My new sounds:
Clock Opera @ The Portland (15/11/2012)
I’m going to this gig pretty cold and barely know what to expect in such an intimate setting. My passing exposure of Clock Opera at Latitude had not encouraged me greatly, but I’m soon glad I ventured to see them this way. They were not letting me down.
They’d been to The Portland before, they told us and they seem pleased by the new space and stage and by the turnout. Touring looks like it’s taking it out of them as they were looking a bit tired. Throughout the show, the keyboardist flirts with the sound woman, the vox guy flirts with the audience. I dance as the music swells and I fantasise about stroking his beard.
The commitment to their sound can be smelt through their sweat which penetrates my nostrils. The fans in the audience liven up for the anthems in the set. I get carried away and commit myself to purchasing the album.
Their voices and energy rise above the wall of sound. The voices could have easily been lost if it wasn’t for the sound chic. I see why the keyboardist fancies her.
I would say more about the joy they bring. I could say more about the technicality of their sound. But it doesn’t really matter. The audience was happy, I was happy and the band seemed happy after they were cheered back for an encore.
The Evie Macafee Show #5 is out!
The Evie Macafee Show #3
I’ve created a playlist for all of the songs featured on the The Evie Macafee Show for… Watch it grow!
The Evie Macafee Show #2
Yeasayer - Fragrant World
Watch my fingers dance and tap the air. They flick in front of my face and I watch them in time to the music. Opening riffs, enhanced by a spliff. What to do but sink back and feel the bass; really listen to the lyrics, I mean really, really listen to the lyrics. Though they want for clarity.
I could always do this without you. Get old. Grow up. So that point is already dead in the water. Not you though, collective you. For the rest of my life, for as long as I shall live.
Even though I can’t make out what Chris is saying half the time I completely understand him. I feel his mortality. He’s already mourning his own death, in a poignant way, like satisfaction. If his body gave up now he’d be ok with that.
Anand backs up Chris’ commentary. Not with personal accounts, but stories of me. Of my growing up years and the scrapes I found myself in. Remember whens. I remember when, in naïve negotiation my plump, butter-boxed caterpillar was exchanged for a kitten. I hope it became a butterfly. Or moth. Moths are just as relevant.
As I aged, my naïvety turned into longing, of adulthood, freedom and full-bodiness. Full-bodiness sure came and strength, not meekness or feint-heartedness. I enjoy it while I can.
(Oh Henrietta, to know you. To know one who inspires such a song as this. Did you answer the calls? Will you? We could be friends. I’m sure of it. I get on with most people, see. Do you need someone else’s assurance? Forever is a long time, you know.)
Time and body. Body and time. Crows feet sneak in and make themselves at home. Stretch marks come and go. My womb still bleeds. I still have time to make the most of it.
But I don’t make bones about it. It’s not like I know what to do with my life anyway. I might as well just dance to Regan’s Skeleton.
Lana Del Rey - Born to Die
If only I could achieve ambitions I set out for. The dogged determination comes through in highly technical detail; through soft harmonies of the violins, crescendos of the drums to the highly trained, skillful use of her voice.
Lana Del Rey has gone about her craft with such a high work ethic that I’m left wishing I had the same. Does this make her a role model? Does this mean that I’m looking up to her? I wonder how the music would sound to me if I didn’t know more about her, if I hadn’t read the criticism or her history of reinvention. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so intrigued or so curious to know.
Maybe I would feel the same way I did when I heard Video Games for the first time. Naïve and sinking. I’m not a bad girl, I’m not even a good girl. But then that might be why I’m not as successful as my own ambitions.
Born to Die reminds me of the sugary pop of my childhood. When I still felt all of the possibilities of life were available to me. When all the roads were countless and endless and free, easy, paved with gold, or maybe just in yellow brick. Like Wilson Phillips, Enya, Shakespeare’s Sister, Martika, Sophie B. Hawkins and that song from Top Gun. Damn, I wish I was your lover. What would I do if I was that age again? I would sing to you that you were my one true love. But you would be my pillow that I would pretend to be you. Such innocence, such hope that love would come easily.
If only I wasn’t so fickle, so fucking self-aware. It’s all well and good to be aware of my fickleness but it’s one of the hardest traits to manage. Afterall, the innate nature of fickleness dictates that no sooner am I resolved but I change my mind and not care about what I was so resolved about in the first place. Meta-fickleness if you will. Maybe it’s just laziness. Or lack of confidence. I wonder how much confidence Lana lacks. Not a lot, I shouldn’t imagine. And that combined with her work ethic makes for success.
There is something darkly patriarchal about her persona. No doubt a screen siren, but for whom? For her confidence perhaps? I wonder who her childhood sugary pop stars were, and how much she was influenced by them. I think of the dark side of influence. Girls over the world are hanging off her every word, her every look, her every lyric, and they aspire. Aspire to be a siren, to pout, to be in love, to be controlled by someone else’s desire. For that is what Lana is controlled by: someone else’s desire. Is that all she’s good for? Is that all her devotees are good for?
Who’s in love forever? I worry about the lies she’s telling, the ideals that seem so attainable to a 12 year old, but degrade slowly as the decades slips by. She’s perpetuating myths and a perpetuating myth.