Matthew Phillips2013-05-23T04:09:25-04:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=matthew-phillipsCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Matthew PhillipsGood old fashioned elbow grease.Valentine's: The Most Insufferable Day of the Year, But Please Don't Tell My Girlfriendtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26611302013-02-11T19:00:00-05:002013-04-13T05:12:01-04:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
On Thursday evening next week, hordes of canoodling couples will descend upon the nation's restaurants to frot one another over their shared seafood platters. There is only one thing more depressing than being single on the 14 February and that's to actually be in a relationship. Whilst bachelors and bachelorettes worldwide will be able to drown their sorrows in a lonely den of iniquity, I will be forced to join the charade of institutionalised romance.
The trouble is, we men are familiar with the pitfalls of ignoring this ludicrous occasion altogether; the jilted lover will feign indifference before harbouring a grudge that is likely to last several millennia. Unwillingly therefore, we tolerate this tedium because, like a malignant tumour, the consequences of not actually doing anything are so much worse.
Who the hell is this Valentine character anyway? According to the facts - of which there are not many - he was a Catholic priest who was executed in the third century. Forgive me for sounding callous, but a Christian martyr is hardly a fitting apotheosis of the romantic ideal. In fact, I can't think of a more inappropriate aphrodisiac than a crucified monk, but perhaps I need to experiment more. In any case, as much as I sympathise with Valentine's untimely and gruesome end, I resent the influence he continues to exert on our dismally sentimental society.
What vexes me most about this quasi-anniversary is the music that is associated with it.
Invariably, romantic music is saccharine rubbish designed to tug at the heartstrings of the blissfully happy. It has turned artists such as Alanis Morrisette and her ilk into international sensations. It has also reduced all of us to an act of uncharacteristic ardour: the compilation of a Valentine's day playlist. Don't try to deny it - everyone has a meticulously pre-arranged playlist that they can turn to when - God save me - they want to get 'jiggy with it'. It is part of the necessary conditions conducive to physical entanglement with one's desired lover. The lights are dimmed, the massage oils are placed at arms-reach, and a selection of songs seamlessly gurgles in the background. If you're anywhere near as contrived as I am, you might also carefully 'scatter' a few cult novels and a literary journal that you have never actually read. On that note, I have also been guilty of brewing fresh coffee afore a romantic visit in the misguided hope that the aroma will make me appear bookish and intellectual.
Anyway, I digress, let us return to the matter at hand: the Valentine's playlist. Inevitably, this playlist is always a sorry compromise. It's not a collection of your favourite songs or a subliminal expression of your affections. On the contrary, it is specifically designed to be innocuous and inoffensive. At no point does one want their wooing to be rudely interrupted by an errant Cradle of Filth track. The resulting mix therefore is reminiscent of the sort of tripe you might expect to hear in a hotel lobby.
Don't misunderstand me; I am not against the concept of love. It is, after all, what makes life worth enduring. What I object to is how silly Valentine's Day makes us appear. If there is a heaven, I imagine the titular saint is having the last laugh as he watches sales of Lionel Ritchie mp3s soar for the 30th consecutive year.
"So", I hear you ask "what is the solution this February?"
Firstly, if you have any self-respect, do not book a table at a restaurant. If you must eat, cook something at home and make it as private as possible. There is nothing more cringe-inducing than sitting beside clones of quixotic lovers as you all discuss the set menu options. Secondly, if music must play a role in your evening, go to see a gig or a show. It will be far more imaginative than your Valentine's playlist and, in the darkness of the venue, you can pretend that you are all alone.
Do not, for heaven's sake, write a song for your loved one. You will look like a caterwauling chump. For this very reason, Kites have generally eschewed traditional love songs.
If you must indulge in any kind of feather-brained amour, please confine it to the bedroom and, in that respect, you should be as naughty as possible. I mean, there has to be one redeeming feature in a day otherwise devoid of substance.
Happy bloody Valentine's one and all.]]>Now That the Party is Over, Musical Reasons to Be Cheerful in 2013tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.24330642013-01-08T13:07:41-05:002013-03-10T05:12:01-04:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
It all began when I decided to join a group of my most feckless and reckless chums on an escapade to the countryside for New Year's Eve. I shan't bother to elucidate on what transpired except to say that, when the festivities had finally concluded, a once eloquent dilettante had metamorphosed into a slurring pig. That slurring pig, as you have no doubt deduced, was me. During one particularly imprudent episode I tried, maladroitly, to improvise a new Kites track on the pianoforte, forgetting that pigs lack the dexterity to play instruments.
Afterwards, as I lay catatonic on what I decided was to be my deathbed, my mind turned to thoughts of my own mortality. Anyone who has reasoned, in a moment of egregious unruliness, that port makes an excellent substitute for Ribena will know that I am not being sensational; I genuinely thought my end was nigh. And yet, hours before I could not have been further from such macabre meditations.
As the clock strikes midnight on 31 December, we all dream of a new beginning. We pray that the New Year will act as a harbinger of transformation in our petty lives. We believe, mistakenly, that it will usher in prosperity, romance or, best of all, an end to Katie Price's career.
Well, dream on dreamers. The most we can expect from 2013 is the onslaught a triple-dip recession and a new series of Downton Abbey. Admittedly, the latter eventuality is not entirely disagreeable, but one can't base their sole raison d'etre on a BBC period drama.
Coupled with these sanguine fantasies is the endless flurry of New Year's resolutions. So much ink has already been spilt on this fatuous subject that I will not seek to expend more wit on it herein. The point is, why do all of us, myself included, become so medievally superstitious at this time of year? It is primitive, it is antediluvian, it is befitting of a scientologist.
Even before Christmas Day we had to endure scenes of credulous Russians bearing candles to protect themselves from the Mayan apocalypse. I don't mean to sound mordacious, but if the Mayan calendar could not predict the demise of its own illustrious civilisation, how could it possibly be relied upon to date, with any degree of exactitude, the termination of life on planet earth?
So, let's say, hypothetically, that I somehow survive this hangover that bruises like a personal visitation from Beelzebub and his dark satanic horde; let's say that Britain weathers the recession and that the writers of Downton find some way of resurrecting Matthew - their best-quaffed star.
The truth is, it is important to have something to look forward to in 2013. Most of us cannot bear to peel away the blankets during these early wintry months and trudge to our offices through the sludge and detritus of yesterday's failures. January and February loom over the beginning of the year like brooding stalagmites ready to impale us on their frosty spires.
Therefore, allow me to announce a few musical gems that will give us all a reason to go on breathing in 2013.
As you know, I am already beyond the pale and I have therefore resigned myself to penning my own retrospective. You see, I am actually no better than any of my fellow writers; I just like to think I am. Self-deception is the one superpower I am in possession of.
In any case, are there any reasons to be feeling particularly sanctimonious this Christmas?
Doom and Gloom, as the Rolling Stones sing on their latest single, lingers in the atmosphere like a particularly unpleasant body odour. These days, Mick and Keith - the crinkled granddads of rock - are far too rich to position themselves as relevant social commentators, but they do have a point: pessimism is everywhere.
I suppose you think I'm being unfair. After all, 2012 was the year of the Olympics. It was a year of national unity, sporting prowess, and patriotic flag-waving at a tempestuous jubilee. But really, if I see another ageing politician attempting the Mobot, I might emigrate to Greenland, Kazakhstan or, as a last-ditch resort, Australia. Honestly, my father does more convincing impressions of Eminem.
The Chinese zodiac tells us that 2012 was the year of the dragon. It wasn't; 2012 was the year of the Boris. While George Osborne looked vampiric beside an increasingly choleric Cameron, Mayor Johnson marched through the capital with the air of an all-conquering war hero - his elephantine limbs akimbo as he addressed the masses.
I admit it, even I was momentarily swept up in the magic of it all. Who could resist Boris' bumbling charm, his glacial eyes and his really rather hysterical asides? He's like an intelligent Humpty-Dumpty, but with fantastic hair. Yet I can't help thinking that the so-called 'feel-good factor' he has so successfully promulgated is not just another grand deception to distract us from the real issues.
Since it's Christmas, I am going to attempt to bury my misgivings and indulge in some rare positivity. Heaven knows, all my despondency is beginning to smack of Morrissey and he'd hardly make an ideal dinner guest at Noël.
Granted, in 366 days (2012 is a leap year remember), I have enjoyed fleeting moments of mild satisfaction with my band Kites. We performed a series of bedizen shows throughout the year, including Tramlines, Liverpool Sound City and Scala - where we supported my doppelganger, Aiden Grimshaw. The experience of performing to an adoring audience, who initially mistook me for a well-dressed Mr Grimshaw, was not wholly disagreeable. The poor, deluded creatures.
Anyway, enough about me - no really, even I occasionally tire of talking about myself - what have been 2012's standout moments?
I want you to think of my list, not as a hierarchical chart, but as a smorgasbord of brilliance. Feel free to disagree in the comments section below. You always do...
1. Best radio: Adam Buxton and Edith Bowman partnering for a new show on BBC 6music.
2. Best psychedelica: Tame Impala - Lonerism
3. Best handsome dance musician: Matthew Dear - Beams
4. Best read: The Leveson Report. I'm kidding, it was Will Self's Umbrella (although both were equally impenetrable)
5. Best pop single: Sky Ferriera: Everything is Embarrassing
6. Best comedian: Tony Law (half-viking, half-pirate) Maximum Nonsense
7. Best heroine: Eddi Front - Gigantic EP
8. Best melancholia: William Basinski - Disintegration Loops
9. Best theatre: You me bum bum train
10. Best Christmas present: iPad mini (with GarageBand)
11. Best stocking filler: Pocket squares (this is the same every year)
12. Best film: Moonrise Kingdom
13. Best restaurant: Honest Burger (Soho, London)
14. Best Artist: Elizabeth Price (previously of Talulah Gosh)
15. Best Cocktail: Negroni
16. Best Tailor: A. Sauvage
17. Best athlete: Mo Farah
18. Best exhibition: Edvard Munch - The Tate
19. Best comeback: European Ryder cup team. Actually, do I look like I care about golf? Stone Roses
20. Best Personality: Well, Boris, obviously...
Merry ruddy Christmas one and all!]]>Don't Drink and Jive: Why Alcohol and Performance Do Not Make Cosy Bedfellowstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.21719852012-11-23T19:00:00-05:002013-01-23T05:12:01-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
The point I am trying to make - with exhausting prolixity - is that alcohol, in moderation, can make us feel indestructible. Sadly, it also makes us act like hubristic morons. Now, such behaviour might be permissible socially - in fact, a dose of decadence can be healthy - but it is hardly appropriate for the stage. As the age-old adage warns us, 'confidence comes before a fall'.
Do not fear, it is not my intention to start proselytising from my ivory tower of teetotalism. On the contrary, I speak with the unfortunate benefit of hindsight. It always galls me that most of us appear to be gifted hindsight, rather than foresight. Hindsight, as my dad would say, is like an ashtray on a motorbike; it is entirely useless.
In the spirit of openness therefore, allow me to make a confession: during my penultimate year at university I decided, post-examination, to visit one of my favourite watering holes to sink a few palate-cleansing ales. This might seem like a perfectly ordinary activity but there were two factors that reaped my undoing. Firstly, I was booked to play a gig that same evening and, secondly, the watering hole in question was hosting a festival of beer. Other than mammary glands and technical gimmickry, there are few things that will corrupt a man's soul as much as a beer festival.
Predictably, I stumbled, staggered, and stammered my way through a performance that would have made Shane MacGowan cringe.
This maladroit display culminated in an ungainly attempt to destroy my equipment, at which point the sound engineer scooped me from the stage as if I was a rag-doll. At this juncture, Sid Vicious would have hurled obscenities, Zac de la Roche might have incited revolution, and Jim Morrison would have probably hiccoughed and waved his willy.
What did I do?
Let me tell you - my cheeks flushed crimson and, like any other cripplingly polite young man, I attempted an apology that was reminiscent of a stuttering Hugh Grant. To say it was an embarrassment would be the understatement of the century. By the end of the ordeal, I think even the sound-man might have been feeling sympathetic, for he eventually reached across and patted me paternally on the shoulder. No matter, my fate was sealed and I was an object of raillery for the remainder of my studies. Needless to say, I learnt my lesson. It's a shame that the same cannot be said of members of my peer group.
There is a lot of myth making around artists who, moments before delivering the performance of their careers, were lying catatonic in a pool of their vomitus. I am not disputing the authenticity of these stories, but I will say that they represent rare moments of clarity. Far more frequently, shows are cancelled because the artists are simply too intoxicated to play. How many times have we witnessed singers who can't even remember their own names, let alone the lyrics of their own songs? In any other form of performance art, this kind of infantile rebellion would be unacceptable, yet somehow it is glamourized in the music industry.
For my own part, my pre-performance ritual now consists of mineral water, cashew nuts and mildly homo-erotic petting of my fellow band members. I don't feel the need to rid myself of inhibitions prior to a gig because, in all sincerity, the stage is one of the few places that I can be entirely myself, warts and all. If you can't amplify your neuroses and insecurities at a show then, frankly, what's the point?
Forgive me, after that outburst, I think I ought to retire to my local cocktail establishment for a rip-roaring knees-up. I do hope negronis are on the menu...]]>You Might Be Able to Play the Viola, the Tuba and the Concertina, but I Can Play the iPadtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.20881432012-11-07T19:00:00-05:002013-01-07T05:12:01-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
When I climb onto the tube each morning and begin tinkering with Garageband for the iPad, I can feel pairs of frosty eyes boring into me. I know what those eyes are thinking. They glower, "that gentleman might know how to correctly fold a pocket square, but he doesn't know a thing about songcraft." While these malevolent musings are underway, I will have composed a short operetta and a handful of atmospheric film scores. In such moments, I will decide that I am a genius until remembering, belatedly, that writing songs on the iPad is the musical equivalent of Damien Hirst playing dot-to-dot: it denotes no technical talent whatsoever.
Nevertheless, the disdain of my fellow passengers aboard the Victoria Line betrays ill-concealed jealousy. I can tell that those wanton churls would like nothing more than to dispossess me of my tablet device, locate their nearest Café Nero, and set about conceiving concertos and symphonies of their own. In fact, I'm yet to meet someone who didn't privately believe that they could outdo Mozart if given access to an iPad, a microphone, and a powdered wig.
The point is, if it is so easy to write music with an iPad, do the results qualify as meaningful art? The answer, my dears, has to be 'yes.' If we start to measure artistic merit solely on traditional draftsmanship and exertion, we will be forced to expel some of our most cherished creators from their respective halls of fame. Imagine teaching Jackson Pollock how to correctly apply a paintbrush, or reprimanding Keats and Nabokov for their abominable spelling. Likewise, it probably wouldn't have harmed Lou Reed to have learnt how to properly pluck a guitar. Remember, art is not always about godlike displays of virtuosity.
In music particularly, there is an important distinction to be made between a composer/songwriter and an instrumentalist. I am certainly the former and I have reconciled myself to the fact that, despite being a monumental show-off, I will never be able to utilise my guitar as a gloating device. In any case, I have little desire to parade my Telecaster as some sort of phallic extension, whilst I strum myself to masturbatory utopia. The image - even for a narcissist like me - is repulsive and I long ago imposed a ban on guitar solos in my band, Kites:
"If you want to play solos," I said "join a band that don't have any decent songs. That way you'll be called upon regularly to distract the audience from poor writing by bamboozling them with musical scales."
Johnny Marr never once played a solo* and what's good enough for Johnny is good enough for me.
Jests aside, the iPad does not lend itself to instrumental showmanship - the touch-screen simply doesn't allow for nimble dexterity. This is good news for me and bad news Steve Vai. Ultimately, as a piece of technology for developing ideas on the move, the iPad is indispensable. I would go as far as to contend that it is the Moleskin notebook for the 21st Century.
I would like to sign-off this missive by announcing that I have recently purchased a new application called Deejay. I won't bother elucidating on what it does, suffice to say that Daft Punk can safely go into retirement: DJ MTTHW PHLLPS has arrived.
*I have subsequently been reminded by my Smiths-obsessed manager that Marr indulged in a wonderful guitar solo in Shoplifters of the World Unite, but one should never allow the facts to get in the way of a leaky argument.]]>Music and the English Language: I Don't Mean to Sound Slutty, but Please use Me Whenever You Want. Sincerely, Grammartag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.20088392012-10-25T19:00:00-04:002012-12-25T05:12:01-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
Many have often repeated Zappa's truism with echolalic precision, "rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read." If he is to be believed, I wonder why more hasn't been done to cure the scourge of illiteracy among society's melodious classes. I'm tempted to suggest an addendum to the Evening Standard's 'Get London Reading' campaign - Educate Our Analphabetic Musicians - although, admittedly, using the word 'analphabetic' may only compound the issue rather than facilitate its remedy.
Please don't misunderstand me, mastering grammar is a Sisyphean task and I would be a fool to claim that I am an authority on the subject. Sure, I parade Fowler's guide to Modern English Usage ostentatiously atop my mantelpiece but, like much of my personality, it is more of a showpiece than a sincere representation of my skill set. Indeed, I am the grotesque embodiment of Fowler's famous definition of didacticism:
"The speaker who has discovered that Juan and Quixote are not pronounced in Spain as he used to pronounce them as a boy is not content to keep so important a piece of information to himself; he must have the rest of us call them Hwan and Keehotay; at any rate he will give us the chance of mending our ignorant ways by doing so."
No doubt there will be a number of smart alecks among you who will pinpoint the grammatical flaws in this very article. Be that as it may, I too am fallible and even I am prone to error. But, consider this, at least I aspire to a higher ideal; at least I do not perpetually subscribe to the lowest common denominator. You see, there is an important distinction to grasp here: when it comes to judging grammatical misuse in lyrics, what can be considered genuine absent-mindedness and what is so flagrantly remiss that gross impudence is the only explanation?
I suppose you must think me a terrible snob, but that would be unfair. Yes, it does irk me that Kate Bush's Wuthering Heights was inspired by a cinematic adaptation, rather than by Emily Brontë's classic novel, but I am not unreasonable. I do not expect my fellow musicians to enjoy eloquence, Scrabble and witty repartee as much as I do. I not expect them to know the difference between a monologue and a soliloquy, or highfalutin and hyperbole. But really, since when was the "female of the species more deadlier than the male" (Space); why is it acceptable to sing "how does it feel like to let forever be?" (Chemical Brothers & Noel Gallagher); and Kanye, would it hurt to insert 'we're' when you sing "we at war with terrorism, racism, and most of all we at war with ourselves" on Jesus Walks?
Clearly, Kanye is also at war with his own Lilliputian intellect. Indeed, he did not need to brazenly remark that he is a "proud non-reader of books" - the evidence, from a cursory glance at one stanza of his lyrical content, is as clear as his girlfriend's complexion.
What vexes me most is not that these artists are indolently committing crimes against the English language, but that they are wasting a hallowed opportunity. Words add depth, colour and personality to a song. In fact, they become even more powerful when projected onto a musical backdrop, which is why I shudder when lyricists make a conscious decision to rhyme nonsensical syllables. Sometimes it isn't enough to say that a badly-constructed lyric can be overlooked because it fits with the meter; sometimes it is just sheer laziness.
So, the next time you hear Pink Floyd chant "We don't need no education", please write to Messrs. Gilmour and Waters and explain to them that they do need an education, for they do not know how to correctly employ a double-negative.
The revolution is here my friends.
The future will be bright, poetic, and properly punctuated.]]>Take Off Those Sunglasses Bono - You Look Ridiculoustag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19485792012-10-10T19:00:00-04:002012-12-10T05:12:02-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
The second occurrence is a condition that many of us will be intimately acquainted with. It is when we feel so ashamed by an evening of bacchanalian prodigality that we cannot bear to look our beautiful world directly in the eye. It is the adult equivalent of a child keeping their head resolutely downcast as they receive a parental admonishment for raiding the cookie jar or for some other act of infantile rebellion. Such spineless behaviour should be viewed sympathetically. Let those who are without sin cast the first stone upon the unrighteous and, frankly, I try to be as far as possible from anyone who pretends to embody a modicum of virtue - they always seem so insufferably serious.
Where my clemency for sunglasses begins to wither however, is when artists, particularly singers, wear their ocular devices with a perpetuity that is offensive. No one is guiltier of this crime than the prophet Bono. His trademark Armani rimless lunettes not only make him look a deranged insect from Blade Runner, they also distance himself irrevocably from his audience. This is what I really detest about sunglasses. When I perform I want people to be able to look at the whites of my eyes. I want to dismantle the barriers between myself and the crowd, whether physical or metaphorical, and shout into the faces of each individual spectator. Performance, at its best, should be like an intimate relationship.
Photo by Eloisa Cuturi
I once asked a thespian friend of mine what it was like to play a character every night on stage. He answered that, when he felt he had truly perfected a role, he no longer believed he was wearing a mask. It is his assertion that the finest actors don't actually act at all. Thus, without wishing to delve too deeply into Jungian theory, it seems to me that the most compelling artists are those who are able to project their true selves through their 'persona'.
And yet, this ideal is unattainable to those who stubbornly insist on donning sunglasses everywhere. There is something decidedly shady - forgive the pun - about inexorably wearing sunglasses and I am always convinced that the wearer in question is engaged in skulduggery of the most depraved kind.
My grandmother always used to tell me that I should never trust someone with sunglasses. It was good advice when I was five years old and its good advice now! This is why politicians don't wear sunglasses. They want us - the voters - to believe, albeit momentarily, that they are sincere, affable chaps. I suspect that, had Ed Miliband been veiled behind a pair of tortoise-shell Wayfarers during his 'One Nation' speech at last week's Party Conference, he would have garnered a slightly less enthusiastic reception from the British press.
Since when, therefore, did sunglasses become as ubiquitous as guitars in the music industry? They inspire only duplicity and inauthenticity. In interviews, their use is just plain rude. I would like to launch a public charter to ban sunglasses from the stage altogether but, alas, I have no political clout whatsoever.
Perhaps this article will cause people to ring my doorbell tomorrow in protest of my polemic against their coveted eyewear. Please do. It will afford me the opportunity of rearranging my hair as I examine my reflection in an array of UV-protected lenses. However, unless your name is Ray Charles, I won't be inviting you inside for tea and crumpets.
The new single 'This Jumped-Up Boy in Livery' by Matthew's band Kites is now available for download on iTunes: http://bit.ly/Vyxovv]]>The Music Industry is Dead But I Still Want a Record Dealtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19283792012-10-02T19:00:00-04:002012-12-02T05:12:01-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
We sit with our laptops open before us like gunslingers before a duel. No doubt we're all penning a satirical piece about the foibles of East London, all the while oblivious that we are all part of the parody, rather than the authors of its undoing. The menu is reassuringly overpriced and I'm trying to fathom how any impecunious artist can afford it. I certainly can't afford it! Incidentally, I have now drained my Orangina and have decided to content myself with the complimentary water and, no, it hasn't been flavoured with cucumbers.
Anyway, I digress - the point is, of the artists present in this room, about 40% are likely to be involved in music. Of these, most will tell you that a record contract is superfluous nowadays. They will say, censoriously, that the music industry is dead - that it is an anachronism that should be consigned to the history books. They are right of course: the party is over. When I worked as a lowly clerical assistant at EMI Music, I became aware of an obsolete 'Cakes & Sweeties' fund that represented millions of pounds of debt for the company. It was axiomatic that this affectionately entitled fund wasn't for purchasing foodstuffs with a high sugar content but, rather, that it bankrolled the insouciant and narcotic-fuelled lifestyles of EMI's most memorable icons, as well as its senior members of staff. Needless to say, today there are no more 'Cakes & Sweeties', there are no more imprudent extravagances and, most depressingly of all, there are no more eye-watering advances.
So, why is it that, unlike my fellow comrades assembled around me in this café, I still desire, nay, demand, a record contract? After all, I can still create my music and release it on a plethora of digitally-based platforms. I don't need the permission of one of the music industry's behemoth labels to be a musician, do I?
Put simply, my hankering for the patronage of the record industry can be attributed, in large part, to nostalgia. My childhood homes were littered with vinyl and I can vividly recollect performing somersaults around my father's turntable for many happy hours. As a five year old, I would pour over vinyl artwork with a level of enthusiasm that was usually reserved for Teddy Ruxpin or Enid Blyton cassettes. There is something wonderfully tangible about vinyl and, at a time when we over-value the disposable and undervalue the corporeal, that is a source of great comfort.
photo by Eloisa Cuturi
You may remember a very famous anecdote about John Peel being told by a fellow disc jockey that CDs were better than vinyl because they didn't have surface noise. With characteristic wit, Mr Peel parried with the superb one-liner: "Listen, mate, life has surface noise."
What John embodies here, is that latent sentimentalist that resides in all of us. I am aware that I don't necessarily 'need' a record contract, but that doesn't escape from the fact that I want one anyway. Perhaps I sound decidedly antiquarian but, frankly, I don't give a damn. I can only stomach so much modernity before, invariably, I return to those elements that first inspired my love of music: my father, his record player, and The Beatles' 'Please Please Please Me' in a feathered LP wallet. One day, I hope I too will be able to commend my music to the great black circle.]]>I am on Twitter and I Need to be Lovedtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.19103472012-09-26T19:00:00-04:002012-11-26T05:12:02-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
Some of you may be reading this and thinking, demurely, that your Twitter feed is even less popular than my own. Do not berate yourselves my dears; you're probably not an artist attempting to utilise Twitter as a promotional platform. If you are, heaven help you!
In any case, it can't be denied that Twitter has completely redefined the relationship between performers and their fans. Once upon a time, our glitterati were untouchable and infallible. Nowadays, one is likely to receive a personal invitation from Peter Doherty with instructions to burgle his house, graffiti his walls and scandalise his personal bidet. Where, I ask you, has all the mystery gone? Furthermore, why do we, as users, actively choose to make ourselves party to the laconically banal soundbites of our most cherished stars?
Twitter only grants 140 characters per Tweet. I don't know about you, but I can barely complete a decent subordinate clause within such restrictions. I appreciate that we live in an age of austerity, but I do not see why we have to be as frugal with our language as we are with our finances. Perhaps as a result of this, Louise Mensch (remember her?) has recently launched her own social media network - the narcissistically titled Menshn - that extends its character limit to an apparently generous 180. Mind you, who, apart from Mensch and its co-founder, Luke Bozier, will be using Menshn? The point is, these limitations, whether of 140, 180 or 2272 characters, are entirely arbitrary. There will always be a 'somebody', somewhere, dictating what confines we nobodies are destined to observe.
Have you ever considered why a CD is exactly 74 minutes in length? Not 70 minutes or 80 minutes as might be expected, but exactly 74 minutes. The story behind this peculiarity is heartening: during the creation of the original Compact Disc, the President of Sony decided that the new format should be able to contain Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 in D minor in its entirety. And so, owing to the eccentric whims of a classical music enthusiast, rather than to the mechanics of an industry, the CD was born.
However, although listening to Herr Ludwig could be viewed as a culturally enhancing exercise, confining our Twitter gambits to a paltry 140 characters is decidedly less ennobling. Let's face it, the grammar such enforced brevity breeds is an absolute disgrace. At a time when our young schoolchildren can barely spell the newly proposed Baccalaureate that they are destined to sit, it is clear that the future of syntax in our society is doomed. Don't get me wrong, I understand the reasons why Twitter chose to curtail its updates - I'm not a complete nincompoop - I just bemoan the relentless dumbing-down of our beautiful language.
I suppose this article must sound like the futile rant of an embittered reactionary and, in that assumption, you would be correct. You see, Twitter is the most juvenile and cruel popularity contest I have encountered since, as a child, I was last-picked for every football game that I had the misfortune of participating in. I am as bereft of followers now, as I was of willing teammates during my internment in the playground.
Alas, due to the fact that I have a band to propagate, it seems that I have little choice but to join the bovine masses and make it my quest to increase Kites' online social status. Thankfully, London is presently hosting Social Media Week - a worldwide event exploring the social, cultural and economic impact of social media - and I, for one, will be taking notes. I need all the help I can get.
So, yes, I will Tweet about this article. I will probably also ask the good people @HuffPostUK to Tweet it too, before retweeting it myself. Perhaps I'll even @mention Menshn in a shoddy attempt at wordplay. Egad(!), I'll join Menshn myself if its founders are willing to ignore the prerogative remarks made in this article.
Meanwhile, I invite you all to investigate my Twitter account where I can be observed attempting to cram a sonnet into 140 characters. After all, someone has to wave the flag for morphology in a climate of grammatical indolence. Join the revolution @kitesonline.
photo by Eloisa Cuturi]]>I Am a Frontman and I Have a License to Offendtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18927782012-09-19T19:00:00-04:002012-11-19T05:12:02-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/Radio 4 interviews with all the brouhaha of a petulant toddler, on the other, he is shy to the point of being diagnosed with agoraphobia.
Still, you have to admit that Mr Martin is far more agreeable than most of his peer-group. Too frequently we allow our stars to clamber around on ridiculously high pedestals and 'play king of the castle'. For instance, who in god's name can remember that pathetic creature from Towers of London, Donny Tourette? I recall watching Nevermind the Buzzcocks in disbelief as he metamorphosed into the most grotesque parody of a frontman that this nation has had the shame of fathering. Following gesticulations that were reminiscent of Rik Mayall's best caricatures, Bill Bailey declared - and rightly so - that Donny's rebellion "was about as punk as Enya". I cannot begin to imagine why he wasn't kept on a firmer leash, but then, as soon as we start attempting to put our most obstreperous stars into an advanced form of childcare, we suppress that tap of spontaneity that has served some of rock's more deserving personalities so well.
Try to picture a world without Jarvis Cocker mooning Michael Jackson, or Jim Morrison deciding not to get his todger out, and you would be picturing a world that had been deprived of some its most hilarious moments. So, how do we differentiate between the Jarvises and Donnys of the proverbial stage? Fret not my friends, I have the solution: I apply what I have rather pompously baptized the 'Dostoevsky test'.
Let me explain: in Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment (if you haven't read it, I suggest you read more), the reader witnesses the protagonist - Raskolnikov - aligning himself with Napoleon Bonaparte in order to justify murder. He reasons that, if Napoleon was forced to commit a crime in his early career, it would have been permissible because of the greatness he ultimately achieved. Now, before anyone tries to accuse me of condoning homicide, Dostoevsky raises an interesting point: if one is truly extraordinary, should they be granted rights above and beyond mere mortals?
The answer, thankfully, is simple. You see, like the unfortunate Raskolnikov, those who are not genuinely extraordinary are always betrayed by their fraudulent natures. Donny will, mercifully, fade into mockery, obscurity and, finally, when reality television has become just an unpleasant memory, he will evaporate into the ether altogether. Meanwhile, those stars that are truly remarkable will be forgiven their peccadillos.
Don't believe me? I asked my manager, Merrington - a lexicon of music related trivia - to provide a short list of famous stars whose most outrageous antics are viewed as charming anecdotes, rather than the horror stories they are in reality:
Brian Wilson introduced himself as "Brian" to some young fans, in 1970, "We know" came the response, "we're your children."
Adam Ant ordered every seat at a theatre to be sprinkled with lavender water, because "that's what the Georgians did."
Kevin Rowland stole the master tapes to Dexys' debut album to enable him to negotiate better terms with his label. Studio staff jumped in front of his speeding car at which point Rowland urged the driver, "Accelerate, and damn the consequences!"
Ike Turner spent 40,000 a day filling champagne buckets with cocaine. Visitors were invited to help themselves.
Peter Green threatened his manager, Clifford Davis with a rifle in 1977; Davis had been trying to deliver a £40,000 royalty check to his London home.
Let us be honest, do we have any desire for our idols to be humanised? To do so, would ruin every myth that the music industry had thrived on and, frankly, how dull would that be?
So, before you try to dethrone our supercilious rock stars, just remember that, for them, humility is not always a virtue. Take my advice: leave them alone and allow Matthew's 'Dostoevsky test' to work its magic.
Kites - http://www.facebook.com/wearekites
Merrington Music Management - http://www.facebook.com/MerringtonMusic]]>To Hell With Being Meaningful; Performance is About Presentationtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18711492012-09-10T19:00:00-04:002012-11-10T05:12:01-05:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
The true test of a musician is what they can recreate at a live concert. This is why Enya inspires so little respect; without 83.5 carefully multi-tracked vocals, she is nothing. Conversely, watching David Byrne during 1984's Stop Making Sense Tour is like watching a masterclass in the conception, design, and delivery of a musical miracle.
Equally, we should not disregard the exploits of Lady Gaga, Madonna, and just about every other titillating banshee that has awed the masses. But then, how far can a lavish spectacle dupe the audience into believing that they have witnessed an authentic performance and, if so, does it really matter whether the display is genuine or not? David Byrne is a genius but I cannot say with any certainty if, given the choice between the Talking Heads and Madonna in 1984, I wouldn't be more impressed by a conical bra and the simulation of fellatio. What can I say, I have a simple mind.
Eddie Izzard - another virtuoso of the stage - used to proclaim that performance is:
"70% how you look, 20% how you sound, and 10% what you say."
In life, I have taken this axiom quite literally. I am even prone to describing my guitar as a fashion accessory in order to rile the proprietors of every music shop on Denmark Street. I cannot begin to describe the pleasure I derive from entering a guitar store and announcing that I will be selecting an instrument based on its colour, rather than on the quality of its bespoke Humbucker pickups. At a concert, no audience member will ever be able to distinguish the difference in sound between a vintage '82 Telecaster and a Fender Squire but they might remark, with knowing approval, that the hue of my guitar fetchingly compliments my magnificent burgundy bow-tie.
We've all heard the universal anecdote that every grandfather likes to narrate; you know, the one about serving Tesco value whiskey in crystal glasses to guests who are oblivious to the deception. It might be that you've heard the same story except with whiskey substituted for brandy or cognac but, no matter, the message is the same: presentation is everything.
When asked to develop a concept for Kites' latest video - This Jumped-Up Boy In Livery - I decided, somewhat snottily, that its basic premise would entail me getting dressed, whilst my band members acted as my personal valets. You can imagine how thrilled my band members were when they heard of how they were to be portrayed: 'Great' they thought, 'We get to play clothing serfs as Matthew rearranges his appurtenances for the cameras.'
My insufferable ego aside, there is something compelling about the way we exhibit ourselves. Clothes are our costumes, our armour and, most importantly, the greatest expression of our personalities. This is what it is to be truly personable and I mean 'personable' in the most literal sense of the word. As with so much else in the English language, people nowadays misuse this word in the belief that its definition is 'to be sociable'. It isn't. As the word would suggest, it means that one's 'person' is pleasing to the eye. I would argue that the reason people confuse this word is that, tellingly, if one's appearance is likeable it somehow follows that they will also be affable characteristically. Obviously, this assumption is flawed, but then, Homo-sapien man is flawed as a species. Regardless of whether we are willing to admit to the sin or not, the simple truth is that we judge on appearances. Who cares what's 'on the inside' if it can't be represented externally?
Once a musician has grasped the essence of what they are and managed to express that visually and physically, as well as aurally, they have grasped the rudiments of their trade.
Last week it was announced that the V&A is to curate a retrospective exhibition dedicated to the cultural impact of David Bowie and his various aliases. If we really want to understand the fundamental relationship between performance and presentation, I suggest we all buy our tickets forthwith.
Kites 'This Jumped-Up Boy in Livery' released 1st October - http://www.wearekites.com
V&A 'David Bowie is' 23 March to 28 June 2012 - http://www.vam.ac.uk/]]>I Think I Smell a Rat!tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18428952012-09-02T19:00:00-04:002012-11-02T05:12:01-04:00Matthew Phillipshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/matthew-phillips/
For the purposes of this article, I am prepared to be uncharacteristically candid: I compulsively read my reviews and, what's more, I naively look at all the public comments. We all know that these comment forums are bastions of cruelty for anonymous cowards, but I can't help myself! Let's face it, who can honestly raise their hand and pretend that they have never Googled their own name? The truth is, we humans are obsessed with ourselves; it's part of our evolutionary make-up. If we weren't, how could we have possibly survived the natural selection process?
I do not indulge in this sort of narcissism because I love myself - a reasonable accusation - but because, depressingly, I do care what people think about me. Artists who say otherwise are either lying, emotionally stunted, or an aspiring contestant on Big Brother. I mean, surely people who partake in reality television have lost any semblance of self-respect.
On the morning of a release, I gallop to my local newsagents on all-fours like an ungainly gazelle. Aside from running up escalators and lifting pints, this is the only exercise my undernourished body receives. Once I have located and purchased a magazine that is sufficiently alternative to feature Kites (my band), I realise, pitifully, that I alone am probably responsible for significantly increasing its sales that month. Ultimately, it matters little whether the review is favourable or vitriolic - Kites will neither profit nor suffer, so why should I care?
Moreover, reviews that have a much greater readership often seem equally pointless, in that they are usually misinformed or not genuine reflections of the views of society. Take Kim Gavin's Olympic Closing Ceremony as an example; the press were, overwhelmingly, gushing in their praise for a spectacle that anyone, who hadn't undergone a lobotomy, could see was a national humiliation. It was clear that the critics concerned had either not seen the ceremony, or were still intoxicated from Team GB's victories in the previous fortnight. That's not to say it was all bad but 'theatrical vitality' -as the Guardian proclaimed - it was not.
So, what relevance do reviews actually have? I asked the peerless Amy Lamé, fresh from a month-long run of Unhappy Birthday at The Edinburgh Fringe Festival, for some desperately needed wisdom on this matter:
"Some of the worst reviews can be gifts in disguise. One teenage reviewer said Unhappy Birthday was "performance art at its worst". That's the only quote I'll ever need to ensure the success and longevity of my showbiz career."
I like this outlook. It seems to me that, occasionally, reviews are simply just jolly good fun to read. In fact, it would be churlish to expect much more from a discipline that, in its very nature, is mostly subjective.
On a basic level therefore, reviews provide the reader with a way into a subject and, unintentionally or otherwise, they serve to establish a dialogue and a vocabulary around that subject. True, most of the language one finds on a Youtube comments board would scandalise a particularly inarticulate sailor but, broadly speaking, it would be wrong to say that all bloggers were mean-spirited trolls. In any case, artists have, throughout history, been at the mercy of their public. If good work is marginalised, its failure usually doesn't have much to do with the quality of the reviews.
So, without further ado, please feel free to write your comments on my psuedo-journalism below. Be as profane, disgusting and contemptuous as you dare. Don't worry, I'm surprisingly self-aware; I realise how objectionable I appear. I will read, I will weep, I might even retire but, frankly, what difference does it make?
On the eve of the release of Kites' new single - This Jumped-Up Boy In Livery - I've developed elephant hide to cope with this backlash. Go on, do your worst if you think you're hard enough.
photo by Eloisa Cuturi
