Flash Fashion Fix

I haven't got anything I venture to write a long post on, so here's a magnificent photo Stephanie Janes by Pasquale Abbattista from a 1991 L'Officiel.

So many things I love about early 90s fashion in one photo: the simple elegance of the dress combined with creative drapery, bold print, short hair, background romantically out of focus, alluring monochrome... The bracelets are a bit much, but life can't be perfect. Don't you just live in that photo? Her life looks infinitely exciting.

Review: The Cribs - For All My Sisters

There a few bands of whom I can say that I've adored every single song on every single album, but the Cribs have always been one of them. Since their last two albums, Ignore the Ignorant and In the Belly of the Brazen Bull, have been their best, I had extremely high expectations for their new release For All My Sisters. The Cribs have been around since the early 2000s and their output has been uniformly stellar, if a little uniform. They have an energy and enthusiasm that is not only infectious but that I find almost life-affirming in its hopefulness and irrepressability. I missed seeing them live in the UK, but saw them at a tiny venue in Pontiac, Michigan in 2012 and even in that miniscule dump with a small and confused audience, they were explosive and euphoric, and it's remained one of the best concerts I have ever attended. The Cribs are also remarkable for having some of the coolest guest appearances ever, most notably Lee Ranaldo of Sonic Youth on 'Be Safe' and of course Johnny Marr on Ignore the Ignorant.

So perhaps it was the sky-high expectations that let me down in terms of the new album. The band had promised that this album would be more 'pop', but it is actually just a less sparkling return to their early sound on the first two albums. It's a good album, but it's no Ignore the Ignorant, which was a fantastic mess of unforgettable hooks, Marr's signature luxuriant guitar, punkish harmonies, and raw emotion; or In the Belly of the Brazen Bull, filled with such anger, fire, and catchy melodies as to be anthemic. For All My Sisters is the Cribs being the Cribs, but we've seen them be the Cribs better.

Probably the most typical Cribs song (and the best) is 'Different Angle', which could just as easily have been on the first album. It has the bubbly, dance-y sound of 'Mirror Kissers' and the trademark jaded chorus ('if you look at me from a different angle/do you see something that you just can't handle?') augmented by harmonies and is satisfyingly catchy and vivacious. Other routine Cribs fare is 'Mr. Wrong', 'Burning for No One', and 'Diamond Girl'. The Cribs' slower songs have always been hit or dangerously-close-to-miss ('Stick to Yr Guns' was a moody, swirling masterpiece while 'It Was Only Love' was a bit weak). The dragging 'Pink Snow', the last song on the new album, certainly leaves a bitter taste in my mouth; it's overlong, makes no sense, and doesn't have a strong melody. Same for the acoustic 'Simple Story'; Ryan Jarman rambles pointlessly in a roughened voice with less than his usual poetic punk sensibility, lost amid confused metaphors of dogs and wolves and moons. Many of the songs (most notably 'Spring on Broadway') are simply pointless and directionless and lack the band's usual degree of fervour and many feel very formulaic ('An Ivory Hand' and 'Pacific Time' specifically).

In general, I would say that I liked it, but didn't love it. A lot feels obligatory. But I still found myself walking around with the chorus to 'Mr. Wrong' ('all along I was always Mr. Wrong/But I want you to believe that it's alright/I believe that it's alright when we met') or 'Diamond Girl' ('Sometimes I wonder if I got you wrong/You don't have to agree/We're not as straight as you want us to be) playing irresistibly in my head. It can still muster up the energy and excitement of the earlier albums, it still has the spirit (or most of it anyways). But having heard the likes of 'Victims of Mass Production', 'Cheat on Me', and 'Come On, Be a No-One', I can't help comparing this album to the band's former glories and finding it wanting, kind of late to the party. Hopefully, their next album (supposed to be released later this year), which has been promised to be more of a punk creation, will be better. If not, I'd say it's time for the Cribs to call it a day.

Review: The Sea by John Banville

I must confess that I have scarcely ever ventured into this century's literature. To be completely honest, it is seldom that I have even ventured into the latter half of the last century's. My attempts at an acquaintance with new novels have been nipped in the bud by endless bestseller lists featuring books of such abominable quality that I felt the need to retreat to Victorian novels after reading a few sentences. I also happen to have incredibly strong preferences; I can acknowledge that a book is good, even great, but am not touched by it. I inevitably seek books that enchant me, that seduce me. In one way this is a blessing, because I can tell by opening a book to a random page and reading half a paragraph, whether it is the right sort of book, but it is also a curse, as I simply cannot bring myself to catch up with 'classics' unless they are forced down my throat in class. This is why I still have not, to my mother's horror, read 1984, but have read Le Morte D'Arthur three times. However, I feel that it is definitely time to expand my reading horizons and after going through endless lists of best British/English-language novels of the past few years and scanning through numerous books in the library, I settled on The Sea, which drew me by its dense, lush language.

The first thing I have to say is that John Banville (as everyone has noted) recalls no author as strongly as Nabokov. At times, the book seemed like a humiliatingly long caravan of words I did not know ambling along through its rather short length. My vocabulary is not the worst in the world, and I have not had to go running for the dictionary (or now my phone) this often since middle school. However, Banville's clear delight in his choice of words communicates itself to the reader, communicated itself even to me as I miserably scolded myself for my ignorance as I looked up the millionth word I did not know and will probably never remember. He chooses the rarest, most fascinating, descriptive, colourful words imaginable, making everything distant and infinitely interesting. His peacock's tail of a vocabulary serves to make everything he writes about, even the most dreary, depressing, and/or disagreeable subjects, romantic and desirable.

His writing imbues the everyday, the dull, even the disgusting, with a poetry that casts a new light on life. There's the incredible way he describes a remembered game of chase; 'I see the game as a series of vivid tableaux, glimpsed instants of movement all rush and colour: Rose from the waist up racing through the ferns in her red shirt, her head held high and her black hair streaming behind her; Myles, with a streak of fern-juice on his forehead like warpaint, trying to wriggle out of my grasp as I dug my claw deeper into his flesh... another fleeting image of Rose running, this time on the hard sand beyond the clearing, where she was being chased by a wildly laughing Mrs. Grace, two barefoot maenads framed for a moment by the bole and branches of the pine, beyond them the dull-silver glint of the bay and the sky a deep unvarying matt blue all the way down to the horizon.' Banville somehow combines the child's imagination, which makes all thing mythical, with the painter's careful composition, creating a living picture for the reader.

The novel concerns an old art critic, who, in the autumn after his wife's death, returns to a sea-side retreat where he had spent a summer making the acquaintance of the Grace family as a child. The story seamlessly flows (or rather fluctuates) between the narrator's present day life, his childhood memories, and his wife's last days. One of the most compelling parts of the novel is its study of memory, the tricks it plays, what if fills in, what it leaves blank. The narrator frequently corrects himself or argues with himself; '...her hair was pale as the sunlight on the floor at her foot... But wait, this is wrong. This cannot have been the day of the kiss. When we left the picture-house it was evening, an evening after rain, and now it is the middle of the afternoon, hence that soft sunlight, that meandering breeze.' There are observations on the nature of memory; 'Memory dislikes motion, preferring to hold things still...'

And of course, there are the infinitely evocative depictions of emotions and sensations, so delicate and precise that one cannot help being awed by their beauty and veracity. Describing the aftermath of his first kiss, the narrator recalls 'I had a sense of a general, large, soft settling, as of a sheet unfurling and falling on a bed, or a tent collapsing into the cushion of its own air.' It is these stunningly and bizarrely accurate physical metaphors for emotional states and make up a large part of the book's charm.

Even the sexual thought and fantasies, that in the hands of almost any other author would be disgusting, are given a poetic illumination; '...she was at once a wraith of my imagination and a woman of unavoidable flesh and blood, of fibre and musk and milk. My hitherto hardly less than seemly dreams of rescue and amorous dalliance had by now become riotous fantasies, vivid and at the same time hopelessly lacking in essential detail, of being voluptuously overborne by her, of sinking to the ground under all her warm weight, of being rolled, of being ridden, between her thighs, my arms pinned against my breast and my face on fire, at once her demon lover and her child.' The horribly, physically repugnant last moments of his wife's life are similarly coloured with loving beauty; '...she turned her head on the damp pillow and looked at me wide-eyed in the underwater glimmer of the nighlight...I had that paralyzing sensation, part awe and part alarm, that comes over one in a sudden and unexpected encounter with a creature of the wild... I could not think, my mind seemed filled with toppling masonry... Her breath gave off a mild, dry stink, as of withered flowers.'

Overall, I was utterly entranced by the style and strength of the writing, the subject matter and plot was a little predictable, but then I wasn't reading it for the plot. It did what I always crave from a novel; made me look at life, even its most sordid and depressing aspects, in a new and more hopeful light. It's an impressive, gorgeous, and touching piece of work that is sure to stay with me.

Pulp: a band about life, death, and...

We need to talk about sex. But this isn't chocolate boxes and roses, it's dirtier than that. This isn't soft-focus film screen swooning, this isn't hardcore porno orgies, this isn't anything you've encountered in popular media. This is Pulp. And the things that Pulp have to say about sex (and actually about life) are possibly the most mature, truthful, hopeful, and hilarious that you will ever encounter. Forget about that 'Brits are shy about sex' stereotype. No one is quite as candid, unapologetic, yet touchingly honest as Jarvis Cocker when it comes to dealing with it. In cultural discourse, we tend to avoid sex or speak of it very seriously as a disinfected, isolated subject matter, something to be ashamed of. Jarvis cleverly turns this attitude on its head. Nothing is off the table in his lyrics; voyeurism, loss of virginity, sex toys, porn, incest, it's all there. By directly confronting the very thing everyone avoids speaking of, he can then go on to talk about everything and anything else. Starting from the subject of sex, he then moves on to broader subjects, taking away this ridiculous power we give sex as a separate, strange act. After the first shock value of Jarvis's orgasmic gasps and explicit lyrics wears off, we're left with the feeling of 'so what's the big deal?' And that's the thing, there is no big deal. As Jarvis so eloquently says in 'This Is Hardcore'; 'that goes in there, that goes in there, and then it's over.'

Jarvis pursuing his favourite activity: (social) voyeurism

Sex in Pulp songs is a strange thing, or rather, a million different things. It's filthy ('This Is Hardcore'), it's disappointing ('Do You Remember the First Time?'), it's romantic and joyful ('The Birds in Your Garden'), it's disorienting and frightening ('Underwear'), it's graceless and awkward ('Acrylic Afternoons') but ultimately, it's just like life; all of those things at once. We either demonize of idealize sex, we can't regard it as a normal experience in life. This is what Jarvis is trying to teach us to do, to normalize sex, so then we can get on with it and figure out our lives.

Eye-rolling, twitchy, scrawny, praying mantis-like Jarvis in all his sexy glory.

Pulp, who, along with Suede, accidentally started Britpop, famously spent fifteen years sitting around in Sheffield trying to get famous, until Jarvis fell out of a window trying to impress a girl, injured his leg and hip, and wound up in the hospital. He realized that his life was going nowhere and decided to take a film course in London. Pulp of the ever-changing lineup suddenly gained fame with His 'n' Hers in 1994 and the rest, as they say, is history. Jarvis became the weirdest sex symbol ever. No one knew quite what to make of him. In interviews and articles from the start of Pulp's fame, he is consistently compared to Brett Anderson, but everyone quickly realized that Jarvis might in fact be Brett's polar opposite. Brett has said in an interview that he is 'very worried about self-parody.' Jarvis thrives on self-parody. He has a profound humility and even at the height of fame, he is not so much looking down at his audience as inviting them to sneak into the party where he doesn't belong either. Jarvis (and Pulp) were out for a bit of fun, celebrating separate moments of ordinary life, having a laugh, while Brett (and Suede) lived in the region of the epic, the grandiose. Jarvis blatantly didn't fit in, even among the misfits he dedicates 'Mis-Shapes' to. He was older than most of the members of popular bands (in his early 30s at their breakthrough), he was wiser (he seemed to have a very cerebral approach to his music and a well-thought out direction), he was scrawny and graceless and hopelessly nearsighted. But he was (and is) utterly magnetic.

I find Jarvis's personality incredibly attractive because he sticks to his ideals. That, I believe, is what makes him and Pulp so hopeful and inspiring. In a 1994 interview, Jarvis recalls going to see the Stranglers on his own at the age of 15; 'no one else in his school was interested... He wore with pride a tie his mother had crocheted for him... "I just realized that there was no way, even if I wore casuals, that I would be like everybody else... So in the end, I thought if you've got an imperfection, you may as well flaunt it and turn it into an advantage."' So basically, from the age of 15, Jarvis was just himself, wearing crocheted ties and awful sandals and making music that wasn't making the big time, was himself so persistently and thoroughly that at last it became what everyone else wanted to be. Jarvis is that ultimate rarity in music, the star who has never, in his entire career, done anything that does not fit, that is ridiculous (well, everything he does is somewhat ridiculous, I mean pathetic or cringe-worthy). Every song, every project he has been involved in (there are way too many to list) has been in accordance with his ideals. He has never tried to be anyone else. He can go out on stage and be as silly as he wants to, it will still be great because he is Jarvis Cocker and no one else. He wasn't afraid to offend or voice his opinion; besides the infamous Michael Jackson incident (which made Jarvis my hero for all eternity), he wore a sign on Top of the Pops that read 'I hate Wet Wet Wet' and later explained it in numerous interviews, he talked loudly and unspitefully about things he disliked or resented and gave good reasons for it.

But would it really be Jarvis without the cringe-worthy fashion choices?

 Jarvis is also incredibly intelligent and articulate. He made it his mission throughout his career to close the gap between life and art in a way where art augments life and not spoils it. In a 1995 NME interview, he addresses this issue simply but succinctly; 'watching loads of telly makes everything seem dramatic. Everything has a pacey story-line and a plot and good music and then life doesn't have the pacey story-line, does it? It's all over the place. Where's the great dialogue and the amazing sex? So you think, "Well, this ain't good enough!" Which is ironic; the telly isn't even real.' Jarvis's lyrics point out a million of these inconsistencies in ordinary life; we take drugs to escape but feel trapped ('Sorted for E's & Wizz'), we want sex but are unprepared for the consequences ('Babies'), we seek romance and cannot find it in conventional places and symbols ('Someone Like the Moon'). In general, we crave from experiences the ultimate satisfaction that is a figment of the media's imagination. Jarvis blames this gap between expectation and reality for the increased use of drugs; 'but generally people take more drugs now, people seem to need to exaggerate the normal, invent a less boring world of their own.' Not that he condemns drug-taking or partying, he quite willingly acknowledges that he does both and enjoys it, but he never uses drugs for creativity, which is another thing I find highly admirable about him.

Fun fact: Jarvis has said that his hands are his favourite part of his body.

So that's the charm of Pulp and Jarvis; not afraid to be kitsch or awkward as long as they're themselves, wise but never preachy, fun but cynical, witty and chatty, welcoming, enthusiastic. Listening to Pulp makes me feel like I'm in a conspiracy with Jarvis; on the fringes of the party, participating but also observing. And even though 'Common People' may be the most overrated of Pulp songs (the one instance when the music eclipsed the lyrics) perhaps it sums up Jarvis's position best; able to observe the life of the 'common people' but scornful of pretension, understanding 'how it feels to live your life with no meaning or control' but no longer living it that way, looking in with a protective compassion on the desperation of being poor and young and stuck.

COOL PULP-RELATED STUFF:

• Acrylic Afternoons: awesome fan site with basically every single interview the group have ever done.
• 'I Spy' live on Jools Holland 1995: Jarvis at his most vicious and emphatic.
• Footage of the Michael Jackson incident. Yes, Jarvis wants it forgotten, but who can resist this glorious moment of utter 'fuck you' to everything nauseating about mainstream pop?
• Jarvis Cocker's Sunday Service: Jarvis's awesome show on BBC6 every Sunday, always guaranteed to provide great music, sexy reading aloud, fascinating guests, and the occasional ridiculous story.
• Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire deleted scene: while I am not a Harry Potter fan, it's a serious shame that this ridiculous footage of Jarvis, Jonny Greenwood, and Steve Mackey as wizard rock stars was left out of the film. Intense second-hand embarrassment. 
• Pop Quiz, 1994: Jarvis dominating EVERYONE with his ridiculous knowledge of music.