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The word musical has been a little too synonymous with the words high and school in recent times. Couple that with ingrained memories of lunging for the remote control each Christmas when they torture us by showing The Sound of Music every twenty minutes for the entire holiday season, and you will begin to see why all singing / all dancing pictures are about as much fun as passing a kidney stone, while constipated, on a train, in the dark. If you want movies with Nazis and Nuns, then I can make some far better recommendations than the aforementioned saccharine fish piddle. As far as the rest go, Rodgers & Hammerstein, Gilbert & Sullivan and Andrew Lloyd Webber should all congregate on a desert island and be forced to sit through continual runs of each others excretal, pompous muck until the nuclear winter claims us all.

Musicals are almost always marketed as Family Entertainment, which is where my main problem lies with them. Unless making the entire family miserable is the unifying experience which they seek to achieve, in which case they do a marvellous job. Although I can imagine that dads all across the world are watching the copy of High School Musical that was left in the DVD Player as we speak, if this constitutes family bonding, I don’t know. I hope not.

Repo! The Genetic Opera is an eye opener, sometimes literally. They have taken the musical and done things to it, things that we are still trying to get it to talk about, once the counsellors coax it down from the fireplace. It’s as if Rob Zombie took the Rocky Horror Picture Show, a Hot Topic store and a years’ subscription to Bizarre magazine and made them all have sex together at gunpoint. An opera in structure and pace, but each line is individually sung (be it in tune or not).

All that you need to know about this movie is the following, which I have conveniently put into bullet point format for you, because I’m a condescending prick:

• Paul Sorvino (Paulie from Goodfellas) Singing! Badly!

• Anthony Stewart Head (Giles from Buffy) Singing! Amazingly!

• Bill Mosely (House of 1000 Corpses, TCM 2) Singing! Psychotically!

• Sara Brightman in a corset!

• Ogre from Skinny Puppy! Preening & Posturing!

• Endless Power Riffs!

• Interludes filled by animated comic books!

• Gore! Blood! Guts! Intestines! Gloop! Live Surgery!
• Unashamedly stylish production values!

It is one of the single most enjoyable cinematic experiences that I have had in a very long time, resulting in whoops, cheers and three viewings in less than 48 hours. I am now waiting for the Repo! / High School Musical crossover, when the organ repo man splits Zac Efron’s ribcage open with a crowbar mid song, throwing his entrails into the air, whilst his repulsive little followers splash around in his blood, singing something about “Doing it all together”. After which they all suffer equally gruesome and painful demises. The show will be four days long and doors will be bolted at the beginning of each performance. I have contacted the local Town Hall but they have not as yet, returned any of my calls. If anyone would like to see an amateur production of Repo! The High School Massacre, you can reach me through the website. We could have a full production ready for Christmas; I think I hear Julie Andrews crying.

Working for others. Greasing the machine. Earning a living by slowly pissing away the one life you will ever have through mindless drudgery. Shit, isn’t it?

For this reason, I generally detest office or work based comedies, be they movies, sitcoms or comics. They usually serve as nothing more than over the water-cooler fodder, merely something else to associate your pathetic existence with. “It’s so great because isn’t that just like my life?” “Yes, isn’t the wacky/fat/creepy/obnoxious/lecherous guy in it just like the wacky/fat/creepy/obnoxious/lecherous guy that we work with?”

Should you find yourself having one of these conversations with a colleague, I can thoroughly recommend a swift course of sterilisation followed by repeatedly smashing yourself in the face with a copy of the Dilbert anthology.

When I discovered that Crispin Glover had appeared in a little seen office comedy a few years ago, I approached it with more than a little apprehension. Knowing that Glover, in between being a full time genius, also has to pay the rent somehow (case in point: Charlie’s Angels), it was curiosity that won me over.

The joy begins the moment Glover appears onscreen, essentially playing himself. A public records office puts out an ad stating that “Adventurous personalities need not apply”. The one potential candidate is Bartleby, and his awkward, distant interview technique is one which I will be making Cliff Notes for. Upon being hired, he excels at his work for the first few weeks, however, slowing over time to a complete standstill when reprimanded by his employer. When questioned upon his lack of effort, or being given a direct order, Bartleby’s sole response is: “I would prefer not to.”

A simple premise, yes but over the course of the movie, Bartleby’s complete insistence that he would “Prefer not to”, slowly begins to have adverse effects on his co-workers and employer. Joe Piscopo makes a welcome return to the screen (the first thing I have seen him in since the early 1990’s) as a thuggish lout intent on solving the Bartleby issue by beating the crap out of him.

The plot develops beautifully and the movie raises far more questions than the 80 minute running time could hope to answer, but this is its overall success. Glover gives a performance which while not as articulate as some of his other offerings, provides a satisfactory and insightful delight that is rarely taken away from contemporary cinema.

The relationship between Bartleby and his boss, who is caught between wanting to strangle and hug his peculiar employee, is an important and ultimately beautiful element of the movie.

The irony of this magnificent little piece of cinema is this: that your standard office drones would neither understand, nor enjoy anything on display here. This questions why we spend most of our lives at jobs we despise, without the use of self aggrandising postmodernism or clichéd cynicism. I could try and convince you further but I would prefer not to.

How the hell has a week passed so quickly? I don’t remember either being consulted, or being asked permission. It is possible that I am just not keeping track of the days as well as I should, and for someone who is quite obsessed with time, this is peculiar in itself.

So were where we? Well, last I wrote, we were leaving the Amanda Palmer concert in Dublin. As I had decided to stay out, it was uncertain where I would end up that evening. Half an hour later, at the behest of my concert going companions, I found myself in a metal bar, for metallic people. At first it was quiet, and my tie was getting glances which I attributed to tie jealousy. I felt oddly out of place, for about five minutes, then remembering how much metal I actually know, it transpired that I wasn’t completely out of my depth.

Drinks were had and one of the highlights of the evening manifested in meeting a rather enamoured cage fighter called Woody, who made me proposals that I haven’t heard the like of since I watched all of Oz back to back. The man was made like a hairy tree stuffed with sausages; luckily, one of the aforementioned companions distracted him by taking up the challenge of an arm wrestling match (and losing).

I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange house, in a strange part of town, after a grand total of about three hours sleep. No one I knew was around and so I did what I usually do when I wake up horrifically early in someone else’s house, I looked for a discarded book somewhere around the living room, to pass the time until the others re-emerged. It’s a feeling that never really leaves you, early morning in stranger’s houses; thankfully, I didn’t have any regrettable sexual experiences thrown into the bargain.

Much driving in the sun later, we returned to Dublin after a quick trip to Greystones, for me to collect my things, as I had decided to return to Galway that night in dire need of my own bed. We were attending a Neil Gaiman reading, alongside an Amanda Palmer performance in Chapters bookstore that afternoon. Knowing this was free, we did the smart thing and arrived about three hours before it was due to start. This had the pleasant result of getting a spot right in front of the couches where the reading was due to take place.

It was delayed slightly, but nobody seemed to mind, the crowd however, was swelling to gargantuan proportions. It ended up with people being turned away as well over 500 attendees converged onto the store. As with the concert description, there is little point in me verbalising how great I think Neil Gaiman is, if you have ever read any of his work, you already know this. Ditto Amanda Palmer (just replace read with heard).

There are any number of youtube clips on the reading, none of which are of a quality that I would be happy with posting here. I was using someone else’s camera for the event and I have requested the pictures and footage taken to be forwarded to me, but have not yet received them (you know who you are, feel the guilt you deserve to feel).

The readings were humourous, eloquent and thoroughly entertaining, the songs equally so. It was well worth the backside paralysing few hours spent sitting on a shop floor. I left a happy man. Unfortunately, due to the amount of people, they announced that they could not stop to take photos with people, and could only sign one item each. This made it all the more special that I had a few moments to chat with each the night before.

One of my companions “rescued” (ie. Stole) one of the performance pieces (a poster sized photograph for the book), then brought it up to Amanda Palmer to sign, she seemed unimpressed, which was very reasonable under the circumstances. Dude, if you are going to steal stuff from artists at live events, well and good, but asking them to sign it before you leave? Wow, I am both affronted and in great admiration all at once.

Many hours of uncomfortable travelling followed, on a bus where none of the reading lights would work. I arrived back in Galway, seriously deprived of a decent night’s sleep, which I subsequently received.

In short, after the tenuously structured month of numbers and cabin fever, I found myself some enjoyment again. Since my return I have been working on several things of note, none of which I shall note right now.

Anyone fancy an arm wrestle?

(Nb: Pictures will follow, once I have significantly guilted the parties involved into forwarding them)

I am working on several written pieces right now, including the conclusion of last weeks adventures. In the meantime, here is something that I was shown very late last night and that should be shared with the world. Today I need hugs and reassurance.

An hour was spent wandering aimlessly around Dublin, observing the sights and smelling the piddle. When I arrived at the venue the queue was insane. I had not expected to see a sold out notice, with stragglers pleading for tickets and offering up to three times the face value. Amanda Palmer fans seem to be loyal and plentiful; this may be due to her consistent online presence and apparent joy at taking every available opportunity to converse and spend time with her fans. The crowd ranged from straightened fringes and tight jeans to aging music press people. Metallers, goths, punks, emos, burlesque performers, suits and preppies all seemed to be attending. It was really refreshing to see such a variety of attendees, it actually got me all excited again and my exhaustion was for the time being, forgotten.

Once inside the venue, we marvelled at its layout. Very dark and very red. A series of tiered seating ran from a tiny stage up to a tiny bar, with each group of seats having an individual table, everything in plush red upholstery. This was the perfect setting; it tied in with her new Twin Peaks themed concept of “Who Killed Amanda Palmer?” a 2008 album and upcoming book, but more on that later. Amanda Came out and sang an acapellla version of “The Wind That Shakes the Barley”, which wowed everyone, before discarding her dress to storm into “Astronaut”. Almost two hours of music followed, all of it remarkable. There is little point in me attempting to fill you in on all of the aspects of this performer, as she does it very eloquently on her blog which you can read here. I will merely say that it was an amazing show. She has a gleeful mania about her when she plays that separates her from a great deal of her contemporaries and her uniqueness comes across in her live shows wonderfully. Enthusiastic and talented, if there is any justice, 2009 will be a great year for her.

I would love to go into a detailed description of the show, but I hate to slip into lengthy and superfluous detailing when, if you want to, you can always either watch the clips, or read the artists blogs. This is accompanied by the fact that it is insanely hard to review a live show without falling into the pitfalls of endless clichés and overused metaphors.

Highlights of the set for me included, “Ampersand”, “Half Jack”, “A Few of My Favourite Things”, “I Google You” and of course “Oasis”. She also treated us to “Trout Heart Replica”, “Colour Blind”, “Dear Old House” and “I Want You, But I Don’t Need You”. I have included a few clips from the show, this is not my footage as in my sleep deprived state of departure I had forgotten my camera (which I am now having surgically grafted to my arm, like a friendly Tetsuo).

Incidentally, Neil Gaiman was sitting at the table in front of us. After the show I summoned up the nerve to say a quick hello. This quick hello turned into a brief chat and I was very grateful to have had the chance to meet a charming and gracious person of whom I have a great deal of admiration for. I got to tell him that I was greatly looking forward to his reading the following day and he was saying how equally excited he was because it was the first time that himself and Amanda had attempted this performance format.

Amanda Palmer & Neil Gaiman have just collaborated on a book called “Who Killed Amanda Palmer?” which consists of photographs of almost twenty different incarnations of AP. To be more specific, it consists of photographs of their corpses, with a short story being the death of each one, written by Mr. Gaiman. The reading was to be held in Chapters bookstore in Dublin, the following afternoon. Amanda would be performing a solo ukulele set as well.

After the show, Amanda was by the door, greeting, talking and signing various things for people. She seemed exhausted, but committed to standing there until everyone who wanted to say “hey” got to do so.

I have not included these pictures so that you can all look at an out of focus blurry fanboy phone pic, but check out the guy in the background.

A week ago, a very clear message as distinct and vivid as a motorway billboard was seared into my mind as I awoke, it said; “I have to get out of this attic”. Any of you who have the misfortune of maintaining regular contact with me will know that for the last month, whilst on an undetermined hiatus from teaching, I have been moonlighting as an accountant. Remove any images of a cushy temp number from your mind; I accepted the gargantuan task of assisting my father sort out his accounts. It was a job that entailed working in the room where I was temporarily residing, with the sheer volume of paperwork required meaning that I was working from when I awoke in the morning, to when I drifted off, delirious and red-eyed at some ridiculously late hour. As you can see, this environment for an entire month got slightly claustrophobic and it was verging on going a bit Virginia Andrews.

The saving grace being that we could watch movies while we worked, this made the hours fly by, and it was only after four solid weeks of staring at Excel when it occurred to me that I should probably distance myself for a few days. I was becoming increasingly more forlorn and irritable than usual, and had stopped even trying to dress well (A sure sign of a downward spiral). So I packed up my little suitcase that I have been living out of since Christmas last and headed back to the west of Ireland for a few days. I have been commuting the 250 mile journey between my house and my parent’s home quite frequently of late.

The weekend was spent in a very fuzzy blur of movies and wine, there was over twenty movies watched over the course of a few days, with the intention of reviewing all of them for these pages. Ah well, the road to hell and all that. After several in house marathons, we slumped our way to the Town Hall to see “Gomorra” on the big screen; it was long and generally forgettable. After that, knowing full well that I had to get up the next day to travel back to Dublin, I did the sensible thing and sat up all night watching more movies. I think this was an attempt to eradicate the memory of sitting in a cramped smelly theatre for almost three hours of celluloid sedation. Morning came unnaturally quickly and toddled off with suitcase in hand, to catch a 7am bus.

We will skip the next few travel orientated hours and find ourselves at five o’clock on Monday evening. I found myself slightly dazed and heading into Dublin again. I had tickets to see Amanda Palmer in the Sugar Club, which I had been looking forward to. Damn shame then that I was beginning to feel pretty wretched, I was in no mood for company, let alone a gig, all I wanted was a bed and to see no one for several days. Strange, how that is usually the perfect mood to go and see something then, because more often than not, the less excited you are about something you are going to see, the more likely you are to have an amazing time.

I have had an adventure filled few days, which I will write about tomorrow becasue today I am wrecked and am spending the day on the couch reading Charlie Brooker paperbacks. In the meantime, here is the last few video offerings from Amanda Palmer, “Oasis” and “Leeds United”. She will be included in the coming blog. Her new album “Who Killed Amanda Palmer?” is being played pretty much constantly in the hamster’s lair at the moment. Watch, enjoy, don’t you forget about me, I’ll be back later. Hugs.

Woman Eyes (Nee Pydos In Spydos) finally release their absolutely shit weasel wicked debut single “Le Chat”. It’s sexier than the Caramel Bunny. J’adore le chat! Listen and watch here, if you like it, you can but a copy here.

Le Chat from Woman Eyes on Vimeo.

The video for ‘Le Chat’ was filmed in a secret location with lots of glitter and cream.

It was directed and produced by Alex Turvey, who has previously directed films for Grizzly Bear, Bright Eyes & Neva Dinova.

Wasn’t that just awesome? Now, goand do something sexy.

Two amazing Crispin Glover interviews. The accounts of the Letterman incidents are wonderful, his explanation of the “It” trilogy is fantastic as well. Enjoy:

For the record, I think he would have made an amazing Joker.

You will hear about my recent silence later, it is of little interest and manifests in a puerile adolescent ramble anyway.

Whilst having a breakfast of last night’s pizza and coffee, I saw a video over at akirathedon.com of Joaquin Phoenix appearing on David Letterman.

There are several schools of thought on this, the first being that it is a hoax, a piece of Andy Kaufman inspired trickery. Andy always played on the gullibility of the media and it was amazing how his adopted personas would inspire such an onslaught of hatred and misunderstanding. The other opinions I have heard range from a complete mental breakdown to a well planned promotional venture. If my own feelings count for anything, I would see a man who has apparently just decided to do something that he is really into. He has expressed recently how much this (making music) means to him, and has always done so in a very modest and self deprecating way. I could easily understand if someone who was slightly unsure of themselves felt like breaking away from everything that had brought about public adulation, would feel insecure asking their fans and admirers to try and accept them in a new light. To try anything new in life is a risk, a challenge and a brave step, maybe Joaquin seems difficult as it does appear that the world is laughing at him right now. I see it as a genuine and brave move if sincere or a brilliantly executed prank if this is what it turns out to be.

What stuck with me more so than anything Joaquin had to say was Letterman’s attitude towards him, I watch Letterman occasionally and his shtick has never really resonated in a pleasant way with me. He has this undeserved air of superiority towards anyone that is in any way outside of the plastic starlet demographic, which most current male actors fall into these days as well. He always goes for the cheap shots, as Akira very astutely pointed out: “And why is a beard funny?” Indeed, it brought to mind a few other interviews in which I had seen Letterman pull the same routines, it tends to be with guests who are seen as a bit peculiar by some, but also who seem like genuinely decent people, if a little daffy. That being said, I am sure that if Clooney appeared sporting a facial growth of note, Letterman would have quipped and it would have been laughed off. It is when Letterman appears to hit a nerve; the bully in him comes out. I have assembled a few clips for your consideration, the first being an interview with the man who makes up part of my own brain, Crispin Glover:

Ok, so it is a possibility that Mr. Glover is a bit unconventional, but he is also incorporating elements of Kaufman here, and it just seems as if everyone misses the point entirely. What is worthy of note is David’s rattled postscript to the interview: “I’m 40, I went to college….” Here is the follow up interview from a few years later:

And a song from the album he was promoting at the time, which I have on vinyl. It is such an amazing record, with spoken word, song and scariness. Seek it out. This is “Clowny Clowny Clown”

Oh, go on, here is his masterwork, from 2003’s Willard. Check out R Lee Emery in the video. I love that man.

Now, back to Letterman, here he is giving Mr T guff, now, I don’t acre how crazy he is, he’s Mr F*&@~”G T, the man could remove your head. He threatens Letterman that he will, and the audience. Notable for his comments on George Peppard and the A Team, there is history there, but that’s for another day.