieu. After his marriage fails and he upsets a few too many rivals, he hides out in Quebec with his new lover, but can't resist a life of crime and ends up inside Canada's most brutal correction unit. Undeterred, he orchestrates an ingenious escape in a tense scene that's the film's highlight, and as the film closes Mesrine is still at large, despite a suicidal return to the prison to try and free his fellow inmates.
Public Enemy Number One is less impressive, as the events of the first installment are largely repeated again and again back in Paris with increasing levels of ludicrousness. Mesrine seduces a succession of impossibly chic women, commits ever more daring crimes, gets captured and then promptly escapes, while all the time relentlessly constructing his own personality cult through a series of clandestine press interviews. Set when the 70s were in full swing, Public Enemy Number One's frequent car chases, shoot outs and vintage hair cuts make it feel a little like a Gallic version of The Sweeney, although Mesrine's irrespressible fondness for implausible disguises also bring to mind the A Team's Hannibal Smith. He even lights a big cigar in one scene while dressed as some kind of moustachioed pornography baron.
The end of the film is unsurprising, and leaves one feeling rather ambivalent about the central character. Jacques Mesrine is not terribly complex or interesting - apart from the first five minutes of Killer Instinct, he's a nasty bastard, albeit an uncommonly resourceful one, and he's still a nasty bastard when Public Enemy Number One ends nearly four hours later.
Rating - 6 out of 10: A watchable account of a remarkable criminal career, but unlikely to challenge The Godfather series in the pantheon of great gangster movies.
The latter films, a two part biopic of legendary armed robber and prison breaker Jacques Mesrine directed by Jean Francois Richet, were recently released together in the UK on DVD. They tell the story of Mesrine's journey from a reluctant killer while serving in the army in Algeria in the 1950s to the gun toting underworld kingpin who was the most wanted man in France for much of the 1970s.
The first film, Killer Instinct, is the better of the two, showing how Jacques, played by top French actor Vincent Cassel (La Haine, Oceans 12 & 13) used the ruthlessness he acquired in the army to rise swiftly through the ranks of the Parisian organised crime fraternity, headed by an always charismatic (and now immensely fat) Gerard Depardieu. After his marriage fails and he upsets a few too many rivals, he hides out in Quebec with his new lover, but can't resist a life of crime and ends up inside Canada's most brutal correction unit. Undeterred, he orchestrates an ingenious escape in a tense scene that's the film's highlight, and as the film closes Mesrine is still at large, despite a suicidal return to the prison to try and free his fellow inmates.
Public Enemy Number One is less impressive, as the events of the first installment are largely repeated again and again back in Paris with increasing levels of ludicrousness. Mesrine seduces a succession of impossibly chic women, commits ever more daring crimes, gets captured and then promptly escapes, while all the time relentlessly constructing his own personality cult through a series of clandestine press interviews. Set when the 70s were in full swing, Public Enemy Number One's frequent car chases, shoot outs and vintage hair cuts make it feel a little like a Gallic version of The Sweeney, although Mesrine's irrespressible fondness for implausible disguises also bring to mind the A Team's Hannibal Smith. He even lights a big cigar in one scene while dressed as some kind of moustachioed pornography baron.
The end of the film is unsurprising, and leaves one feeling rather ambivalent about the central character. Jacques Mesrine is not terribly complex or interesting - apart from the first five minutes of Killer Instinct, he's a nasty bastard, albeit an uncommonly resourceful one, and he's still a nasty bastard when Public Enemy Number One ends nearly four hours later.
Rating - 6 out of 10: A watchable account of a remarkable criminal career, but unlikely to challenge The Godfather series in the pantheon of great gangster movies.
Sunday 18 July 2010
Album Of The Week: Danger Mouse & Sparklehorse - Dark Night Of The Soul
Normally, a musical liaison between a chart topping hip-hop producer and a cult indie singer-songwriter would be an unlikely concept indeed, but as we have discovered over recent years, Brian Burton, aka Danger Mouse, refuses to be restricted by genre boundaries.
Not that he was ever a true 'hip-hop' producer in any case, his time in Gnarls Barkley notwithstanding. The Mouse's lofty reputation stems from 2004's Grey Album, where he ingeniously mixed Jay Z raps with musical samples from the Beatles' White Album, incurring the wrath of EMI in the process. Since then, he's also worked with the likes of Beck, the Black Keys and Bright Eyes, hardly a roll call of hip-hop royalty, as well as collaborating with James Mercer of jangle-popsters The Shins earlier this year on the excellent Broken Bells project.
Dark Night Of The Soul sees Danger Mouse teaming up with the late Sparklehorse frontman Mark Linkous, who had recorded a series of bleakly melodic, critically acclaimed albums over the past 15 years before committing suicide in March. This collection of his songs, recorded last summer with a host of star vocalists and his more famous friend at the production controls, was finally released last week after further legal wranglings with EMI.
Rather like the most recent offering from another of Danger Mouse's clients - Gorillaz (he produced Demon Days in 2005, although not Plastic Beach) Dark Night Of The Soul suffers somewhat from too big a cast list as the great and the good line up to work with Linkous. Not only do we have such indie luminaries as Gruff Rhys of the Super Furries, Black Francis of the Pixies and Julian Casablancas of the Strokes, but also Iggy Pop, Suzanne Vega and even legendary film director David Lynch, who produced a book of photographs to accompany the project.
The problem this creates is that most of these vocalists are so recognisable, the tracks they front more often than not end up sounding very similar to their own records, leaving Dark Night Of The Soul struggling to settle on one cohesive style. For example, opener Revenge, with the Flaming Lips, could have been lifted straight from Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, while the demented hollering of Francis and Iggy on Angel's Harp and Pain respectively doesn't really sit comfortably with Linkous's spectral, understated melodies. Even Danger Mouse's trademark mellow beats and fuzzy, fairground soundscapes sound a little incongruous here, while Linkous is largely content to sit in the background.
The most effective songs here feature less showy, more easily integrated artists like Jason Lytle (ex-Granddaddy) whose high, plaintive vocal lends itself well to the wistful Jaykoub and Everytime I'm With You. And it's only on the last two songs - Vic Chesnutt's apocalyptic turn on Grim Augury, where he chants menacingly about 'catfish wriggling in blood and gore in the kitchen sink' and Lynch's distant murmuring over distorted piano chords on the title track - that this album really sounds like a dark night of the soul, evoking the nightmarish imagery that characterises so many of the latter's own films.
Rating: 6 out of 10. Some good moments, and enjoyable throughout, but not the triumph it could have been and lacking the consistency of other work by both Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse.
Not that he was ever a true 'hip-hop' producer in any case, his time in Gnarls Barkley notwithstanding. The Mouse's lofty reputation stems from 2004's Grey Album, where he ingeniously mixed Jay Z raps with musical samples from the Beatles' White Album, incurring the wrath of EMI in the process. Since then, he's also worked with the likes of Beck, the Black Keys and Bright Eyes, hardly a roll call of hip-hop royalty, as well as collaborating with James Mercer of jangle-popsters The Shins earlier this year on the excellent Broken Bells project.
Dark Night Of The Soul sees Danger Mouse teaming up with the late Sparklehorse frontman Mark Linkous, who had recorded a series of bleakly melodic, critically acclaimed albums over the past 15 years before committing suicide in March. This collection of his songs, recorded last summer with a host of star vocalists and his more famous friend at the production controls, was finally released last week after further legal wranglings with EMI.
Rather like the most recent offering from another of Danger Mouse's clients - Gorillaz (he produced Demon Days in 2005, although not Plastic Beach) Dark Night Of The Soul suffers somewhat from too big a cast list as the great and the good line up to work with Linkous. Not only do we have such indie luminaries as Gruff Rhys of the Super Furries, Black Francis of the Pixies and Julian Casablancas of the Strokes, but also Iggy Pop, Suzanne Vega and even legendary film director David Lynch, who produced a book of photographs to accompany the project.
The problem this creates is that most of these vocalists are so recognisable, the tracks they front more often than not end up sounding very similar to their own records, leaving Dark Night Of The Soul struggling to settle on one cohesive style. For example, opener Revenge, with the Flaming Lips, could have been lifted straight from Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, while the demented hollering of Francis and Iggy on Angel's Harp and Pain respectively doesn't really sit comfortably with Linkous's spectral, understated melodies. Even Danger Mouse's trademark mellow beats and fuzzy, fairground soundscapes sound a little incongruous here, while Linkous is largely content to sit in the background.
The most effective songs here feature less showy, more easily integrated artists like Jason Lytle (ex-Granddaddy) whose high, plaintive vocal lends itself well to the wistful Jaykoub and Everytime I'm With You. And it's only on the last two songs - Vic Chesnutt's apocalyptic turn on Grim Augury, where he chants menacingly about 'catfish wriggling in blood and gore in the kitchen sink' and Lynch's distant murmuring over distorted piano chords on the title track - that this album really sounds like a dark night of the soul, evoking the nightmarish imagery that characterises so many of the latter's own films.
Rating: 6 out of 10. Some good moments, and enjoyable throughout, but not the triumph it could have been and lacking the consistency of other work by both Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse.
Tuesday 13 July 2010
Restaurant review - O Moinho, Stockwell
With its grim tower blocks, down at heel pubs and extensive array of fried chicken takeaways, it would probably be pushing it a little to suggest that Stockwell is the UK's answer to Lisbon, but what is undeniable is that this particular corner of South London has become home to the largest population of Portuguese people in the country.
As in many other areas of the capital, this concentration of one nationality has spawned a range of restaurants reflecting this demographic, offering a welcome alternative to the rancid poultry carcass in a box option referred to above. Nevertheless, it has taken me almost four years of living in Stockwell to venture out for my first Portuguese meal, which I finally got round to doing the other day.
O Moinho, on the Wandsworth Road backing onto Larkhall Park, has a reputation as the venue of choice for the Iberian diaspora, and as my friend and I arrived the majority of what is a pretty small space was being prepared for what we were informed was a birthday party. With its pristine white table cloths, ornate traditionally tiled walls and sparkling wine glasses, clearly cheap and cheerful was not O Moinho's selling point.
Unperturbed, we sat down outside and tried to imagine we were in the Algarve rather than the London Borough of Lambeth, selecting an (excellent) bottle of Douro, a Portuguese red, to help us along. Service was swift and friendly, and after dabbling with the bread and olives we moved straight onto the main course. This was when the culture shock I hadn't bargained on suddenly reared its head.
Not being in the mood for octopus, fish stew or the other options on the predominantly piscine menu, I plumped for the seemingly innocuous special of chicken with rice, but was informed by a clearly concerned waitress that this dish was not suitable for English tastes as the sauce was made with chicken's blood, rendering it inedible even to some Portuguese.
Instead of doing the sensible thing and ordering a steak, I went ahead with my original choice and was confronted by a steaming pot of meat and bone that looked like it belonged in a medieval shepherd's hut rather than a 21st century dining establishment. Strangely enough, once I got used to spitting out the occasional rib, the unsophisticated but hearty taste was not actually unpleasant, and I could sense the organic, unpoilt goodness of the ingredients seeping out into my mouth. Nevertheless, it was not an experience I would care to repeat and I received a wry 'I told you so' glance when our table was cleared with my plate half full. My companion's suckling pig was also dismissed as a little too crunchy, with the baffling addition of a large pile of Walkers crinkly crisps doing little to assuage his disappointment.
At nearly £30 a head including wine, O Moinho is undoubtedly one of the more expensive dinner options in an area of London not renowned for its profusion of haute cuisine, and while I could not fault the welcome we recieved, my conclusion would be that this restaurant is best suited to those more familiar with the Portuguese palate. The curious would be advised to check out one of the several cheaper alternatives on the South Lambeth Road, where I understand a good range of tapas is available with blood and bones strictly limited.
O Moinho, 355 Wandsworth Road, Stockwell. Tel: 020 7498 6333
As in many other areas of the capital, this concentration of one nationality has spawned a range of restaurants reflecting this demographic, offering a welcome alternative to the rancid poultry carcass in a box option referred to above. Nevertheless, it has taken me almost four years of living in Stockwell to venture out for my first Portuguese meal, which I finally got round to doing the other day.
O Moinho, on the Wandsworth Road backing onto Larkhall Park, has a reputation as the venue of choice for the Iberian diaspora, and as my friend and I arrived the majority of what is a pretty small space was being prepared for what we were informed was a birthday party. With its pristine white table cloths, ornate traditionally tiled walls and sparkling wine glasses, clearly cheap and cheerful was not O Moinho's selling point.
Unperturbed, we sat down outside and tried to imagine we were in the Algarve rather than the London Borough of Lambeth, selecting an (excellent) bottle of Douro, a Portuguese red, to help us along. Service was swift and friendly, and after dabbling with the bread and olives we moved straight onto the main course. This was when the culture shock I hadn't bargained on suddenly reared its head.
Not being in the mood for octopus, fish stew or the other options on the predominantly piscine menu, I plumped for the seemingly innocuous special of chicken with rice, but was informed by a clearly concerned waitress that this dish was not suitable for English tastes as the sauce was made with chicken's blood, rendering it inedible even to some Portuguese.
Instead of doing the sensible thing and ordering a steak, I went ahead with my original choice and was confronted by a steaming pot of meat and bone that looked like it belonged in a medieval shepherd's hut rather than a 21st century dining establishment. Strangely enough, once I got used to spitting out the occasional rib, the unsophisticated but hearty taste was not actually unpleasant, and I could sense the organic, unpoilt goodness of the ingredients seeping out into my mouth. Nevertheless, it was not an experience I would care to repeat and I received a wry 'I told you so' glance when our table was cleared with my plate half full. My companion's suckling pig was also dismissed as a little too crunchy, with the baffling addition of a large pile of Walkers crinkly crisps doing little to assuage his disappointment.
At nearly £30 a head including wine, O Moinho is undoubtedly one of the more expensive dinner options in an area of London not renowned for its profusion of haute cuisine, and while I could not fault the welcome we recieved, my conclusion would be that this restaurant is best suited to those more familiar with the Portuguese palate. The curious would be advised to check out one of the several cheaper alternatives on the South Lambeth Road, where I understand a good range of tapas is available with blood and bones strictly limited.
O Moinho, 355 Wandsworth Road, Stockwell. Tel: 020 7498 6333
Monday 12 July 2010
Review of the 2010 World Cup
So another World Cup is over, and once again, a tournament England will be glad to see the back of. I won't dwell on the supine performances of Capello and his 'team' here, but instead focus on some of the positives I've had the pleasure of witnessing during the past month.
It's not been a vintage feast of football compared to those hallowed World Cups of the yesteryear (although was 1970 really that great apart from Brazil I wonder?) and the vuvuzelas and Jabulanis certainly attracted more than their fair share of criticism.
Yet I felt that after an uninspiring start proceedings blossomed in the knockout stages and we were able to sit back and enjoy the dynamic counterattacking of the Germans, the sublime interpassing of the Spanish and the Jekyll and Hyde juxtaposition of dexterity and devilry displayed by both the Spanish and the Uruguayans. In short, the semi finals were contested by four accomplished, intriguing teams - and at the end of the day, the best team certainly won.
My team of the tournament: Casillas (Spain), Lahm (Germany), Puyol (Spain), Lucio (Brazil), Ramos (Spain), Schweinsteiger (Germany), Sneijder (Holland), Iniesta (Spain), Muller (Germany) Forlan (Uruguay), Villa (Spain)
Honourable mentions: Honda (Japan), Maicon (Brazil), Mascherano (Argentina), Mertesacker (Germany), Kingston (Ghana)
Best goal: Villa v Honduras - one of the few examples of a player actually dribbling past opponents coupled with a stunning finish while off balance.
Honourable mentions: Tevez's netbusting shot v Mexico, Suarez's curler v South Korea, Van Bronckhorst's long range thunderbolt v Uruguay
Best manager: Joachim Low (Germany) for nurturing such a vibrant young team and for resembling a Teutonic Bryan Ferry.
Honourable mention: Fabio Capello (England) - not for anything he orchestrated on the pitch or anywhere else in South Africa, but for convincing the English public beforehand he was some kind of managerial messiah when he clearly hasn't got a clue.
Best pundit: Clarence Seedorf (BBC) - for remaining impeccably chilled out and articulate over the past four weeks despite the demented rantings of the Scot and the Geordie sat on either side of him.
Honourable mention: Paul The Octopus
It's not been a vintage feast of football compared to those hallowed World Cups of the yesteryear (although was 1970 really that great apart from Brazil I wonder?) and the vuvuzelas and Jabulanis certainly attracted more than their fair share of criticism.
Yet I felt that after an uninspiring start proceedings blossomed in the knockout stages and we were able to sit back and enjoy the dynamic counterattacking of the Germans, the sublime interpassing of the Spanish and the Jekyll and Hyde juxtaposition of dexterity and devilry displayed by both the Spanish and the Uruguayans. In short, the semi finals were contested by four accomplished, intriguing teams - and at the end of the day, the best team certainly won.
My team of the tournament: Casillas (Spain), Lahm (Germany), Puyol (Spain), Lucio (Brazil), Ramos (Spain), Schweinsteiger (Germany), Sneijder (Holland), Iniesta (Spain), Muller (Germany) Forlan (Uruguay), Villa (Spain)
Honourable mentions: Honda (Japan), Maicon (Brazil), Mascherano (Argentina), Mertesacker (Germany), Kingston (Ghana)
Best goal: Villa v Honduras - one of the few examples of a player actually dribbling past opponents coupled with a stunning finish while off balance.
Honourable mentions: Tevez's netbusting shot v Mexico, Suarez's curler v South Korea, Van Bronckhorst's long range thunderbolt v Uruguay
Best manager: Joachim Low (Germany) for nurturing such a vibrant young team and for resembling a Teutonic Bryan Ferry.
Honourable mention: Fabio Capello (England) - not for anything he orchestrated on the pitch or anywhere else in South Africa, but for convincing the English public beforehand he was some kind of managerial messiah when he clearly hasn't got a clue.
Best pundit: Clarence Seedorf (BBC) - for remaining impeccably chilled out and articulate over the past four weeks despite the demented rantings of the Scot and the Geordie sat on either side of him.
Honourable mention: Paul The Octopus
Sunday 4 July 2010
Albums Of The Year so far
As an occasional music reviewer over the past few years, principally for the BBC, I will be giving my thoughts on new album releases on this blog from time to time. I'll start the ball rolling by nominating what I believe are the best five albums released during the first half of 2010.
In no particular order:
Vampire Weekend - Contra
There's an awful lot of preppy American Ivy League graduates churning too clever by half, jerky indie pop records these days, but Brooklyn's Vampire Weekend remain worthy of the hype. Yes, almost everything they do owes a huge debt to Paul Simon's Graceland. Granted, they pretentiously pontificate on subjects like drinking horchata (apparently a traditional Spanish drink in case you care). But with melodies this joyous and beats this infectious, you can forgive them their indulgences.
Suitable for fans of: Paul Simon, MGMT, Talking Heads, DeVotchka
Beach House - Teen Dream
The Baltimore duo have been on the scene for a while now but it is only on this, their third album, that they have really hit their stride. Teen Dream boasts a dynamic that is both epic and ethereal at the same time, with Victoria LeGrand's bewitching vocals soaring gorgeously over layers of reverbing guitar and floating organ. Blissful and hypnotic, this record may well go down as 2010's Fleet Foxes and give Beach House the genuine mainstream success they richly deserve.
Suitable for fans of: Mazzy Star, The Cocteau Twins, the late 80s shoegazing scene
John Grant - The Queen Of Denmark
Imagine if ELO had grown up gay in the American Midwest and you'll have some idea what John Grant sounds like. After years of obscurity as the front man of indie underachievers The Czars, the Denver troubadour teamed up with his more successful friends Midlake to produce an album of sumptuous textures, grace and occasional humour as its creator recounts his experiences as a small town outsider. Steeped in the sounds of 70s FM rock, I should hate this record, but it's strong, piano-led melodies, perfect orchestration and Grant's warm, rich singing voice make it an unexpected triumph.
Suitable for fans of: ELO, The Carpenters, early Elton John, 10CC
Trembling Bells - Abandoned Love
If someone had put the 1969 line-up of Fairport Convention in a time capsule and reopened it this year, the album Richard Thompson, Sandy Denny and company made next would quite possibly have sounded a lot like Abandoned Love. This is big, bold, dynamic folk-rock, performed with a verve a million miles away from the twee real ale supping image that bedevils much of the genre. These Glaswegians are more like the house band at the most bacchanalian of medieval banquets.
Suitable for fans of: Fairport Convention, Bellowhead, The Levellers
Broken Bells - Broken Bells
2010 is proving to be a treat for campanologists everywhere. Broken Bells is the first collaboration between indie-rock stalwart James Mercer of the Shins and electro/hip hop producer extraordinaire Danger Mouse, and they've delivered an impeccably chilled out summer album that combines the jangly melodies of Mercer's band with the sonic invention that has become the Mouse's trademark. Difficult to classify, these are essentially classic guitar pop songs put through a blender of languid beats and soundscapes to produce something quite different to anything else you'll hear this year.
Suitable for fans of: Gnarls Barkley, The Shins, Tricky, DJ Shadow
In no particular order:
Vampire Weekend - Contra
There's an awful lot of preppy American Ivy League graduates churning too clever by half, jerky indie pop records these days, but Brooklyn's Vampire Weekend remain worthy of the hype. Yes, almost everything they do owes a huge debt to Paul Simon's Graceland. Granted, they pretentiously pontificate on subjects like drinking horchata (apparently a traditional Spanish drink in case you care). But with melodies this joyous and beats this infectious, you can forgive them their indulgences.
Suitable for fans of: Paul Simon, MGMT, Talking Heads, DeVotchka
Beach House - Teen Dream
The Baltimore duo have been on the scene for a while now but it is only on this, their third album, that they have really hit their stride. Teen Dream boasts a dynamic that is both epic and ethereal at the same time, with Victoria LeGrand's bewitching vocals soaring gorgeously over layers of reverbing guitar and floating organ. Blissful and hypnotic, this record may well go down as 2010's Fleet Foxes and give Beach House the genuine mainstream success they richly deserve.
Suitable for fans of: Mazzy Star, The Cocteau Twins, the late 80s shoegazing scene
John Grant - The Queen Of Denmark
Imagine if ELO had grown up gay in the American Midwest and you'll have some idea what John Grant sounds like. After years of obscurity as the front man of indie underachievers The Czars, the Denver troubadour teamed up with his more successful friends Midlake to produce an album of sumptuous textures, grace and occasional humour as its creator recounts his experiences as a small town outsider. Steeped in the sounds of 70s FM rock, I should hate this record, but it's strong, piano-led melodies, perfect orchestration and Grant's warm, rich singing voice make it an unexpected triumph.
Suitable for fans of: ELO, The Carpenters, early Elton John, 10CC
Trembling Bells - Abandoned Love
If someone had put the 1969 line-up of Fairport Convention in a time capsule and reopened it this year, the album Richard Thompson, Sandy Denny and company made next would quite possibly have sounded a lot like Abandoned Love. This is big, bold, dynamic folk-rock, performed with a verve a million miles away from the twee real ale supping image that bedevils much of the genre. These Glaswegians are more like the house band at the most bacchanalian of medieval banquets.
Suitable for fans of: Fairport Convention, Bellowhead, The Levellers
Broken Bells - Broken Bells
2010 is proving to be a treat for campanologists everywhere. Broken Bells is the first collaboration between indie-rock stalwart James Mercer of the Shins and electro/hip hop producer extraordinaire Danger Mouse, and they've delivered an impeccably chilled out summer album that combines the jangly melodies of Mercer's band with the sonic invention that has become the Mouse's trademark. Difficult to classify, these are essentially classic guitar pop songs put through a blender of languid beats and soundscapes to produce something quite different to anything else you'll hear this year.
Suitable for fans of: Gnarls Barkley, The Shins, Tricky, DJ Shadow
Who will win the World Cup?
Well, I'll say fairly confidently that I don't think it will be Uruguay. Yet such has been this tournament's capacity to surprise, even the prospect of Diego Lugano (no, I'd never heard of him either) hoisting the famous gold trophy aloft a week today cannot be completely dismissed.
With Brazil and Argentina emphatically failing to live up to expectations when the going got a little tougher, the chances of a European victor look nailed on barring two miraculous performances from Lugano's lads. Deprived of their most creative player, Luis Suarez, by the Ajax striker's impromptu display of goalkeeping prowess on Friday, the last remaining hope for South American success will surely be swept aside by the increasingly impressive Dutch in Tuesday's first semi-final.
The men in orange stepped up to the plate superbly against the much-fancied Brazilians, and in Robben, Sneijder and Van Persie they have individuals capable of winning games against better teams than Uruguay. Barring over-confidence or a sudden return of the internal squabbling that has so often been the undoing of previous talented but temperamental Dutch teams, expect BeRt Van Maarwijk's men to be in Soccer City on 11 July.
The other semi-final is harder to call - the patient, intricate passing of European champions Spain against the tournament's revelation in the shape of a resurgent, uncharacteristically cavalier Germany. England's nemesis have scored four goals in successive matches against two supposed powerhouses of the global game, and while both opponents were ultimately exposed as defensively shambolic, tactically inept and lacking the collective will to fight in adversity, Joachim Low's team nevertheless took their chances with a clinical applomb unmatched by any other nation in this World Cup.
I fancy the Germans to continue their irresistible momentum against a decorative but often toothless Spanish side. They cannot keep relying on the talismanic David Villa to get them out of trouble and for all their pretty patterns in midfield, the nagging doubt remains that if Barcelona's new signing doesn't deliver, alternative sources of goals are thin on the ground. Especially as Fernando Torres, so deadly for Liverpool, is currently playing more like his club teammate David Ngog.
A Holland v Germany final then - now who would have predicted that a month ago??
With Brazil and Argentina emphatically failing to live up to expectations when the going got a little tougher, the chances of a European victor look nailed on barring two miraculous performances from Lugano's lads. Deprived of their most creative player, Luis Suarez, by the Ajax striker's impromptu display of goalkeeping prowess on Friday, the last remaining hope for South American success will surely be swept aside by the increasingly impressive Dutch in Tuesday's first semi-final.
The men in orange stepped up to the plate superbly against the much-fancied Brazilians, and in Robben, Sneijder and Van Persie they have individuals capable of winning games against better teams than Uruguay. Barring over-confidence or a sudden return of the internal squabbling that has so often been the undoing of previous talented but temperamental Dutch teams, expect BeRt Van Maarwijk's men to be in Soccer City on 11 July.
The other semi-final is harder to call - the patient, intricate passing of European champions Spain against the tournament's revelation in the shape of a resurgent, uncharacteristically cavalier Germany. England's nemesis have scored four goals in successive matches against two supposed powerhouses of the global game, and while both opponents were ultimately exposed as defensively shambolic, tactically inept and lacking the collective will to fight in adversity, Joachim Low's team nevertheless took their chances with a clinical applomb unmatched by any other nation in this World Cup.
I fancy the Germans to continue their irresistible momentum against a decorative but often toothless Spanish side. They cannot keep relying on the talismanic David Villa to get them out of trouble and for all their pretty patterns in midfield, the nagging doubt remains that if Barcelona's new signing doesn't deliver, alternative sources of goals are thin on the ground. Especially as Fernando Torres, so deadly for Liverpool, is currently playing more like his club teammate David Ngog.
A Holland v Germany final then - now who would have predicted that a month ago??
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