Howard The Duck no.10 for instance:
"Swan-Song Of The Living Dead Duck" hits the reader with surreal image after surreal image - Howard hatches on page one, only to narrowly avoid being crushed by a giant hand ( Gerber's? ); he is almost "cancelled" by a giant ape called Kong Lomerate; he seeks advice from dream versions of Doctor Strange ( here called "Doctor Piano" ) and a Spider-Man who pours out of a tap; his human girlfriend, Bev, appears and opens her face like a porcelain mask to reveal a water-squirting, plastic flower inside; past enemies queue up to insult him and, finally, he "dies" and finds himself chained in Hell. The issue ends like this:
"I was brave. I was heroic. I acted in the best tradition of unthinking pugnacity an' I died... for honor. An' my eternal reward? To be laughed at for all time-- by the bums who put me there. I just hope I'm still dreamin'-- 'cause if this is for real, I'm gonna get very depressed."
Heavy stuff, man. As well as artist Gene Colan's disturbing images, Gerber's discussions of heroism, morality, guilt and conformism were not what I was used to in the average comic book. ( I was only 10 at the time... ) Sure, writers like Don McGregor had covered similar topics in strips such as War Of The Worlds and The Black Panther, but always with a reassuringly traditional super heroic slant. This was like taking a trip through the mind of a very disturbed individual with no return to normality at the end of the comic - the "coming next" blurbs reveals the title of issue no. 11 as "The Quack-Up!!" Somehow, after all that, I still went back for more...
Cerebus no. 20. Cerebus The Aardvark was probably the coolest - and definitely the most unusual - character in comics as the beige-toned '70s gave way to the grey-hued '80s. Following in Howard's webbed footsteps, the Earth Pig's strip had started off as a parody of the Thomas / Smith Conan The Barbarian before heading down its own idiosyncratic path. I may have expected satiric barbarian fantasy from my first encounter with the short grey one... but that's not what I got. ( Do you see a pattern forming here, Dear Reader? )
Cerebus has been drugged by the Cirinists ( an all-female cult whose apparent purpose is "to wipe out fun in our lifetime" ) and finds himself, or his consciousness, floating in the mystical realm of the Seventh Sphere, also the hangout of Illusionist guru and 182-year old hippie Suenteus Po. The aardvark plays the two cults off against each other in attempt to return to reality - although by the end of the issue he doesn't seem to have succeeded. This was all a fine introduction to Dave Sim's cantankerous, controversial character for me, and to Sim's mastery of witty dialogue and expressive cartooning. But ( there's always a "but", isn't there? ) the experimental storytelling caught me by surprise. The Seventh Sphere ( which is the background for every scene ) is depicted as a black void with areas of "shimmering grey" and the only character visible throughout the story is Cerebus, manipulating the unseen cultists as he wanders through the darkness. The grey areas are actually a portrait of Cerebus, chopped up and spread throughout the 20 pages of story, with the smaller images of the aardvark pasted on top. And here's the full picture:
Doom Patrol no. 54. All I really need to say here is... Grant Morrison...
I obviously came late to the Doom Patrol party ( Morrison had started scripting this comic with its 19th issue ) but I thought I'd give it a go. Doom Patrol had a reputation for Morrison-brand wierdness but I was sure I could handle it.Unfortunately the issue I chose was the most impenetrable of the entire run. It's ( apparently ) a meditation on alchemy, with the DP's hermaphroditic, mummified, three-in-one character Rebis travelling to the Moon and somehow giving birth. There's all manner of surrealism here: prostitutes wrapped in bandages, Siamese twins fighting and screaming at each other / themselves, incest in a submerged bomber, many references to sex, death and rebirth, a Moon buggy transformed into a cocoon...
It's all weapons-grade oddness but, luckily, I gave the comic another chance, bought some more issues, and found it to be one of the best mags of its time - hilarious, scary, thought-provoking and heart-breaking. This issue's weirdness did, however, yield some beautifully bizarre prose amongst all the obscure references:
"Rainforest green light in the submarine twilight. Stifling heat in the belly of the beast. Drowned leviathan bomber. These archangel bombers prowl the torn fringes of creation. Their gigantic engines throb in our dreams. The war in heaven never ends."
Who says comics need to make sense...?
Soundtrack: It'll End In Tears by This Mortal Coil
Wednesday, 20 August 2014
Saturday, 16 August 2014
Soundtrack: Combat Rock by The Clash
Wednesday, 13 August 2014
At the risk of turning this blog into some kind of Obituary Of The Day, I just have to note the passing of the great Lauren Bacall yesterday at the age of 89. Bacall was one of the last surviving screen icons of the Golden Age of Hollywood. From her movie debut at the age of 19 in Howard Hawks' To Have And Have Not ( with future husband Humphrey Bogart ) Bacall created a sexy, sassy, subtle style with her trademark sultry look and distinctive smoky voice. Here she is below with Bogey in one of her greatest roles in The Big Sleep:
Lauren Bacall: 16th September 1924 / 12th August 2014
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
Robin Williams 21st July 1951 / 11th August 2014
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Of all the Marvel Studios films so far, Guardians Of The Galaxy was the one I was originally most dubious about. A bunch of Z-List characters, bearing little resemblance to the Guardians I remembered from the comics of the 1970s, in a mega-budget movie by a director known for small-scale, Earthbound comedies? It didn't sound good. But as advance word and trailers began to appear I started to think this could either be one of the best films of the year or a big, steaming pile of Bantha droppings. So, last weekend James and I dragged Sarah along to see "that stupid film with that hedgehog" ( her words ) to make up our own minds...
GoTG is the story of Earthman Peter Jason Quill, rudely snatched as a boy from his home planet by a gang of galactic scavengers, who then becomes the outlaw known ( mostly by himself ) as Star-Lord. After stealing the film's intergalactic McGuffin, the Orb, Quill finds himself the target of fanatic Ronan The Accuser and falls in with a gang of homicidal outer space misfits who, against their better judgement, wind up saving the galaxy. For the half-dozen or so people in the world who don't know, these misfits are Gamora ( sexy assassin out for revenge ), Drax ( psychotic bruiser also out for revenge ), Rocket ( a raccoon-like alien not out for revenge, just here for the violence ) and Groot ( a talking tree ). Yes, a talking tree...
I have to say I really enjoyed this film. ( And, yes, James and even Sarah did too. ) It's tongue-in-cheek, action-packed and colourful, with a fine sense of its own ridiculousness, some great dialogue and a knowingly cheesy soundtrack of '70s and '80s pop. Director James Gunn does an impressive job of introducing viewers to this crazy, complex universe with its multitude of worlds and civilisations and he absolutely nails the huge space-action set-pieces. All the Guardians prove to be more layered and interesting characters than at first glance, with even the raccoon displaying moments of pathos beneath his cynical, wiseguy exterior. ( I know I'm talking about a collection of pixels as if they're a real character - and a frickin' raccoon, at that - but the realisation of Rocket is fantastically convincing, with some hilarious voice acting from Bradley Cooper. )
If I was picky I'd say there are a few plot-holes large enough to fly a spaceship through and Karen Gillan is wasted as one-note badgirl Nebula... but the good stuff outweighs the bad for me. There are starships designed by the great Chris Foss, fan-pleasing hints at a larger Marvel Universe ( Thanos, the Celestials and a certain wise-cracking fowl all have cameos ), jokes about Kevin Bacon, and Zoe Saldana kicking arse. What more could you want? Oh, and Chris ( Star-Lord ) Pratt is going to be a big star...
Thursday, 7 August 2014
Tuesday, 5 August 2014
Sir Edward Grey, British Foreign Secretary, 1914
Last night, along with thousands of other households across the UK, we switched off all our lights and lit a single candle to commemorate the centenary of the outbreak of World War One. A televised remembrance service from Westminster Abbey saw actors, soldiers and members of the church movingly read poems and letters about and from that terrible time 100 years ago. There has been much debate recently about the justification of the so-called Great War. Was it a complete disaster that slaughtered a generation for no good reason ( the "Blackadder" argument ) or was it a necessary evil that ensured European democracy? Whichever side of the debate you favour it's important that the unprecedented and unimaginable sacrifice of ordinary men and women, whether military or civilians, should never be forgotten.
We will remember them...
Sunday, 3 August 2014
Portland, Oregon's finest psych-pop hipsters The Dandy Warhols played Bristol recently, for the first time in years, so I headed down to the home of Banksy and trip hop with fellow culture lovers Glenn and Caz. The venue was the Anson Rooms, a part of Bristol University. I hadn't been there since the late '90s when I'd seen Terrorvision play one of the maddest, hottest gigs ever, so it was interesting to revisit the place. Quite a smart venue, probably only about 400 or 500 capacity, with a well-staffed and accessible bar. We got there just in time to catch the start of the Dark Horses' set. They play a moody, Gothy art-punk, with one song being a dead ringer for the Velvets' Venus In Furs. Derivative, then, but full of potential.
The Dandy's then came on to polite applause from a fairly reserved crowd - set list above. This was the fifth time I'd seen the band and, while not the best performance I'd seen from them, they played a fine set with their usual impeccable musicianship and laidback, charismatic cool. The audience was a mixture of hardcore Dandy's fans and younger student types who mostly came alive when the hits were played. Glenn ( world's no.1 Dandy's fan ) and I of course went down the front to get the full effect of the band's dream-pop soundscapes... and to get a good look at the lovely Zia... ( Shallow? Moi? )
As ever a couple of songs outstayed their welcome but crowd singalong favourites like Boys Better, Horse Pills, Bohemian Like You and Get Off had us all jumping up and down, and the peerless Godless was the expected highlight with mass audience vocals replacing the absent horn section of the recorded version. Although slightly marred by a few sound problems and a lack of encore it was a fun gig with some great company. "Super cool / Dandy's Rule OK..."
A few months back ( when my melted PC meant very little blogging was going on ) Sarah and I went to the good ol' Gloucester Guildhall to see The Selecter. I'd seen them before, of course, but Sarah hadn't and didn't really remember them from back in the day. But it only took a couple of songs for her to get into the groove - I defy anyone with a pulse not to move their feet to The Selecter's red hot ska beat! They played a great, sweaty set with all the old faves present and correct: Missing Words, On My Radio, Three Minute Hero all as fresh and invigorating as jumping naked into a mountain stream... I imagine. Fine support came from legendary Bristol reggae band Talisman, bringing some warm Caribbean sounds to a chilly Gloucester.
On the local bands front I've been to a few gigs by old favourites Demob and Noise Agents and also a new set of old mates from various bands under the guise of Borrowed Time. Here they are looking dead hard on the mean streets of, er, Cheltenham. Borrowed Time play a superior form of Street Punk ( circa 1982 ) with some rough 'n' ready but tuneful songs which would have easily stood up against the likes of Chron Gen, Infa Riot or Anti Pasti back in the day. For a new ( if not young ) band they are doing very well and will be playing at the Rebellion Festival in Blackpool next week... along with The Selecter. ( I don't just throw this blog together you know. OK, I do... )
And finally Esther, I saw Stroud disco-Punks ( heh heh! ) Chinese Burn for the umpteenth time the other week at Gloucester's grimy Lower George pub. A cracking gig from the Burners with loads of good friends in attendance. I even dragged Sarah along. This gig was on the day after the last of the original Ramones, Tommy Erdelyi, had passed away so it ended with an ( ahem! ) all-star cover version of Blitzkrieg Bop. Various members of Chinese Burn, Borrowed Time, Noise Agents and even yours truly all made complete fools of ourselves as a tribute to Tommy Ramone. There's me in the grey Ramones T-shirt, sharing a mic with my mate Cliff. As we used to cover Blitzkrieg Bop back in the Death Planet Commandos days, I tried to persuade ex-DPC guitarist the mighty Mark to join us too but he remained behind to fill half of the frame at the bottom of the photo :-)
Hey ho! Let's go!
Friday, 1 August 2014
After my last post comparing me at the age of 15 with James today ( in a Godfather Part II kind of way ) here's another ( completely self-indulgent ) old photo of me. This was taken some time in the mid-'80s on a rainy Blackpool Summer's day ( believe it or not ), with me demonstrating the fine art of adolescent posing. It's grim up North...
Monday, 28 July 2014
All the young punks...
Here's James rockin' a Clash T-shirt and my old electric guitar...
And here's me waaaay back in 1982, clearly enjoying my work on the farm. James is nearly fifteen now and I was fifteen at the time of this photo. The resemblance is quite spooky... although James says it's just the haircut :-)
Sunday, 27 July 2014
I haven't been to too many gigs this year for one reason or another ( mostly financial ) but here's part one of a quick roundup of some recent rock 'n' roll rebels and ragamuffins...
Last Saturday was supposed to see the third annual Summer Sound Festival in Gloucester Park. Last year's event was a lot of fun with Kids In Glass Houses and Chloe Howl tearing up the stage with mainstream metal and quirky pop. Unfortunately this year's festival was cancelled at short notice after a massive thunderstorm and torrential rain had hit the Shire the night before and then rumbled on well into Saturday morning. The council were worried about the stage being hit by lightning and so literally pulled the plug on the event. ( This may sound like overkill but a house about a mile from me had been struck by lightning the night before, so they weren't taking any chances. ) Luckily the gig was moved to the good ol' Guildhall so the more dedicated gig-goers could still see some bands, albeit in a totally different setting. I dragged Sarah along and we met up with our friends Glenn and Sam just in time to catch a couple of bands.
First up were The Xcerts, a frighteningly young Scottish indie band, somewhat reminiscent of The Kooks, but with the Caledonian burr of Biffy Clyro. Their heartfelt songs of love and loss went down a storm ( no pun intended ) with the mainly teenage audience... and with us, so much so that I bought their album In The Cold Wind We Smile. It's actually five years old and they have a new album on the way. One to listen out for.
Next on were The Sunshine Underground ( frontman Craig pictured above ), another band new to me but who have actually been around for a few years and were touring their third, self-titled album.A very groovy, very danceable sound: guitar-based but bursting with Technicolor synths and effects. Similar to Foals or Everything Everything but also in the tradition of the Happy Mondays or EMF - indie music you can move to. Oh, and they're named after a Chemical Brothers song. Cool. Definitely one of the best bands I've seen in ages - I'll have to catch them again, possibly at the Fleece in the Autumn.
We didn't stay for headliners Little Comets because Sarah had to be up early for work the next day
( Sunday! ) and the gig was already running late due to meteorological shenanigans. Even so, it had been a fun ( and free! ) night out in our favourite venue. Can't be bad.
Soundtrack: Don't Stop, Finally We Arrive by The Sunshine Underground
Aberdeen 1987 by The Xcerts
Friday, 25 July 2014
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
It's been a day since the news broke of comic genius Rik Mayall's untimely death and I still can't really believe it. He always seemed so full of life and energy, having already cheated death once before, following a horrific quad-bike crash, so surely he deserved a long and outrageous dotage.... but obviously that was not to be. I was at work yesterday afternoon when I received the following text from Sarah: "OMG Rick Mayall died today. We are so upset. James just saw it online." I thought it might have been yet another of those ridiculous internet hoaxes but sadly it wasn't. Only the previous night we had all been sitting in the kitchen, laughing like drains, as Sophie played You Tube clips of Mayall's greatest Young Ones moments on her phone...
The Young Ones was the TV show that made Mayall's name. I had already seen him play "investigative journalist" Kevin Turvey as well as one half of the Dangerous Brothers with long-standing comedy partner Ade Edmondson but it was his portrayal of Rick ( with a silent "P" ) - the Cliff Richard-loving, would-be anarchist and People's Poet - that really kicked off his career. Vain, insecure, pretentious and acne-ridden, Rick was a brilliant comedy creation in a sitcom that was truly ground-breaking in an era of such bland, anodyne fare as Terry & June and Sorry. The Young Ones was, appropriately for the fag-end of the Cold War, a comedic nuclear blast, unlike anything else. Surreal, anarchic, political, scatological and deeply, deeply funny, it was Punk TV by any other name. And for a generation of teenagers it was uniquely ours - everybody watched it, everybody had an opinion on it, and everybody would be quoting lines from each episode in the playground the next morning. And the best thing was that nobody over thirty liked it. Result...
By the time I was first going out with Sarah ( late '80s / early '90s ) Rik Mayall had moved on to such shows as The New Statesman and two scene-stealing appearances as Flashheart in Blackadder as well as his attempt at "going Hollywood" with Drop Dead Fred, before again teaming up with Ade Edmondson in Bottom. Probably the most appropriately-named sitcom ever, Bottom saw Mayall and Edmondson play Richie and Eddie, the two most pathetic, witless and unpleasant characters imaginable, trapped in a violent hate / hate relationship, living in squalor and misery with only Emmerdale Farm on TV to bring them any comfort. And it was the funniest thing ever. Ludicrous situations, extreme slapstick violence, Mayall sweating like a madman, Edmondson guzzling Scotch, more violence, creative swearing, even more violence... Bottom was sublime. So, of course, the BBC cancelled it after three seasons. Luckily, Mayall and Edmondson revived the show on stage and Sarah and I were lucky enough to see them perform in Hereford around the turn of the Millennium. A hilarious show, featuring all the expected lunacy and slapstick with unparalleled invective, Bottom Live was one of the funniest things I've ever seen... although Richie's underpants were truly terrifying...
And now he's gone, underpants and all. And I still can't believe it.
So let's remember a true comedy icon and raise a glass to Sir Richard (P)Rick Richard, The Bombardier, himself. Hurrah! Bang on!
Friday, 6 June 2014
"British soldiers joke as they read a tourist guide about France aboard a landing craft on June 6th 1944 while Allied forces storm Normandy beaches" - The Telegraph
It's sometimes easy to forget at this huge distance from the events that the men who took part in the largest air and sea invasion in history, and so secured our freedom, were just ordinary people caught up in extraordinary - and terrifying - events. Here's to them for all their sacrifices and bravery. We owe a debt that can never be repaid but must never be forgotten.