Plaguing the Faces of Thousands

In a place so awkwardly small as central Edinburgh, it’s just about impossible to go a day without unceremoniously bumping into some long-forgotten acquaintance. This last one wasn’t so bad - nice guy, amusingly unpredictable, usually has a good story to… Jesus, what is that?

Since I’d seen him last, a clumsy spattering of bolt-straight hairs had infested his lips and chin, looking like they’d been pasted on by a drunk toddler in boxing gloves. My attempts at small talk quickly broke down as, irrationally offended by his muzzle, I struggled to keep my lip from curling. We barely used to speak but I now felt a sudden urge to stage some sort of intervention; this man was not ready for a beard.

In truth, I’m surprised it took this long for someone I know to fall victim; university is the ideal breeding ground for such misguided experimentation. Each year, hordes of male undergrads come to uni anticipating a new level of independence and for many, it’s a welcome escape from an adolescence filled with acne, inadequacy and tender puppy fat man-breasts. Their excitement is understandable. You’ve just got your own flat, made your own rules, run up hilarious levels of debt - what better badge of honour than your very own facial hair?

Sit down, you young pretender to manliness, you. This is just the kind of hasty thinking that has given rise to the facial abomination known as the Young Offender’s Moustache and it must not be tolerated.

Although it may not pose such a problem for those of you currently sweating distilled testosterone through the thick, glossy coat adorning your chin, neck and palms, a significant chunk of the 18-21 male population is woefully incapable of pushing out more than a downy wisp. Tragically, some of these unfortunates just don’t know when they’re beaten and, rather than promptly whipping off any premature omens of bumfluff, they choose to cultivate them in the vain hope that they will one day constitute a legitimate beard.


To be fair, there is something undeniably appealing about the prospect of having a beard. From vaguely fascistic 1930s refinement to piss-poor beat poet goatees and sexually ambiguous 70s machismo, it’s always made for a bold statement - for better or for worse. It’s also a big gamble. Get it right and it can be glorious; get it wrong and you invite comparisons to any number of cult leaders, sexual miscreants and psychopathic extremists. Even if you are one of the hirsute elect, nobody is safe from these sorts of associations, so, much like when finding yourself inexplicably attracted to a leper, to abstain may well the best policy.

Whether it’s successful or not, a full beard is never going to cause as much offence as these ghost-like, pubertal shreds that are claiming the upper lips of thousands. If it’s ever going to be wiped out, what’s needed is a change in attitude. Dignity and acceptance are paramount. In most cases, the key is patience; it’s just a matter of time before you wake up one morning, resplendent in a dense, bushy mane of a beard. Then you’ll probably realise it’s not that great and whip out the Mach 3.

For others, you may never be able to produce much more than a sparse layer of fine stubble. Perhaps it’s just not meant to be. Sure, you might find yourself getting ID’d at your firstborn’s wedding but at least it’ll be easier to get through security on transatlantic flights. Suck it up.

COERCIVE HIPHOP LEAK SPARKS PANIC

Flavor Flav celebrates after a rendition of Bitch, Gimme That Baby in Spain.

Mass hysteria swept the hiphop world last week after it emerged that one of the biggest names of the last three decades is back in the studio, putting together a release that could prove devastating to fans.

Prematurely leaked recordings made by legendary rap collective Public Enemy indicate that more than 20 years into their career, the group is aiming to bolster an already widespread reputation for being the most aggressively dictatorial act in the business.

As the band that repeatedly and vehemently commanded listeners to Fight the Power, Bring the Noise, Watch the Door and Raise the Roof, Public Enemy have attracted a dedicated following consisting largely of politically aware - yet cripplingly submissive - hiphop fans. A fierce sense of loyalty has developed among their listeners, prompting many to go to extraordinary, sometimes life-threatening lengths to satisfy orders given by the group.

For one devotee, the strain of Public Enemy’s relentless browbeating has truly taken its toll. Clifford Coles, a 42-year-old former meat packer from Dodge City, Kansas, has been an avid fan of the band since their formation in the 1980s, but it was the release of 1991’s Apocalypse 91… The Enemy Strikes Back that he says dragged him to new lows. Speaking from a high-security psychiatric facility in Los Angeles, he told TWAJJ:

“When I first heard that song, Get the Fuck Outta Dodge, my life just fell apart. Within 48 hours I was in the car, leaving my family and my job in Kansas, and since then I’ve just been hopping around the country trying to keep up with PE’s demands.

“In Arizona, I was evicted from three apartments in a row. That was during my Raise the Roof phase - I’m still trying to pay the repair bills. But it wasn’t until I moved across to LA in ’96 that things really started to get out of hand.

“Up until then I’d been a Public Enemy purist but then I started hanging out with the wrong crowd. They introduced me to all kinds of heavy shit, you know, stronger, more dangerous hiphop: I wore a neck brace for eight months after hearing the Wu Tang Clan’s Protect Ya Neck; Run DMC’s Kick the Frama Lama Lama just confused me but I’m told I blacked out and assaulted some famous old guy from Tibet. Then a friend played me NWA’s Fuck Tha Police and… well, here I am.”

When asked about his reaction to news of Public Enemy’s forthcoming release, Coles continued:

“I don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle this new stuff. As of last Thursday, I’m now on six types of medication. The orderlies here have so far managed to prevent me from hearing the new record but we all know it’s only a matter of time.”

Chuck D is forced to tie his own shoelaces after attempts at intimidating an audience member fail.

For Coles and the thousands of Public Enemy fans like him, the situation looks set to worsen. Early reports have listed track titles such as Yo! Punch That Horse, Eat a Motherfuckin Battery and Strip the Elderly, while several sources are citing the album’s working title as Obey, thought to be inspired by the work of graphic artist and self-professed Public Enemy fanatic, Shepard Fairey.

As well as a drain on hospital resources predicted for the album’s estimated April launch, police forces across the US and Britain have been instructed to act with extreme caution when approaching suspects wearing oversized clock pendants.

Although the group’s leader, Chuck D, refused to discuss the new material before its release, he did encourage TWAJJ to cut his toenails and ‘stay the fuck in school’.

Mr D’s co-vocalist, Flavor Flav, was also unavailable for comment due to filming commitments on an upcoming game show spin-off of his VH1 reality TV hit, Flavor of Love. In spite of the channel’s attempts to keep the programme’s content strictly under wraps, a source at VH1 has been able to divulge some key details.

TWAJJ can exclusively reveal that Flavor of Love: Mystery Emission will involve a blindfolded Mr Flav sampling the sexual secretions of up to six men, before attempting to correctly match the ‘Flavor of Love’ to each participant. Those contestants whose seed Mr Flav does not correctly identify will receive a small cash prize and a commemorative hip flask. 

The programme is due to air in late spring.


Photo credits go out to AngryCitizen.org and Jeremy Farmer

Interview with Simon Frith

Famous musicians get mashed at these tables, Nationwide picks up the bill. I think we have our next victim of the recession.

Back in September, there was a fair bit of buzz about the Mercury Prize. No, there was. I talked to a guy in Fopp about it and everything. Anyway, I thought I'd have a chat with head judge Simon Frith, the man responsible for picking the champions of British music and, inevitably, snubbing countless token avant-garde jazz acts, leaving them to cry in the corner and stub out Café Crèmes into their thighs. My dictaphone recording includes him pausing to give out his entire home address over the phone, so Burial, if you're reading this, I'll sell you the details for three grand. Non-negotiable.

It's the first time I've done an interview; gies a break.

Published in Student, 30th September 2008:

When it comes to music, everyone’s a critic. Think of that friend, that one obsessive musical zealot who will only remove their headphones to eulogise or condemn your favourite band with a fervour that, applied to a more sensitive subject, would border on bigotry. As passionate as their opinions may be, they’re never going to spark soaring album sales, national acclaim and a £20,000 prize.

For Simon Frith, however, opinions are of a little more consequence. Having this month chaired the panel of judges for the Nationwide Mercury Prize (his duty since its inception in 1992), he recently returned to his professorship at Edinburgh University, where he draws on his experiences as a rock critic and influential musicology writer to lecture on the social forces behind music.

Since the Mercury shortlist was released in July, the decisions he has overseen have been the subject of endless speculation and scrutiny. Despite recent grumblings of dubstep conspiracists, he reveals the criteria for the strictly British/Irish prize to be disarmingly simple: “One, that the album should be good enough to recommend and two, that it should be somehow representative of music in the year in which it was nominated.”

Simple on paper, yes, but the whittling down of nominees to an eventual winner takes an astonishing amount of work. With twelve judges and around 240 submitted CDs in the mix this year, a quick and shamefully innumerate bash at the calculator in theory shows Elbow’s victory to be the outcome of around 2,800 opinions.

When Frith gets a box of new records, first impressions are what count: “If by the end of the first three tracks I can’t remember anything about them, I think ‘this record hasn’t moved me in any way’, and put them back… it’s got to grab you immediately.”

However, with the influence of the other judges and a whole summer to ruminate, Frith says, “your judgments can always be changed by context from other people. There are always at least three records nominated that when I hear them I’d never have believed they’d be on the shortlist and some of those I really grow to love.” So, future Mercury hopefuls take note – don’t immediately go blowing your load on the first three tunes.

With a panel consisting mainly of critics and journalists (music industry affiliates are not eligible), every year presents a swamp of egos and opinions to be filtered down to one result. According to Frith, this combination only acts to reinforce the final verdict.

“There are a lot of arguments,” he admits, “we don’t pretend that all twelve judges think all the short-listed records are great or that whoever wins should have won; our belief has always been that it’s always better to have a record that people passionately hate or love rather than one that people don’t care about.”

So how then, when concessions and compromises must be made within the panel, can a fair judgment be made?

“I don’t think judgments can be fair. I don’t think that would make any sense.”

Instead, it is the judges with the keenest ears and the sharpest tongues whose opinions hold the most sway. Frith says of his fellow judges, “They’ve got to persuade a lot of people to agree with them, so their skill isn’t knowing a lot about music; it’s being able to articulate a passionate belief in a record.”

As an Oxford PPE graduate with a PhD in Sociology and a wealth of influential writings on popular music culture to his name, it’s understandable that Frith should be able to articulate such a belief. Alongside stints as a rock critic for The Sunday Times and The Observer, his academic career has included, perhaps most controversially, an attempt to define ‘bad music’.

“In order to have a concept of good music, you have to have a concept of bad music. It’s not something we can all agree on. I once gave a lecture on that James Blunt song, ‘You’re Beautiful’, as an example of bad music. But then I read a very moving account of somebody who lost their child in a canoeing accident, and at the funeral that was one of the tracks played because it was her favourite. I think it’s kind of arrogant to say that’s crap music when it’s an emotional part of somebody’s life.”

A hugely simplified summary of this ‘bad music’, he says, is “Music that makes you ashamed to listen to it.” Surely, though, with an office stacked with vinyl, he indulges in the odd musical guilty pleasure.

“I’ve never had guilty pleasures. If you like something, you don’t need to feel guilty about it. I’ve always been a pop fan, even at the height of rock criticism.”

A copy of Blunt’s Back to Bedlam may well be lurking in that collection, then.

Before this treatise on bad music came Frith’s first book, The Sociology of Rock. Published in 1978, it explored the sociological intricacies of a burgeoning punk movement that, he says, has now well and truly withered.

“Thirty years later, people who were punks are now parents and grandparents, so now it’s very difficult to equate rock music with youth music. Today, it’s corporate, it makes lots of money.”

This begs the question of which contemporary record, artist or movement holds the potential to define this era in the way punk did for the late 70s and early 80s. In the early years of the Mercury Prize, Frith says, “I definitely would have said that (1995 winners) Portishead defined that decade, that they captured something about it, whereas this decade if you take something like the Burial album, which I don’t think is an interesting record, it’s clearly rooted in a very long history of dance music. It doesn’t seem to be strikingly 2008 in a way that it’s not 2001.”

Apart from dispelling rumours about the consequences of Burial’s absence at this year’s Mercury ceremony, it’s an almost disappointing evaluation of the new millennium’s offerings, although he speculates over what 2009 holds.

“Who knows, maybe next year we’ll have a record about which we’ll say ‘yep, that’s it, that sums it all up’.”

There seems to be no sign of it coming any time soon, since even the apparently unstoppable Glasvegas – a favourite of Frith’s and a likely candidate for next year’s Mercury Prize – he describes as ‘incredibly retrospective’.

“You can hear all the sounds from the past, which is one of them reasons I like them, but to say that’s the sound of now or of the future would be slightly odd.”

That’s not to say, though, that Frith believes that for music to look backward is a bad thing.

“I sometimes argue that the very notion of nostalgia is defined by musical experience - even The Beatles were nostalgic from the beginning. I think it may be something to do with how, when we settle down, we like reminiscing about how we once thought about the future.

“My musical interests – and it might sound odd coming from somebody who’s very much a populist – have always been in the avant-garde, in things that sound strange or different. I can be as nostalgic as everybody else but at the end of the day, I’d rather listen to something where I think ‘I’ve never heard anything like this before’.”

This musical nostalgia might be understood as a backlash against a music industry that is evolving, if not transforming, through the influence of technology. Frith, however, remains sceptical about the true level of impact this has.

“Technology does change things but central music experiences tend to stay the same. We’re being told that, with downloads and everything, it’s the end of the album. But talk to any musician, they want to make an album – that’s what music is. And despite everything, the most valuable section of the industry at the moment is live music.

“I often say to students ‘write down the most important musical experience you’ve ever had’, and 99 per cent will put down either playing or listening live. It’s not just about hearing it, it’s about hearing it in the circumstances, that is, while others are hearing it too. It’s an event, an experience, not just a noise – it’s everything that surrounds it.”

With judgments made purely on recordings, though, the growing importance of live music is yet to be demonstrated in the Mercury Prize. It’s an issue that will have to wait for now - Frith’s off to stock up on a rare treat for a Mercury judge: American music.

Photo credit Andy Wilkes

How To Be Annoyingly Wacky, Even After Death

This is an old feature I wrote about weird burial procedures across the world. Not exactly groundbreaking but if you give me an excuse to combine morbid subject matter with insensitive corpse jokes, I'll pounce on it like a hungry pigeon on tepid vomit.

Actually, looking back on it, some of it's pish. Read it anyway.

Published in Student, 4th November 2008 (I think):

It’s late August 2005 and 153ft above Aspen, Colorado, there’s a giant two-thumbed fist perched atop an enormous chrome cannon. Dylan’s ‘Mr. Tambourine Man’ plays as, chased by a flourish of multicoloured fireworks, a small canister is launched skywards from the fist before exploding above the heads of Hollywood’s finest. Inside that canister are the earthly remains of Hunter S. Thompson, pioneer of gonzo journalism and mastermind of ‘the grandest celebration on the planet’.

Really puts the old church hall and ‘Candle in the Wind’ approach to shame, doesn’t it? A reluctance to break from tradition and a common ‘just in case’ perspective on the afterlife have meant that burial ceremonies are for the most part still steeped in superstition, ceremony and – let’s face it – banality. But with religion gradually losing its monopoly on death and opportunistic businesses cashing in on bereavement, things are becoming a little more interesting.

It’s easy to see how this came about. You spend your life establishing and developing something resembling an identity, a personality, and then it’s all snuffed out in an instant. All that’s left is one opportunity to sum it all up and for many, black ties, dour ministers and oak coffins just won’t cut it. A fitting farewell requires a little more imagination and fortunately there’s plenty in the way of inspiration out there.

Thompson may have had nearly thirty years of planning and Johnny Depp’s millions at his disposal but even those of us burying on a budget can afford a little explosive grandeur. For around £250, Heavenly Stars Fireworks in Essex will pack a sample of the departed’s ashes into a small arsenal of rockets and Roman candles, leaving you to launch them from the comfort of your back garden. Perhaps not the most sensitive send-off for a ham-fisted bomb disposal technician, but nonetheless a strangely poetic alternative to dumping your loved ones in a muddy hole.

Providing there’s enough ash and money left over, you can then have what remains of your nearest and dearest turned into a fashion accessory. Sussex-based company LifeGem offers to convert the carbon found in human ashes into a synthetic diamond, allowing you to transform your granny into bling for a little over two grand. Through a complex process of compressing and heating the ash, LifeGem forms a stone of your chosen size and colour, giving you the option to have it mounted onto jewellery. Rumours started in this article state that 50 Cent once had a rival gang incinerated and turned into a diamond-studded ‘pimp goblet’.

Stretch the budget further and you don’t even have to be buried on this planet. Such was the destiny of Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry and acid-guzzling space cadet Timothy Leary, both of whom had a sample of their ashes released into orbit in 1997. The ingenious designs of Space Services Inc. allow for a tiny capsule of ashes to float in the earth’s gravitational field, potentially for hundreds of years, before eventually burning up in the atmosphere like a shooting star. Except of course when they don’t make it that far, as was the case this August, when the failure of a Falcon 1 rocket led to the remains of 208 people (including Star Trek’s James ‘Scotty’ Doohan) dropping off the radar.

If all this talk of smoky explosives, pollutant incineration and inefficient space travel has left the more ecologically preoccupied among you gnashing your teeth, there’s hope yet. In Sweden, Promessa Organic has found a novel alternative to carbon-emitting cremations and environmentally harmful embalming fluids – freeze-dry the corpse like the raspberries in your cereal and then shatter it into an eco-friendly fine powder. After being dunked in liquid nitrogen, the brittle body is broken down by sound waves, conveniently becoming an effective fertiliser along the way. Mourners are then able to grow a tree from the remains, providing a nice neat metaphor for the cycle of death and rebirth. It’s not known whether anyone has opted for a vegetable patch instead, although the idea of a cycle of death, rebirth and organic cabbages holds a certain pseudo-cannibalistic appeal.

Of course, that’s not the only Scandinavian innovation when it comes to burials. Endel Opik, brother of misfit Liberal Democrat MP Lembit, was a 6ft 8in blonde goth known to his friends as Tal Stoneheart. After succumbing to pneumonia aged 37, his wish for a traditional Viking funeral was granted… in Whitby, North Yorkshire. Hundreds looked on as a replica longboat, soaked in accelerant and holding Opik’s ashes, artwork and synthesizer, was cast seaward and set ablaze by flaming arrows.

If the Viking connotations of rape, pillage and bearskin are bit much, there are plenty of other foreign cultures whose influence could help to give your send-off a unique flavour. Take the jazz band processions of New Orleans or the Ghanaian tradition of themed coffins that could see you buried in a giant pineapple or beer bottle; for the truly unconventional, you could always try the Zoroastrian approach found in some parts of India, in which the body is left as carrion for scavenging birds. Whether or not the City of Edinburgh Council or the local pigeons will go for it is another matter.

But what of the consequences of such overblown, exotic gestures of remembrance? Speak to some of your more ‘eccentric’ friends, those who live life with tongue in cheek and/or head up arse – you’re bound to find at least one who, when speculating about their own funeral, will say something along the lines of, “I just want it to be a big party, with everyone dressed in crazy costumes. Celebrating life, not mourning death, y’know?”

False shows of flippancy in the face of death aside, there’s a definite selfishness there. It’s all very well that you want a Star Wars themed funeral but spare a thought for that unfortunate bereaved relative, too loyal not to play along but all the while sobbing uncontrollably into his Chewbacca mask. After all, who benefits more from a funeral - the friends and family seeking comfort and closure or the 170-odd pounds of dead meat in the wooden box?

That said, delegating all control to relatives can be a risky business. Yes, you may be young and carefree but there’s no harm in dropping a few hints so that, if that bacon roll does go down the wrong way, there’s no chance of yours being just another nondescript service.

Some of us, sadly, just don’t get a say in the matter. One of this summer’s most depressing Internet findings was the funeral of Annabelle Lotus Krawczyk, who died just minutes after birth. A tragedy in itself but when you consider that both of her parents were ‘juggalos’ (die-hard fans of Detroit ‘horrorcore’ duo, Insane Clown Posse), things go from bad to truly repugnant. Cue photos of mother, ‘Juggalo Julz’ and father, ‘Druggalo JK47’ standing over a tiny casket emblazoned with garish band logos. Then there are the numerous MySpace tributes, such as the bewildering ‘Death dont want no Juggalo Evil orbs and spirits leave my daughter alone’. Google if you dare.

So let that be a warning to you. Make it personal, have some input and be adventurous -but do try to keep it vaguely tasteful. At the end of the day, it’s your funeral.

Photo credit Walt Jabsco