Tuesday, 29 September 2009

Play Doh Creates Tiny Sociopaths

Is it weird that I remember the taste of Play Doh more than the joy of actually playing with it?

This new series of Play Doh magazine ads will certainly quash such fears from ever surfacing again. Under the catchy slogan 'safe no matter what you make', the idea seems to be soley directed at the parents. My only qualm is: when was the last time anyone questioned the safety of Play-Doh? It's made out of plasticine gunk and after many childhood hours spent taste-testing the different colours I have confirmed it is also edible!

Play-Doh is probably the only 'toy' that doesn't require parental supervision. But then again if you catch Junior making one of the above, then you've got a whole other can of worms to deal with.

But once you get over being a cyncial yam you will realise that the real aim of the ads is to suggest that Play-Doh is SO safe, that even a claylike weapon of destruction can be tolerated. However, what does scare me is the fact that these images provide inspiration to tiny developing psychopaths all over the world.

Despite their seeming lack of political correctness, these Tim Burtonesque ads are probably the most innovative advertising I've seen in a very long time.

Monday, 28 September 2009

Hipster Porn

In need of some fleshy gratification? Flip through the pages of your local glossie and you're sure to get a 'saucy fix', with fashion editorials and advertising campaigns that would make even Larry Flynt blush. Soft porn has become the new power tool and the big guns are not afraid to embrace it. In the advertising world it’s all about making a lasting impression – regardless of its relevance to the product – and sex sells. This truism is no revelation, yet slackening restrictions are allowing for overtly sexual and controversial print advertising, which is ambiguously wavering between ‘art’ and ‘porn’. Soft-porn, it seems, is the new trend and consumers find it pretty convincing. Infamous photographers Terry Richardson and Steven Meisel are currently at the forefront; creating sleazy, salacious images for the likes of fashion designers Calvin Klein and Sisley. While American Apparel CEO Dov Charney, has successfully tried his hand at the simple point-and-shoot for his controversial clothing campaign. But is the public ready?

Since his 1980 advertisement that showed a sultry 15-year-old Brook Shields in a pair of her ‘favourite’ Calvins, American designer Calvin Klein has been fully aware of the power of the ‘pulse’. An image that shocks and seduces you, piques your interest and locks your gaze - sending shivers down your spine. In 1992, Calvin Klein enlisted the help of buff rapper Marky Mark, better known these days as actor Mark Wahlberg, and a barely legal Kate Moss. The scene: the duo is intimately positioned, while sporting nothing more than their Calvin Klein jeans and underwear; a simple idea, yet an effective message which stays relatively innocent. Fast-forward to 2009, however, and Steven Meisel has helped Klein push the boundaries. In his image, three semi-dressed youths; two males and one female, lay embracing one another on a couch. A fourth topless male reclines on the floor. This is supposed to be selling you Calvin Klein; its jeans, its underwear, and the many other products, to which Mr Klein ‘fastidiously’ lends his name. Instead it sells a message. A message that says: if you wear these jeans something like this could happen to you. Do we believe it? I sincerely hope not. But we believe in something and it is definitely not the quality. If all it took was a sturdy pair of jeans, the last thing Mr CK would need to show you, is sexually-charged youths on the brink of a ménage-a-trois status.

In a rather ironic twist, many clothing companies are favouring the less is more approach, and sometimes, dressing their models in nothing more than a pair of tube socks. American Apparel founder Dov Charney has pioneered a marketing campaign that lends itself to a sort-of amateur porn aesthetic, in which normal-looking girls; we’re told they’re AA sales assistants, wear little more than a coy smile. The end result resembles something your boyfriend could have taken in the back-room, and in Charney’s opinion it has garnered both praise and prejudice. Despite this, the 41-year-old entrepreneur remains adamant that his images are sexy yet harmless, and an individual’s reaction is ultimately ruled by personal taste. Such images are riddled with soft-core porn body postures and motifs; prepubescent girls with spread legs and facial expressions that suggest sexual pleasure are done in a vernacular, un-posed type style. The company says it’s catering for the global youth culture; presenting them with young, fresh and sexy everyday individuals who embrace sex and sexual liberation. However, when he’s not taking the photos or fighting off sexual harassment cases, Charney and his handle-bar moustache take time to jump on the other side of the camera, producing photos which would give low-budget porn movies circa-1973, a run for their money. A brand that sells plain over-sized t-shirts, hoodies, slacks and tube socks has managed to market itself in such a way, as to put the X back into X-large. Their provocative nature gets people talking and leaves a lingering after-taste, and depending on your predilection, you’ll either enjoy it or wish you’d never opened your mouth.

Charney hard at work.

Post-modern snapshot photographer Terry Richardson is synonymous with this adult-friendly-style, in which a standard point-and-shoot camera creates a cheap photographic quality. His iconic soft-core photo narratives, which exploit sexual innuendo, have inevitably led to labels such as 'misogynistic' and 'perverse'; but the son of famed fashion photographer Bob Richardson, couldn’t give a rats. His ability to artfully meld art and porn into an off-putting, yet oddly attractable scent has propelled him from hipster stardom; Vice and Purple magazine, to the likes of Rollingstone, GQ and Sports Illustrated. His graphic sexual depictions and taboo allusions have even won over the high-end fashion magazines, including Vogue and Harpeer’s Bazaar. Everyone wants him to demoralize them; Kate Moss, Lindsay Lohan, Pam Anderson and even U.S president Barak Obama, have been touched by Mr Richardson.

For the Sisley Fall Winter 2001 ad campaign "Farming", the photographer shot supermodel Josie Maran as she frolicked around a farm, in various states of dress and undress. He channels school-girl porn as Maran lies on her side in an unbuttoned shirt and plays on the up-the-skirt angle. In the most torrid yet well publicized image of the Sisley-Richardson collaboration, Maran squirts milk from a cow’s udder as she insouciantly stares at you through the camera lens; milk dripping from her mouth. In this campaign all sort of innuendos are at play and although it was widely criticized for its vulgarity, for Terry Richardson it was just another pay check from yet another wealthy fashion house, who can no longer deny the ‘talent’ of the man who took 1970`s porn aesthetic and made it fashion chic.

The introduction of soft-porn into the advertising industry threatens to break down all kinds of barriers and taboos. Pioneers Terry Richardson and Dov Charney are busy repackaging pornography for the mainstream audience; persuading us to see it as risqué instead of vulgar, and racy instead of dirty. Are we offended? Damn straight, but not enough to look away; instead we criticize it for being offensive or commend it for its apathy. These pseudo-porn images seduce and fascinate us; they gain publicity regardless of the nature and unwittingly stick to the roof of our mouth.

Yet, while some see the American Apparel vision as a degeneration of our society, CEO Dov Charney maintains that he is only catering for a need that was already there, but had not yet been satisfied. Along with many others, Charney and Richardson have subjected society to the demand for porn, which is challenging our limits and shaping our perceptions accordingly. ‘X-rated images are hawking everything from beer to video games’ said Charney, so why not fashion? It seems the public have apprehensively accepted the saturation of porn in advertising; whether it was through personal opinion or public pressure is of little concern to these precursors. The truth of it is, the soft-core brigade is out in full-force and will continue to push the envelope, because after sex comes sales.

Here's some moving visuals courtesy of American Apparel.

(500) Days of Summer - Colour My Life In Chaos

He fell for a girl who didn't believe in love but managed to convince her otherwise.
"Roses are red, Violets are blue,
Fuck you whore"
(500) Days of Summer is an indie rom-com with all the right ingredients for the 21st century MTV audience. The film plays on the relationship between love and pain through the comical awkwardness of humdrum greeting-card writer Tom Hanson (Joseph Gordon Levitt - see Mysterious Skin & Brick) and the coy ambiguity of Summer Finn played by indie pin-up girl Zoey Deschanel (see Gigantic & The Good Girl). At the beginning of the un-labelled relationship Finn pre-warns Hanson of her intentions, or lack thereof : "I'm not looking for anything serious," cue Hanson's despondency, violins and breaking heart. In real life, it seems Deschanel whole-heartedly embraces the concept of indie love; she just recently married Death Cab For Cutie's frontman Ben Gibbard.

The boy meets girl, girl 'shits' on boy story highlights the perils of love in life, but seems content with merely skimming the surface. It seems director Mark Webb intentionally avoids any raw emotion, with the pretence of targeting an audience who would be more than satisfied with the palatable Belle and Sebastian, The Smiths and Joy Division references. This post-modern love story  is presented in a disjointed non-linear fashion, portraying the film as a 'memory story'; an unorthodox Memento-like style which allows the film to parallel different stages of a relationship. Despite this emotions fail to peek and instead maintain a constant plateau of 'lull', an exception to this would be the smack in the chops Hanson receives in Summer's honour, again at his own comical expense.

The constant drone of Summer's monotone voice further dispels any hope of real feelings, something that could be easily achieved with even a slight stint of intonation. But alas, Deschanel parades the same "crooked teeth, blue eyes and 1960s hairstyle" paired with her girly sense of dress, which seems to carry her though all her films. Her insouciant mannerisms lend to her polite exit from the 'relationship'; the movie excuses her insensitive behaviour and presents her as a completely unaware character. She is confused by the feeble concept of 'love' and therefore less of a cold-hearted bitch. The film manages to steer clear of the stereotyped Hollywood gender roles yet ironically states that  "there are two types of people in this world, men and women",  a complete contrast to the ambiguous gender roles played out in the film. Summer's character enjoys 'holding hands in IKEA and having sex in the shower,' yet if she were a guy she would be labelled selfish misogynistic - lucky for her.

It has to be noted that early on in the story the earnest gentleman narrator firmly informs the audience that (500) Days of Summer 'is not a love story.' Writers Scott Neustadter and Michael Weber refer to their narrative as 'a coming-of-age story pretending to be a romantic comedy', one which involves two characters. The three-dimensional lovelorn Tom Hanson and  the unidentifiable Summer Finn, a woman filled with Tom's ideal projection. Although it is very easy to be sucked into Hanson's fantasy world, the writers hope viewers see that Summer Finn, the bewitching 'villian', who excuses any wrong-doings by batting her big blue eyes, is merely a vehicle for Hanson to realise his dreams. Other than her favourite The Smiths' song, Hanson really doesn't know anything about Summer.

Aesthetically, this picture is very beautiful but did you feel like you were Yoko Ono watching the film through her trademark blue-tinted glasses? Before you self-diagnose a 'defunct cornea' put your mind at ease, by realising that this blue-centric colour-scheme was purposely used to bring out Deschanel's blue eyes. Yes, there was indeed method behind the 'deer in headlights' madness.

(500) Days of Summer is what it is. Put simply it's another indie flick with very calculated timing. Hollywood has found a way to appeal to the 'masses', those indie alt-fans who feel jaded; cheated by the unrealistic expectations of movies such as Legally Blonde. These new quirky romcoms include acoustic indie soundtracks which seem to add a new kind of realistic depth; one reminiscent of knobbly knees, crooked teeth and all the understated peculiarities and insecurities that make life 'real'.  Quirky characters with awkward social tendencies (see Napoleon Dynamite & Garden State) and affinities for indie rock bands (Juno, Nick and Noah's Infinite Playlist & Paper Heart), often coupled with twenty-something melancholy heartbreak, are the new niche and actors like Zooey Deschanel, Joseph Gordon-Levitt and even Michael Cera are in their prime.

Marc's Webb's debut is cute and sweet; something you wouldn't mind savouring, but for a movie supposed to be about love and pain, it does not hurt nearly enough. This of course, is less of a criticism and more of an observation.

A side note: go see Closer if you're looking for some real raw emotional intensity.

After being caught out for her infidelities, Owen presses Robert's for more detailed information: "what does he taste like?” to which she replies "he tastes like you, only sweeter". After a line like that, a kick in the guts would be a walk in the park.

Disclaimer: (500) Days of Summer was distributed by Fox Searchlight Pictures, a company responsible for indie films Sideways, Little Miss Sunshine and Juno, and not MTV.

Saturday, 26 September 2009

Oprah's Head Shot

Hadn't heard much from mulit-award winning talk-show host Oprah Winfrey and was beginning to get a little worried. So I did what any concerned fan would do and gave her a l'il google. So apparently Beyonce's been teaching her how to be bootylicious, while the not-so single lady's better half Jay-Z has been all up in O's grill; teachin' her the reverberating skills any self-respecting rap-star should have.

But back to all that a bit later.

A find that I did deem rather intriguing was a 1989 'shot' of Ms Winfrey, the richest African-American of the 20th century, on the cover of the US 'TV Guide'. Her svelte figure is adorned in a daring purple embellished chiffon number. Yet after much research, it was revealed that the only real part of Winnie that featured on the August cover was her head!

During a time when Photoshop was a secret weapon unbeknown the best of 'em, the photo editor had taken a 1979 photo of Swedish born actress/singer Ann-Margret Olssen (see Grumpy Old Men) and merely added O's cranium - thanks to the sly handiwork of artist Chris Notarile.

After being caught out by Ann-Margret's fashion designer, who noticed the dress before she noticed Olssen's body, TV Guide profusely apologised. The magazine had failed to gain permission from either of the starry-eyed ladies and was eventually caught with its pants down.

Check out O from head to toe:

Thursday, 24 September 2009

A Full Set of Eyelashes

I recently purchased a new computer; however, it seems my fingers are having a hard time accepting the new change. Sure they slide across the keyboard with effortless glee but the words that they create, I got to say, that ain’t that grand. This is indeed a shame. It’s as if there has been a death in the family and the replacement lacks the history that once bound my fingers to the keyboard.

My previous laptop, bless its little soul, had a good run but by the fifth year its little lungs were out of breathe. I was in denial. Due to my financial situation at the time of its demise, I opted for the more affordable option – getting the hard-drive rebooted at a computer swap meet. For the $50 I spent, the result was surprisingly good. Unfortunately, like clockwork, those tell tale signs crept their way back onto my computer screen.

Pages would take a good 20 minutes to load –I’d entertain myself by pulling out eyelashes- while the cursor seemed to have a mind of its own. I was seasoned in eyelashes with little to no control.

Today I sit with my full set of eyelashes but the cursor blinks despondently.

Dimly Lit Rooms

In dimly lit rooms everything looks softer. Dimly lit rooms eradicate -minor- problems. Bars are usually dimly lit and for good reason. Guys are more likely to be attracted to girls in dimly lit rooms, ergo guys are more likely to approach said girls and insist on buying said girls (alcoholic) beverages. This (may) increase said girls self-esteem and will definitely increase bar sales. Everybody wins, right?

But what happens when the flickering wicks are no longer your only source of light. When the sun rises everything is much clearer, the picture is much sharper and you wish you were back in that dimly lit room. The dimly lit room, in which, not everything but enough is said. Two thirds omission and one third of 'enough'. In dimly lit rooms certain things are overlooked, all for the good of the 'cause'.

Then you go home and are blinded by the light. That artificial light that burns through your retinas and exposes everything for what it really is. All the tiny cracks appear and you are faced with the errors of your ways. That constant humming drone returns and plays like a drill on your mind.

Dimly lit rooms.

Mar 09

Wednesday, 23 September 2009


In 1980 Jake and Elwood Blues were on a mission from god. With their new found freedom the Blues Brothers jumped into their 1968 Black Cadillac Fleetwood and took us on a bumpy ride. Through the streets of Chicago, Illinois ‘bromance’ was born. Over the years this portmanteau has been fervently embraced by the film industry; pairing up the boys and sending them each on a journey. Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman found (Shawshank) redemption, Lethal Weapon’s Mel Gibson and Danny Glover upheld the law, Beavis and Butthead did America, Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn crashed your wedding, and Superbad sent Jonah Hill and Michael Sera in search of their manhood. These ‘buddy films’ whispered that a close bond between two men did not automatically suggest homosexual connotations. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. These days these ‘isosocial relationships’ are as vigorous as the metro-sexual beauty regime, and both are being readily accepted by the world at large. Ever wish you were vigilante Batman or how about Superman?

However, what hasn’t had wide coverage is the ‘man crush’ – when a man is completely smitten by another man; a neologism which usually concerns celebrities, musicians or athletes. It is a desire driven by admiration for or jealousy of an individual, who is believed to be more fortunate, talented or good-looking. Similar to ‘bromance’ this phenomenon concerns non-sexual relationships but unlike ‘bromance’ it derives from idolization or infatuation. Take for example David Beckham, men all over the world have admitted to having a ‘man crush’ on the English-born football-star, who not only plays good football, earns good money and looks good, he is also married to former Spice Girl, Victoria ‘Posh’ Beckham. As soon as the player enters a room, conversations fall to a hush and eager gentleman, push past the love-struck women, and coyly make a beeline toward him; holding out their hands in preparation for his sturdy grasp, ready to shower him with praise and admiration.

In 1994, season five of TV show, 'Seinfeld' hit the screens and embraced the ‘man crush’: “You know, I think George has a non-sexual crush on him… I mean, every time I see him, it's Tony this, Tony that. George is like a school girl around him”. In the 76th episode, George develops a ‘man crush’ on Tony (actor Dan Cortese), a vapid, ‘mimbo’ (male bimbo) rock climber; imitating Tony’s backward cap-style, insouciant mannerisms and lexicon, George admits that ‘it's a different world when you're with a cool guy’. Recently, a good male friend of mine experienced a similar situation, in which he was the recipient of some man love; a highly-strung enthusiasm and unrequited adoration that seemed rather unjustified. My male friend is no rock-star, albeit he plays some mighty fine Guitar Hero, and yet this particular male admirer was smitten. My friend’s girlfriend, on the other hand, was often sidelined and ignored, any attention that she did receive was of an undesirable nature, and this included many ice-cold death-stares from her boyfriend’s frisson fan.

Such behaviour is often witnessed at music concerts, in which fanatical female fans are forced to compete with over-zealous male fans. We girls anticipate the vexation of our sisters and their underhanded methods; the elbow in the back or the heel on the foot, but what we don’t expect are the guys. The guys who are just as keen to catch the musician’s gaze or experience the tactile sensation of his touch, as the barely dressed girl standing beside them. They reach over us, leaning their weight, while attention-seekingly waving their hands in their air. They hug one another, slur ‘flattering’ comments, spill their drinks and have no regard for their surroundings. At a recent Mike Snow gig the lead singer was more than willing to shake the hand of those male fanatics, enough to make their knees buckle. This is man love at its best - backed by a beat.

In early 2000, the world watched as former Prime Minister John Howard fell for George W. Bush’s cowboy swagger; enough to persuade Howard, amongst other things, to send SAS troops to Afghanistan and Iraq. He also signed a Free Trade Agreement with the US and from this alliance or ‘man crush’, a highly-publicized ‘bromance’ soon flourished. Mr Howard announced Australia was the best friend the United States ever had and the two men ‘fought’ the war against terrorism, mano-a-mano.

In the Anglo-Saxon world, men can now feel comfortable expressing their platonic love for a male buddy - sans the identity crisis. Have you ever heard a guy say “I’m not gay but if I was ‘insert name here’ would be the one”? I have. Man crushes are no longer kept in the dark, instead they stand up with confidence; at the football stadium, in the movies, see Clooney, Pitt and Affleck and their ultimate series of ‘bromantic’ comedies, Ocean's 11, 12 and 13, and at concerts – even in the front row. Don’t believe us? Check out mancrush.com, a voting-based site founded in 2005 by Eric Vecchione, which caters for the growing number of gents who appreciate their hombros. Currently Jesus is number one, lucky number two is jail-house rock legend Elvis Presley, who is closely followed by Hollywood’s twisted bad-ass Edward Norton. But don’t be confused, this is pure unadulterated isosexual love. In the words of Scrub's besties JD and Turk “it’s man love, that’s all it is”.

Tuesday, 22 September 2009

The Celebrities Can't Keep Up

A very honest analysis of the relationship between celebrities and the weekly glossies.

"You build the story around an emotion," says a celebrity weekly editor, who spoke on condition of anonymity. "What's happening with poor Jen this week? Well, John Mayer's seeing someone else, and for a woman of her age, that must be awful ... So you construct a narrative of what a woman her age may be feeling." Stories may start with nothing more than a set of photographs: Aniston looking happy, or sad - or happy one moment and sad the next, since if you take multiple shots of anyone, with a fast shutter speed, you can capture a range of expressions. "The question is: how can we construct a story around a set of emotions that our readers are going to relate to? It can come from a genuine tip, or a photo. Or it can come out of our ass."

Read rest of the Guardian article here.

Sunday, 20 September 2009

When Harry met Homo

  There's this rumour circling the school yard and it goes; the more good deeds you do the better your life will be/the more good karma you will get/the greater the chance that your name will be on the door when the cabbie finally finds his way..

I'd like to hope that any of the above is true. Early this morning after stopping off at the local 24-hour bagel bakery I made my way up my building stairwell, whose aroma can only be likened to that of ol' Billy cat's sandbox, and at 3am I fell into a deep slumber. As usual, the soundtrack deafening my eardrum was that of a phone screaming to be answered. That same phone that coincidently seems to ring every time I get home from a night out. The one whose owner obviously is yet to read the 'idiot's guide to answering a phone'.

Two and a half hours later I was put to the test. My phone rang. Luckily for me I proved my capability, and therefore the fact that I was anything but a hypocrite, by retrieving my phone and answering it.

However, looking back now I see that failing this test and thus proving hypocrisy would have definitely been in my best interest. On the other end, was my American friend Harry, only that morning it seemed Harry was posing as a homosexual English gent, called Ralph.

Ralph informed me that he had found Harry strewn across his front porch and Ralph had been working his way through Harry's 'recent call list'. He thanked the lord that someone had finally picked up. He asked if I was able to come pick Harry up from 42 Crowndall Court, just off Kingsland road, near the top of Pittfield Street. After recovering from the shock of the situation and taking charge of my motor skills, I cursed the lord and managed to mutter a request for repetition. Moments later I was in a cab to Crowndall Crt.

Ten minutes later I was standing in front of a body positioned in a manner that could be likened to those kids who lie in the snow waving their legs and arms back and forth in the hope of creating a bona fide snow angel. Only difference was, there was no snow and Harry seemed to be stuck in the 'forth' motion - his limbs were strewn out like a bruised and battered starfish.

Eventually he stood up, eyes still closed, I collected his belongings off Ralph, and both Harry and I extended our gratitude to the mysterious saviour.

Me -'thank you soo much' & then Harry - 'fuck you, you cock sucker'.

For five minutes Harry and I stood on the side of the road. He had a cut above his left eye, and the tracings of what looked like a 'fist to jaw' kind of action. 10 minutes later we were climbing up my stairs, whose pee-stained stench was too much for Harry to endure without promptly reminding the slumbering residents. Then we went to bed. Finally.

Later, we awoke and Harry was, not surprisingly, very confused about his whereabouts. He had no recollection of anything after 2:30am. I had been called at 5:26am.

After examining his appearance we concluded that the scraped arm and knee and torn jeans could only be attributed to a 'trip' down the stairs. And well, the punch to the jaw must have been the result of Harry mouthing off; at which neither of us were surprised. We came to the agreement that he probably deserved the smack in the chops.

After all the drama, (he is forever in my debt), he lost a jacket but gained a scarf.

Later that day I spoke to our mutual friend Tyler, who said he had also received a call from Harry, and boy was he glad he had neglected to answer it.

I must be the only person in the world, who is willing to answer their phone during the times of 'shut - eye'. And for that I am expecting a shiit load of good karma.

There's something in the Air

 Just finished reading The Independent's interview with ethereal band Air. The French duo didn't have much to say, and this was duely noted by journalist Rob Sharp, although what they did say, while not very insightful, was definitely an insight into the minds of Nicolas Godin and JB Dunckel.

The inspiration for their forthcoming studio album, Love 2, was the balance between love and pain; a direct result of a human being's insaitable need to feel.

 "When things are complicated we desire something warm and relaxing...That's the reason we fall in love; it's because we need to feel things very strongly," says Dunckel.

While Dunckel presents himself as the demure of the two, the loquacious Godin is more opinionated; punctuating his quasi-irreverent speech with apathy and profanity.
"I don't give a fuck what people think about my music"
For a master of such mellifluous and sometimes scrupulous music, Godin and his views are every bit the contradiction. For someone so seemingly tainted he sucessfully creates music which is as euphonious as the civil sanctity of marriage.
"I don't believe in marriage, it's so fucking bourgeois"
Perhaps these -not-so frisson- francophones balance one another out; two polar opposites that when put together in a mahogny Parisian studio, find the perfect harmony. Pun intended.

Air's fifth album Love 2 is out 5 October 2009.

Check our the already released first single 'Sing Sang Sung'.

Out Of Touch

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, yet you make distance the reason to digress. The reason you move on. It's not enough. If you already know, distance is a constant reminder, where memorobilia is unnecessary because tactile objects carry far less meaning than any memory that you have left me.

Friday, 18 September 2009

A Wetter Fish - Lemonade

Introducing Brooklyn based trio Lemonade. Their ethereal feel mixes dub-step, grime, dance and electro. Their experimental nature goes beyond the usual synths, walks into the kitchen and reaches for the closest kitchen utensil and or food group.
"Pitchfork has a lot of power. It’s crazy how people who will have never heard of you, will really like you once you’re on Pitchfork"

See the rest of the interview at This is Fake DIY

Sunday, 13 September 2009

Jump My Suit


I want that unitard & those boobies.
Is it true that a massive personality distracts attention away from a small-chest? 
Apparently boys like that. Personality, I mean.
I've definitely got a 'massive' personality and people always tell me I'm distracting.
Wow those melons are more complication than they're worth.

Perhaps I'll just stick with my wall & dress it in the tropical 'tard.

Sunday, 6 September 2009

Vitalic Talks Gaga

He's a veteran in his field, he's played a big hand in inspiring many dance-floor contemporaries and his finely-tuned, synthesised beats have been highly-lauded by everyone from BBC, Vice to NME. Today I was off to West London to quiz the electronic visionary. So for once, rising before 9am to make the journey to West Kensington, did not inspire notions of hurling myself infront of the on-coming train. Quite the opposite.

[As an East Londoner, I have often threatened to disown any friend who has toyed with the idea of moving to the other side of town. I'm no good at long distance relationships.]

Upon my arrival, I was greeted by Leanne Mizo, founder and director of Bang On PR, who promptly led me to my destination. The K West Hotel and Spa, a favourite haunt of artists and musicians alike, was to be our meeting place. Pascal Arbez aka Vitalic was timid, self-effacing and cordial. Quite the opposite of what you'd expect from an internationally acclaimed electronic aficionado. He was tall and slim and his inconspicuous attire aptly complimented his humble nature. First off, we assessed the language barrier. As a Dijon-based producer of Italian decent, the artist's English was laced with eastern-French inflexions. Naturally, I leaned in closer, decreased the tempo of my voice and we began chatting.

Thursday, 3 September 2009

Fuck You Very Much - You Were Thinking It

Currently, the state of newspapers, magazines and practically any form of print is in peril. With the Internet's offer of 'instant gratification' its tactile counter-part has been struggling to keep up. And this was before the whole recession reared its ugly little head!

Apparently, moving from Australia to London was one of the most inane things an aspiring journo, such as myself, could have done. In fact, there were only a few who were willing to spare some supportive words, in preparation for my departure. (Never fear this is definitely not a story about me).

Lucky, I'm as stubborn as they come...yea lucky..

But what is reassuring is when I stumble across sites such as My Fucking Redundancy (http://www.myfuckingredundancy.com), a blog which really does tell all the big wigs where to stick it.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

Working Hard or Hardly Working?

Text message:
Hey you. Sorry about yesterday. I ended up getting a puncture in my tyre and didn't even make it to the hairdresser! How was your evening? Laurent.


Tuesday, 1 September 2009

Working Hard or Hardly Working?

From Jasmine
So what happened?

From Laurent:
Sorry Jasmine I wrote your number down wrong! How are you?

From Jasmine:
Ok then.. I'm cold! Maybe I should have stayed in Australia.

From Laurent: 
Well London isn't exactly the best place to get warm. You're from Australia?

From Laurent:
So can I have your number again?

From Jasmine
Only if you promise to write it down correctly and call me ; )

From Laurent
Yes, I will grumpy pants : )

From Jasmine
Did you want to catch up tonight?

From Laurent
I'd love to but I have to sort my hair out! Got to find a hairdresser!

From Jasmine 
Buy me some scissors and I'll cut it for you. Don't be a girl. Your hair's fine. Come and meet me.

From Laurent
I'm not being a girl. But seriously my hair's out of control.

What are you looking at?

My photo
I am more than prone to monologues; however, this is solely due to the manner in which they compliment a witty anecdote and their ability to resemble concrete evidence when it is so obviously lacking. I often wish I could emulate that aloof character who coolly stands in the corner smiling mysteriously as if she has a secret. However, I fear resisting the temptation to involve myself in other people’s conflicts and responding through body language rather than verbose banter may come across as contrived and arrogant. And, I am not willing to take that chance.

Ye Faithful