Rock n roll never did die...

It just moved to Japan and put on a dress.

The pandemic has really been tough on everyone. So I don’t think I am alone in feeling pretty down during the first twelve months (kind of got used to it now). The thing that helped greatly in getting me out of that funk is stumbling on Japanese female fronted rock and metal bands.

There is some great music still around in the west. But I did feel like I wasn’t finding anything new. Anything that would light a fire under me. Don’t get me wrong; there is new music that I adore; Gorillaz, Lana Del Rey, Arctic Monkeys (ok, newish) but these are all established artists. Sometimes you just want to find something new, you know? That was me. Hankering after the new. New to me I mean, not necessarily new new. And then something popped up on my YouTube recommendations. A strange little thumbnail of three young Japanese women in dresses fronting a heavy metal band. Babymetal you say? The scepticism was strong. And yet, it turned out to be just the tip of an incredible iceberg.

The UK and the US are usually where I find my favourite music. Historically, they are the two places we think of when we consider what we assume is the best (right or wrong – you know what they say about assuming) – Cool Britannia has the edge over America for me – the Beatles, Muse and Led Zep over Motley Crue, Pearl Jam and Nirvana. The Clash over the Ramones.

But now? I honestly think Japan may have eclipsed them both. May I present exhibits A through C m’lud?

Exhibit A: Lovebites

A five piece full on metal band where every last member is a god damn virtuoso. Backbone of the band are founding members Haruna (drums) and Miho (bass – unfortunately recently left), both absolutely flawless beasts on their instruments. Guitarists Midori and Miyako are both jaw-droppingly good, trading solos and playing the chunkiest riffs, and I love the way most of the time Midori has a huge grin and Miyako looks like she’s about to murder you. And then there is singer Asami. My goodness. I think the thing that I like least about most heavy metal is the shouty, growly, screamy vocals most bands have. There are exceptions (hello Jinjer), but it frequently puts me off. So when these four women put out the heavy technical metal and this petite lady stands out front and belts these operatic vocals over the top of it, it’s like a revelation.

If you want to give them a try, I started with Holy War. It’s astonishing. Long intricate solos, powerful vocals and relentless drumming. Maybe try Don’t Bite the Dust after that. They’re clearly having fun with a lighter tone, but it’s no less astonishing, particularly Asami nearly blowing the roof off with the strength of her voice. The closing argument for exhibit A m’lud, would be Swan Song, in which we find out that Miyako is every bit as good on the piano as she is on the guitar.

Exhibit B: Band-Maid

Now I appreciate that the full on power metal stylings of Lovebites ain’t gonna be for everyone. As amazing as those women are, heavy metal simply makes some people’s ears bleed. Band-Maid are not metal. Band-Maid are rock. Hard rock, true, but rock nonetheless.

The thing that hits you first about Band-Maid is the look. The gimmick, if you will. The women are dressed in maid outfits. All five did at the beginning, but now it’s most obvious on the two guitarists and the rest of the band look a bit more subdued. It’s kind of unusual, but having a look to make you stand out isn’t new in rock ‘n’ roll. Consider the man in black himself, Johnny Cash. Slash’s top hat, or Axl Rose’s weird drainpipes and bandana combo. Angus Young in his naughty schoolboy outfit. Hell, one of the greatest live bands ever, Kiss. Dressing up is nothing new in rock. The look is the brainchild of the guitarist, singer and band founder Miku, who prior to being a rock goddess, worked in a maid café wearing an outfit much like the one she wears in the band. It doesn’t take long for the outfits to become the least interesting thing about them.

Miku writes the majority of the songs and really feels like the heart of the band to me. Drummer Akane and bassist Misa form the disgustingly precise rhythm section and lead guitarist Kanami is, well, phenomenal. Lead singer Saiki isn’t verging on operatic like Asami of Lovebites, but still has a voice that fits the band and the music like a glove.

If you want to sample them, you might want to start with Domination. The guitar and bass tones, the literally perfect drumming. It’s to die for. Latest single Sense boggles the mind with its layers and intricacy while still being nothing but hook. The only thing better than playing that song is playing it twice. Closing argument for exhibit B m’lud is my favourite of theirs; Dice. That rhythm section opening up, followed by the riffage. Can’t beat it. Don’t get me wrong; Sleaford Mods are great an all, but I know what I’d rather have in my ears.

Exhibit C: Babymetal

Here’s where it gets weirder. Back to the first of these bands I found. And the one I still love the most. I feel like I’d get into a right argument with my younger self about this. When I always used to talk to people about music I would put great store in the fact that the bands I loved were all self-made. Not assembled by a record company, but formed from practising in garages and a name made by playing gigs in tiny venues, working their way up to signing that elusive record contract. If you didn’t come up that way, you weren’t worth my time. I’m a bit older now (who am I kidding; a lot older), and I can see that I was a little young and stupid back then. I still have respect for that way to come up; hell all my old favourites did it that way – Oasis, Blur, Muse, Arctic Monkeys (with help from MySpace), but I am now aware that it’s not the only way to get legitimacy.

Pop music in Japan is quite different. In Japan there are idols. Performers that are picked and trained from a young age, every aspect of their act planned meticulously. It’s a way that doesn’t necessarily appeal to me, but just over 10 years ago Key Kobayashi, a producer working at Amuse talent agency and long time metal fan frustrated with the staleness of the metal scene, had a brain wave. Take the J-pop that was his and Amuse’s stock in trade, and back it up with heavy metal instrumentation. He had the brainwave, he assembled the group, he produced them and took responsibility for their direction.

So Babymetal. Three young women singing pop melodies over heavy metal. They don’t play instruments. They don’t write their songs. Anathema to what my teenage self thought mattered most in music. Sounds weird, right? Turns out it’s actually amazing. I get all the things I love about my favourite music – thundering drums and bass, overdriven guitars, and then it gets made catchy. I mean ridiculously catchy. You don’t know what the words are, but the melodies are jammed into your head.

Somehow it’s more than that though. It’s more than the music. It’s hard to truly see how effective Babymetal is until you see them live. It’s a spectacle. Backed by a live band of session musicians that are the very best Japan has to offer (a few different members rotate in and out, but largely it’s the same relatively small group of people), their songs come alive. Choreography; that’s another thing my teenage self would set no store by; who cares if you dance? Just meant you weren’t a serious artist to me. Man I was dumb. The three members of this band have specific choreography for every song, meticulously planned and performed. To manage that level of cardio and then to sing in key is frankly inconceivable to me. I think one way for me to illustrate it is this: the difference between hearing the studio version of a Babymetal song and seeing it performed live is the difference between listening to a song from the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack and being at a live performance of the show surrounded by devoted cosplaying fans. The first one is fine, but the second one is on another level entirely.

I’ve written all these words and haven’t even got to what sets Babymetal apart from literally everyone, and that is one Suzuka Nakamoto (stage name Su-Metal), their lead singer. I do not really know how she has the effect she has on me, I just know that there is no other performer that comes close. She’s not the most technically gifted singer out there. She’s a soprano with a range of just over 2 octaves (G3-G#5 for the musical among you). Compared to the more than 3 octave range of Floor Jansen for example, or the possibly greatest ever Freddy Mercury with his almost four octave range, it doesn’t sound much, but it’s worth remembering that Su is only 24, and singers don’t come in to the full range of their abilities until 30 or older. But it’s not range, it’s power, it’s tone, it’s warmth, it’s emotion. Put simply, on my least favourite Babymetal songs, Su’s voice makes me grin. On my favourite Babymetal songs, Su’s voice melts me.

She might not have the same effect on you and that’s fine. But if I may be permitted to present my three pieces of evidence m’lud.

First off, Road of Resistance. This is Babymetal’s call to arms, and is an absolute masterclass in crowd control and interaction. Su just turned 17 the month before this and she is already world class, able to lead a packed crowd of 20,000 through an extended singalong like she’d been performing it for years, when in truth I think it was only the third time they’d played this live. The part near the start where she parts the crowd with nothing more than a silent gesture accompanied by a death stare like a little Asian Moses is bonkers yet amazing.

Next, Rondo of Nightmare. Rondo is a musical term for a repeated refrain that changes as it repeats, forming part of a larger piece. Su is singing about being chased by an unseen monster in a repeating nightmare that she is unable to wake from, making both the song and the subject matter a rondo. The intro gives you some idea of just how good the live musicians behind them are – I have some new guitar heroes – in order of their moments in the spotlight, Leda Cygnus (blue guitar), Takayoshi Ohmura (gold guitar), Boh (bass) and Hideki Aoyama (drums). Raise a glass to Boh, mind-blowingly talented bassist – you can tell he’s usually a jazz musician, yes? And then the song starts, with Su (16 at the time) on a platform fully 8 feet in the air with no barrier, almost certainly unable to see anything with the lights on her. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen this and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.

Final submission m’lud, is No Rain No Rainbow from Su’s birthday concert – she’d turned 20. This is much less metal, and more power ballad, in truth an homage to 80s Japanese rock gods X Japan’s mega hit Endless Rain. A couple of things about this performance. It was in Su’s hometown of Hiroshima (yes, that Hiroshima; I have heard that Su’s grandparents were survivors of the bomb). It was the first performance without one of the original two backups Yui Mizuno (stage name Yuimetal), who couldn’t perform that night for health reasons. I think the song is in part about realising that the bad times make the good times all the more meaningful – without the rain, you don’t get the rainbow you know? About loss in a way. With it being her birthday, in her hometown, and missing a one of the members that she’d toured the world with for the last half a decade or more, you can see Su felt every moment of this performance deep in her bones. To make it hit even harder for me, one the guitarists, Mikio Fujioka, an absolute wizard on the guitar and my favourite of all of Babymetal’s backing band members would die a few weeks after this age 36, falling from a viewing platform while stargazing on New Year’s Eve. One of the things I love about Su is her complete lack of vibrato. None of that Mariah Carey-type warbling for her – she hits the note and she blasts it out consistently, powerful enough to cut straight through the metal instrumentation. However, during the second verse there is a little bit of vibrato added where Su’s voice cracks just a little and her eyes fill with unshed tears. Through sheer force of will she brings herself back under control and delivers the rest of the song. It’s a performance that leaves me a wreck without fail, but in the best way. All the endorphins.

So I’ve rattled on for a long time and probably not explained to anyone adequately how these bands have re-energised me and re-invigorated my lifelong love of music, but I felt I needed to write about it.

When fandoms turn ugly.

Remember Game of Thrones? You probably watched it, right? You probably thought it was pretty good, too. You might not have liked the final season much (I have some things to say on this point in a minute which you might not like). You might even have read the books and liked them as well. But what you’ve probably not done is decided Game of Thrones is your hill to die on and that anything else in popular culture just doesn’t compare.

I’ve been unfortunate enough to be directly exposed to people that have, like a mad inbred Targaryen, simply gone off at the deep end. And no, it doesn’t just happen with Games of Thrones obviously. Star Wars is another high-profile fandom that is generally unpleasant. But the interactions I observed were with Game of Thrones ‘fans’. More particularly, mega fans of specifically the Mother of Dragons herself.

It was a bit of friendly competition in the shape of Twitter polls. Characters across popular culture with a focus on science fiction and fantasy pitted against each other to see who is the favourite. It was pointless and silly, but people I happen to follow were voting for their favourite characters, so it kept popping up in my timeline. And you wouldn’t believe the obsession some people have with a made up character winning a random Twitter poll. And the utter vitriol they would spit at the character they were up against, and that character’s fans.

The worst of all of these, for want of a better phrase, ridiculous fools, were the ones going to bat for Dany T. Not least because they were utterly misunderstanding her character as they declared her best because she be freeing slaves everywhere (remember though, no actual slaves were freed, because it's all made up). One competitor was Dana Scully, who is, quite frankly a million times better as a character, and a character that has in fact had a real-world impact – the popularity of The X-Files led to a significant increase in the number of women choosing career paths in STEM and medical sciences (called ‘The Scully Effect’). It’s one of the best things about art, this ability it has to change the course of a life for the better, and this little 5 minute video of women, including the incomparable Gillian Anderson, discussing it is a lovely thing.

Anyway, I’m not here to wax lyrical about Gillian Anderson and The X-Files (although, frankly I could for hours), I’m here to tell you about my exposure to an unpleasant fandom. Dany won that poll, beating out the OG himself, Gandalf the Grey in the final. There were calls of foul play, accusations of votes being bought (I really hope that wasn’t the case, because my already non-existent respect for these idiots would reach hitherto unknown levels of non-existence, if such a thing were possible, if they actually paid for votes. Anti-existence?). It’s one thing to be a nerd, or to geek out over some piece of media you’re obsessed over (for example, I’m currently in the throws of a fairly hardcore addiction to Babymetal), but it’s quite another to spit abuse at anyone that leans towards a different one. Especially when, in the case of the Daenerys-obsessives, the reasons you claim to love your character only shows everyone else you don’t actually understand her at all.

So. To the controversial hot take (and yes, while the following may not look like it, I am aware that it is not real, and I basically start to sound like those obsessives I was moaning about earlier, just without the hatred). Game of Thrones had a much-maligned final season. A good deal of the reason for this is Dany’s apparent switch from saviour of Westeros and slave-freeing badass and the one many viewers were rooting for, to mad innocent-murdering mega villain. But, the thing is, that didn’t come out of nowhere. There are clues throughout, not least of which is the fact that the Targaryens had been inbreeding for generations and pretty much every Targaryen’s default setting was either noble strength or deranged psychopathy, and no way to tell which it was going to be until your brother was being cooked alive in King’s Landing while the king looks on, laughing (unlucky Ned).

Starting from a position not of ruling, but of powerlessness, Dany’s Targaryen-ness took a while longer to manifest than usual, and let’s be honest, even without that kind of ancestry, the things she goes through would be enough to make a regular person want to burn down the whole world. Throughout her slave-freeing journey to queen, she demonstrates more than once that she doesn’t know the difference between justice and vengeance (I think a lot of people in the real world have this problem, which might be part of the reason why so many people loved the inbred psycho queen), and the development from inexperienced little sister to basically melting anyone she took a dislike to started back in season one – “The next time you lay a hand on me will be the last time you have hands.” A great line, and her brother was a prize twonk, but even then, more interested in vengeance than justice. Locking Xaro Xhoan Daxos in his own vault, along with her own handmaid. Punishing the slavers by doing to them what they did to others. None of this is justice. All of this is cruel and unusual punishment to enact vengeance. Feeling they deserved it (as most fans surely do) is irrelevant. There’s not much difference between what Dany was doing to her enemies all along and what Aerys the Mad King (Dany’s dad) did to poor Ned Stark’s brother. It’s just we considered Dany’s enemies proper villains until she got to King’s Landing. The end of Dany’s arc should not be a surprise if you’ve been paying attention.

Of course the die-hard fans of Dany argue the final season isn’t canon, that their queen is still the slave-freeing paragon of virtue they want her to be. Well, ok then, let’s consider the books. First off, Game of Thrones declined in quality from about season 5 (about the time it left the books behind), but the Dorne subplot is by far the worst part of any of it, including the final season. The problem is, the seeds for Dany’s final form have been sowed more definitively in the books so far published than they were in the show.

I really think GRRM has a problem on his hands with his final two books. He has stated on record that the show differs from the ending he has in mind for Dany (although it was apparently confirmed that Bran will end up on the throne). The cynic in me is picturing him seeing the reaction to the show and now desperately rewriting the next book to reframe Dany’s story, and not really knowing where to go, because the groundwork was more or less done for it. GRRM created this whole thing though, so I am taking his word on it and telling the cynic in me to shut up. But he's insistent.

When pushed, one of the Daenerys die-hards admitted that although they had been arguing that the books were not setting her up this way, they had only seen the show and read Dany’s chapters in the books and nothing else. So strong was the love for Dany T that they couldn’t even bring themselves to read the other chapters, which of course means they miss most of the story. Yet here they were, mouthing off like they are the expert and insulting anyone daring to question the assumptions they had made based on their incomplete picture. The mind truly boggles.

I could be wrong of course. A Song of Ice and Fire is infamous for taking the well-worn tropes of fantasy and gleefully ripping them to pieces. That’s kind of the whole point of it. Killing off your hero and main protagonist in book one (RIP Ned). Taking Dany’s baby, and the whole prophesised hero trope – ‘the stallion that mounts the world’ – except nope. He’s dead. No prophecy for you. So pretending I know what’s going to happen in the final two books is just silly. Anything could happen. Except, it looks like Bran will end up being king. Which, while also getting a fair bit of flack, is pretty much in keeping with the MO of the series. Who else could it really have been, when looking at how the show ended? Jon Snow? Based on his performance since he was brought back (being basically useless and losing pretty much every fight he’s been in and having to be rescued every single time), he’d be rubbish. Most useful thing he did was finish off Dany. Speaking of, don’t want her on the throne. She is, to put it mildly, an insane psychopath by the end. Tyrion? Yes he’s smart, but he’s made so many bad decisions, I actually think he’d be crap. Most useful thing he did was convince Jon to off queen T (shame his mate Varys and half of King’s Landing had to be cooked alive before he noticed what a literal hot mess she was). Convincing everyone to accept Bran was the last mistake we saw him make.

Because you see, Bran being king means the bad guys (or rather, the enemies of humankind - whether or not that makes them the bad guys largely depends on how you view the world) won. The children of the forest, the ones that first created the white walkers. They’ve installed their puppet, Bran, on the throne. Humankind’s oldest enemies, persecuted almost to extinction, now have the power to do untold damage to their adversaries. Which, I can’t help thinking, is yet another fantasy trope – that the people with inherent goodness and honour win the day in the end – that this series has spent its time demolishing again and again.

I doubt the book series will be finished at this point (although I really hope I'm wrong on that point, because even though much of this post reads like a criticism, A Song of Ice and Fire really is a phenomenal series of books), so I’ll probably never find out what the true canon is, but you never know.

A lasting impression I could do without.

Have you ever read a book or watched a film that you know is extremely good, but you still wish you’d never gone anywhere near it? I’ve done it twice now. The first was when we watched Grave of the Fireflies. Studio Ghibli has a body of work that pretty much nobody can touch for quality, save maybe Pixar. Grave of the Fireflies is a 1988 animated film directed by Isao Takahata which forms part of the Ghibli collection. It brings home the devastating cost of war by focusing on two children in Japan near the end of the second world war, who lose their parents and have to try to survive together in the face of starvation and the antipathy of a population numb to tragedy. Studio Ghibli films are not afraid to focus on hardship, loss and grief, but they are generally optimistic. When I had finished watching, I felt something I’d never felt in reaction to a film before or since; a physical pain. My heart was broken and I felt like I’d been kicked in the gut. The film is incredible; told with the same gift for character and astonishing artistry that is par for the course for Ghibli, but I don’t ever want to see it again and I can’t bring myself to recommend it to anyone. It was like having my heart stomped on by the one person I can usually expect to make it soar. I was in a funk for weeks afterwards, unable to shake the feeling of desperate hopelessness it left in me. Art that can do that is undeniably powerful, but all the same, I’d rather not feel like that.

I recently read Random Acts of Senseless Violence. Written by Jack Womack and published in 1993, it tells the story of Lola, a young teenage girl living in a in a well-to-do area of New York, while the world around her falls apart. When her parents can no longer find work and have to move to a more dangerous area, we follow Lola as she changes from private school girl to ruthless gangster, and it makes for such a depressing read. It’s very well done, but it is so infuriating to see this innocent girl have her life taken from her and her potential lost. Not just Lola, but a society that could’ve been so much more devolve into shadow of itself, beset by riots and greed. It felt the same way reading High Rise felt, this chilling feeling of a society making the decision to let itself topple from the cliff edge, and the sense of everything slowly going to hell, when with just a little more will, it might’ve pulled itself back from the brink. A bit like living in a UK forcing itself to leave the European Union even though it knows full well what the consequences are going to be, or like I would imagine living in the U.S. under President Cockwomble feels like.

This book has stuck with me not just because of that though, but because of something specific, and that’s the death of Lola’s father. No longer able to make ends meet as a screenwriter due to the volatile world the book is set in, he has no choice but to work extremely long hours in a job in which he is constantly under pressure and screamed at and berated for barely enough money to afford the rent on the crappy apartment the family have had to move to. There is a truly haunting scene in which poor Lola finds her father dead having had a heart attack in the middle of the night, and eventually, this is the thing that pushes Lola beyond the point of no return.

I’m not saying that the world in which I live and work is anywhere near as bad as the unfortunate Lola’s. But I am on that borderline between just managing financially and not managing. And I do work overtime. Since reading that book, the only thing on my mind when I get up at 6:15 on a Saturday morning to work overtime to supplement my wages while my family sleeps is that dreadful scene of Lola discovering her father’s body, after he worked and stressed himself to death trying play a rigged game just to keep his family safe and alive (he’d already given up on happy).

If this strikes you as overly melodramatic, well you’d be right. I actually quite enjoy my job. My family are, relatively speaking, safe and happy. While I do always feel like I don’t have enough money to get by, the truth is, we’ve managed it so far, so I expect we’ll be fine. But that’s the effect of well-made art on the psyche. We are going to have to deal with major crises over the coming decades because nobody has got the will to do a damn thing about climate change, but instead of the biggest emergency our species has ever had to deal with dominating the news and the political stage, we’re arguing about whether or not it’s a good idea to rip up the fragile Northern Ireland peace agreement so Lord Snooty (how can you not look at that snivelling weasel Rees-Mogg and think of anyone else?) can keep hold of his unearned, inherited, offshore tax-free millions and withdrawing from the agreement that ended the Cold War (good job America. Well done).

So it feels like, as in Random Acts of Senseless Violence, we are also a society deliberately deciding to step off into the abyss, and that’s why Lola and her father struck such a chord with me; forced to narrow their view and look out only for themselves, and as far as her father goes, eventually die trying.

Still. Chin up, eh?

Catching up.

There is so much out there that I want to hear, watch, play and read that I’d need multiple lifetimes to get through it all, but one of the greatest joys in life is spending time getting through some if it. Sometimes it’s hard to know where to go next. Recommendations don’t always work, because they’re often someone else’s idea of what they think you would or should like.

I remember when Rach and I were at college together just getting to know each other, and in between stealing glances at her over our time in the college library revising together, I was getting her caught up on my music tastes, which I thought were eclectic at the time. I was 18, so you can’t blame me too much for thinking listening to both Manic Street Preachers and Prodigy meant I was eclectic. Turns out most 18-year-olds are pretty silly like that, on account of, you know, only being 18. It generally went quite well – Oasis, Manics, Suede etc. all good. Radiohead took a little longer, but eventually became a favourite. Then there was Nirvana. She just didn’t get them, didn’t like them much. I’d built them up a fair bit to be honest, and she didn’t really get what the fuss was about. She was wrong – she still is, because she still isn’t a fan, but it illustrates that sometimes other people who think they know what you’re going to like don’t always get it right. It’s often so much better if you come to discover new stuff yourself.

Blip.fm was pretty good for that, but since they allowed video streaming as well as audio streaming it seemed to lose something. Going to the Green Man festival for the past couple of years has turned me on to some music I probably wouldn’t have found otherwise, like Michael Kiwanuka, Curtis Harding and Anna Calvi.

Reading is another one. When you have a type or collection of authors you like, you find yourself sometimes sticking quite closely to them or authors like them, inevitably missing out on others. And this is where being married to a librarian pays dividends. Rach isn’t making recommendations based on her knowledge of what/who I like to read, she just picks a few up now and again from a genre she knows I like, and that’s how she brought home Flowers for Algernon. Technically sci-fi, it does what all great sci-fi does and is actually about something else entirely. Ostensibly it is about a man with extremely low intelligence becoming a subject in an experiment to increase human intelligence which turns him into a genius but in reality it is actually about so many things; the human need for love, empathy and understanding, the nature of humanity, intelligence and science. The nature of time and its vexing insistence on waiting for no-one. The fear of losing the ability to think for yourself and to remember. As the main character begins to understand more about his past, his ‘friends’ and himself, it is at once illuminating and desperately sad. It hit such a nerve with me that although it brought tears to my eyes I am so glad I found it and was able to ponder the questions it raised. At the same time Rach brought home Day of the Triffids, which, along with The War of the Worlds and The Time Machine was one of those cheesy film adaptations that I adored as a kid. I wasn’t quite prepared for how chilling the novel was – it was genuinely uncomfortable to read at times.

Then there’s TV. So much TV. The thing about TV is, there’s so much of it nowadays, and so much of it is supposed to be first rate, I often find I start something but take ages to get through it. I’m not a binge watcher – sitting through 4 or more episodes a night isn’t something I can seem to manage. I’m watching a load of good shows, just slowly. One of the shows I’m slowly getting through with Rach is Black Mirror. It you know anything about Charlie Brooker, you’ll know he’s not often one for cheery dispositions. I’ve heard there is an episode, San Junipero, that supposedly has a happy ending. I haven’t got there yet, but I did actually get quite a positive feeling from the ending to an episode I watched recently, Nosedive. Set in a possible future where everything from social status to what type of house or medical care you’re entitled to depends on the approval of others to your social media habits. Everyone and everything exists in an environment of enforced jollity, where expressions of negativity are met with negative feedback, putting your whole social position at risk. By the end of the episode the main character has gone as low as it is possible to go and has her connection to that world severed. The episode ends with her cheerfully exchanging insults with another person in the same situation and oddly, it feels really positive. The visceral relief at finally being free of the fake happiness that binds everyone else and being able to say what you want without fear of peer disapproval comes across brilliantly.

So without further ado I’m off to read/play/watch/listen to something.

Newish occasional feature: Ending with a song relating to the post:

Anna Calvi – Don’t Beat the Girl Out of My Boy

How much is art really worth?

Well, it’s worth a great deal, clearly. It helps us get through what is, for many of us, an increasingly shitty day-to-day existence. Like contact with loved ones, music, film and other more traditional forms of art nourish us in ways we can’t quite put into words. But, I think there is a line.

This thought came to me while writing on my other blog about Rain Man (although pieces written by Empire’s current editor Terri White, Sali Hughes and Dylan Farrow (as well as a follow up written in Vertigo) had already put this somewhere in my mind. Molly Ringwald has also recently revisited the films she made with John Hughes though the #MeToo filter, giving yet more food for thought regarding favourite films). I recalled how Rain Man’s star, Dustin Hoffman is one of the many sullied by the recent outpouring of sexual harassment cases following the implosion of Harvey Weinstein’s career. I think it can’t fail to have an effect on how you react to a film when one of the people involved with it is someone with a somewhat murky moral character.

Sometimes, it might be possible to still enjoy some films, if it was more of a collaborative effort. Regarding Rain Man, I noted in the review that to completely disregard it now would be to disregard the great work of co star Tom Cruise and director Barry Levinson, as well as the others involved in its making. The same is true of Baby Driver. To refuse to watch it due to the presence of Kevin Spacey is to stick two fingers up at the huge amount of work Edgar Wright put into realising this glorious vision where driving, walking, talking, shooting and fighting is done to the sound of music. It’s a marvel and to dismiss it due to Spacey’s involvement feels somehow disingenuous.

Then there are other times where it is impossible to turn a blind eye. Last Tango in Paris, for example. The infamous butter-as-lube anal sex scene was allegedly sprung on poor Maria Schneider without her knowledge. While they didn’t have sex for real, she still suffered the indignity of having Brando smear butter around her arse and writhe about on top of her. What you’re seeing in that scene is a genuine sexual assault. Brando and director Bernardo Bertolucci claimed the pursuit of authenticity to justify their decision, as if Schneider would not be able to act the scene and the reality gives it a truer feel. Turns out Schneider never really recovered from the ordeal and for their ‘art’ Brando and Bertolucci ruined a career and a life. Sali Hughes wrote a much more eloquent article (linked above), but my sentiment is much the same as hers: fuck that. Shit like this is why I hope the #MeToo movement burns all the rot from Hollywood (and every industry) where men abuse their power over women. The excuse ‘but it’s art’ washes not at all.

Then there’s Woody Allen. You can’t separate Woody Allen from a Woody Allen film. The same is true of Roman Polanski. I suppose there is the possibility that Allen didn’t sexually assault a seven year old (and there’s the rub – as it can’t be proved, who gets the benefit of the doubt? The men so you can continue to enjoy their films? The girls/women because fuck me if there’s one thing victims of sexual assault need it’s to be trusted and supported?). But…what if he did? There are some Woody Allen films I love, and actors and actresses I love are still falling over themselves to be in his films. But I don’t know now if I can (or should) bring myself to watch them. To do so feels too much like supporting his alleged actions and the rancid system that exists to protect and support him and others like him. While Allen continues to deny, Polanski, on the other hand, admitted in court to anally raping a 13 year old, so for me there's little left to justify continuing to watch and enjoy, much less agree to perform in, his films. Yet people do. Because it's art.

I confess I find myself in a troubled quandary. The law, quite correctly, states innocent until proven guilty. But sexual assault, especially if committed years ago, is nigh-on impossible to prove. Shouldn’t some of these men be in prison by now? Does wealth or a reputation for being a good actor or director really put you above the law? It fucking shouldn’t and that’s the truth. At the very least it should signal an end to their career, shouldn’t it? Allen and Polanski have escaped the fate that has justifiably befallen Weinstein and Spacey, but I don’t think I can find it within me to continue to be objective to their work, to turn a blind eye to the actions of which they are accused.

What a bloody mess.

People: not all bad.

I’m not unaware that this blog will often contain rants about the stupid and ridiculous things people do for the most stupid and ridiculous reasons, which, frankly, can sometimes get a little depressing. Sometimes it’s worth making a conscious effort to remember that we are responsible for brilliance.

There is a lump of matter in our skulls that can think its way beyond primal survival instincts and contemplate its own mortality and place within the cosmos. It can ask and answer questions about not only its origins, but the origins of the universe within which it finds itself. We can place ourselves in the shoes of those who are less fortunate and help them.

Complex and sophisticated languages, music, architecture, storytelling and many other forms of creation and expression. Not only the ability some have to create, but the ability of others to appreciate it. To respond on a deep emotional level to another person’s creation and either understand what it was they wanted to say, or take an entirely new interpretation of it beyond the creator’s original intention.

People you wouldn’t look at twice on the street are transformed into desirable, sweaty sex gods/goddesses if they’re standing in front of you playing music that fills your head with noise and your bones with vibrations. Moving pictures or written words become real and important because we have an imagination within which they become tangible things.

I know there are a many people in the world who aren’t in any kind of position to appreciate these things the way I can, and I know there are many things that aren’t right in our world – hell I usually moan about most of them right here, but we still have potential. Maybe we’ll realise it before we go under.

But is it art?

Not really. But maybe, in a way. I’ve had conversations before about whether cinema is really art. Well, yes, it absolutely is. Sure, when presented with Transformers: Dark of the Moon it is harder to contend this. But, what about ‘real’ art? For every tortured Van Gogh masterpiece, there is a light switch or unmade bed. Now, I'm not here to tell you that that kind of modern art isn't art, but I am contending that film has as much right, perhaps more, to be called art. Cinema is another form of storytelling, and storytelling is an art form, whether it is in the form of a book, graphic novel, concept album, or simply told around a campfire. If you don’t agree are you really trying to tell me that Tracey Emin is an artist, and yet Terrence Malik is not? Then you are nuts.

But games? Now we’re on to rockier ground. Roger Ebert would say no. There are many others who might tell you yes. Me? As usual, I’m kind of on the fence. Ingenious? Definitely, whether classic or modern – Pong, Pac Man, Tetris, Sonic, Street Fighter, Resident Evil, Mass Effect, Bioshock, L.A. Noire... on and on the list goes. But art? Stories in games now have a much more cinematic feel, and as mentioned, I believe story-telling is a genuine art form. And some of the concept art and graphical touches are simply phenomenal (just two of many, many examples are shown below). But the stories and the design, which are art, is in service of the creation of an addictive diversion, which is not. So is art employed in the service of something which is not art still art? Perhaps some things man was never meant to know.

Concept art for Gears of War.

Concept art for Deus Ex: Human Revolution.