PartB 750 by PartB

27 September 2011

2Editorial

Wednesday 28 August 2011 | PartB

Editorial Vacancies Many of our section editors graduated over the summer. We are sad to see them go and wish I them the very best, but this is an exciting time and one to look forward from. Along with new writers, we are looking for new editors. You do not need to have written f someone tells you the arts are not important at the LSE, or that LSE students are not cultured, they’re lying. It’s not just an innocent little fib – it’s a rotten, dirty lie. PartB is the Beaver’s arts and culture supplement. It’s also a pullout (try it! try it!). Though we run the risk of sounding like an LSE brochure in saying this, one of the great things about LSE is the global diversity. Arts and culture are fundamenal parts of the human experience, and are important in every country in the world. One of our strengths has always been the diversity of the writers we have to draw upon. For one thing, people interpret and understand, say, a painting differently, depending on the culture and customs they were were brought up with. Some things are better appreciated by people who are new to them, whereas others require a deeper, instinctive understanding. Either way, to have the perspectives of such a variety of people is wonderful – we welcome everyone who wants to write for us. As you’ll see on the right, we have quite a lot of vacancies right now, so please get in also touch if you’re interested in any of them. Existing staff and their contact details, to whom you should direct any questions about their respective sections, are listed below. They’re all very lovely people and as sure as the Blairs are moneygrubbers, you’ll love them.

PartB Editors Aameer Patel Kerry-Rose O’Donnell partb@thebeaveronline.co.uk

Fashion Alice Leah Fyfe partb-fashion@thebeaveronline.co.uk

Film Aameer Patel partb-film@thebeaveronline.co.uk

Music Alexander Young partb-music@thebeaveronline.co.uk

Satirist-in-chief Jack Tindale partb-rant@thebeaveronline.co.uk

Theatre Rory Creedon partb-theatre@thebeaveronline.co.uk

TV Simon Chaudhuri partb-theatre@thebeaveronline.co.uk

for us before – freshers are very welcome – nor do you require previous experience. The only thing required is passion. PartB is all about passion. Passion for books? We need a literature editor. Passion for theatre? For TV? For food? For visual arts? For video games? For satire? We need such people and more than that, the LSE needs such people. As an editor, you will direct, manage and edit the content for your section. You’ll have power and opportunity. For example, as Literature Editor, you will have the opportunity to learn of and read some wonderful books well before they are released. For free, of course. Likewise for all sections – you will be ahead, in the know and in control. It goes without saying that this is valuable experience for any field. If you have any questions, general or specific, or just want a friendly chat about any of the editorial positions (or about just writing for us), do not hesitate to contact us. Literature Editor

Do you love books? So do we. The same goes for god(s), in most religions. They could have screened their message in the sky, being a god and all, but they preferred books. It was a good decision, we say. Did you know that LSE students are some of the most voracious readers in the country? Naturally, what you love to read need not be fiction.

Theatre Editor

London is arguably the greatest place in the world for theatre. It really is awesome. You already know what happens in the Peacock Theatre on several evenings each week, right? No, it’s not an economics lecture for people who weren’t awake earlier in the day. The theatre-goers’ heaven that is the West End is within easy walking distance. So too are the Southbank Centre, the Barbican, the Old Vic and the Young Vic. We are looking for a second Theatre Editor, making this position no less attractive but significantly easier.

Visual Arts Editor

Same again: London is awesome for the arts. There’s no doubt this is the reason why many students chose to study here. Hundreds of students live opposite the Tate Modern. Somerset House is a few minutes from campus, along with dozens of other galleries and museums. And we LSE students do go to those places, often. As such, we want to read about them. We want someone we can trust to tell us what exhibitions we should visit and installations we should experience. Are you that person?

Food Editor

Yet again: London is fantastic for food. Yes, if this is your first time you’re probably disappointed by the lack of English food, but we think all food is great, and you really can get all types of food quite close by. The difficult part for most people is actually coming to try different types of food, and we would love to hear from people who can address that, along with general culinary appreciation.

Private B (Satire) Editor The LSE is ripe for satire. Moreover, it needs to be satirized, for its own good. There is much that is ridiculous here. The loony left, into which it seems you must be initiated in order to hold certain sabbatical positions. Likewise, the respective but often disrespectful societies for the promotion and demotion of Israel and of Palestine. Or the mad, bad and dangerous-to-be-associated-with members of staff. If you feel the same way – and you probably should – this is an ideal position, especially since we already have a satirist-in-chief for you to work with.

Video Games Editor

Video games are big. Way too big to leave out. This is uncharted territory for PartB and we feel a little like Colombus. We’re excited about this and really want to hear your ideas on where you would take this new termly or bi-termly section.

Web Editor

Our website is popular and has hits from all over the world. PartB content is particularly well suited to the web, for obvious reasons. It’s great when you can hear part of the album you’re reading about, or when you can see a clip from the film you’re in two minds about seeing. For this role you will need to be confident with computers but no technical knowledge is required.

Cover Designer

We want the cover of PartB to be creative and for it be a platform for such a person. We will discuss many things, yes, but you will have creative freedom with few, if any, constraints. As an opportunity to showcase your talents to thousands of people on a weekly basis, this is really quite something.

Film3

PartB | Tuesday 27 September 2011

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy Director: Tomas Alfredson Screenplay: Peter Straughan, Bridget O’Connor Key Cast: Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, Benedict Cumberbatch, Tom Hardy, John Hurt, Toby Jones Year: 2011 Runtime: 127 minutes In cinemas now

STUDIO CANAL

he motives behind new adaptations of widely loved works should always be questioned, and the wisdom of a new adaptation of John le Carré’s revered 1974 novel certainly was. In this case, the bar was set high by a television series starring Alec Guinness, whose performance even Le Carré admitted was effective enough to influence his understanding and imagination of his own creation. Thomas Arnesen’s adaptation exceeds this previous effort by some margin. No accusations of slavishness can be made here, moreover the translation to screen and the compression of a dense novel into just over two hours is a commendable achievement. Similarly, the lead performance from Gary Oldman matches that of his legendary predecessor, but not by taking his lead. This is an undoubtedly worthy adaptation of a great book. Spies seek information, or to use their term, intelligence. Much of their work is surveillance of some sort. The information spies seek is often secret or protected, so it pays to be quiet, unassuming and invisible. Karla, the mastermind on the Soviet side, is not only a long-time nemesis to Smiley, but a man he has personally interrogated. Yet, Smiley cannot recall what he looked like. Likewise Smiley. Were you to visit a bookshop at the same time as him, even if you were to bid him a good morning, open the door for him and comment upon his choice of book, you would remember very little of him. If, on the other hand, you were to encounter a more modern equivalent, or likewise a more famous contemporary literary creation who is as well known for his exploits without clothes as is Smiley for his ill-fitting ones, you would surely remember. Smiley surveys as they soldier. Tinker, Tailor is the story of spies, not of soldiers. Moreover, it is the same bold, adventurous, soldierly spirit that is one of the causes of the betrayal at its heart. 1970s Britain is old and ailing, like

Gary Oldman as George Smiley the bannister-using men at the top of the Circus. As the representation of an era, it is a superb achievement, in the same bracket as Once Upon a Time in America and the Prohibition. Everything creaks. The mustiness can be smelt off the screen. The dirty and unkempt dome of St. Paul’s perfectly dominates and embodies this London – one that needs to be renovated, refreshed and renewed. The grandees of the Circus (the British Secret Intelligence Service) are weary in the shadow of the cousins that dims the sun to something that provides light but does not shine from across the Atlantic, and they are shivering from the threat posed by the similarly superior forces in the cold East. There was a time – a time into which these men were unfortunately born – when Britain could at least stand shoulder to shoulder with both. World War Two was a good time.

Furthermore, less than a century earlier, in the days of these men’s fathers, educators and formative influences, Britain stood taller than all. In this new world, Britain is greater than few and unable even to act without forbearance, as demonstrated to all, including the mole among them, during the Suez Crisis. The sharp-elbowed Scot, Percy Alleline (Toby Young), values intelligence on its worth to the deep-pocketed and resource-laden Americans. Britain, on the other hand, is governed by weak and frugal bureaucrats, with little left of the bulldog spirit that once emanated from the office of Control, its ousted former intelligence chief. Oldman acts more than Guinness by doing less. Sometimes, he seems to be doing nothing at all, thereby perfectly embodying Smiley, the unassuming spy supreme. Smiley is tired and reflective, but like a boxer does

not you believe in Hollywood love. Natalie Portman, as Jane Foster, is as likely as anyone to make Thor’s love-inspired transformation believable. She is as lovely as always, but also convincing enough to be one of the few superhero love interests that is not annoying. Unlike Pepper Potts, Rachel Dawes, Lois Lane and Mary Jane Watson and, I never once hoped for her death. Kenneth Branagh is a fine actor but is more uneven behind the camera, even at this stage in his career. Some of his work with Shakespeare is excellent and will stand up for decades. The same charm, consideration and intuition can be found in Thor, but only in places. Branagh was also responsible for an abysmal adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, but his direction is never poor here – it never drops below average. Critically though, it does not rise much higher for much of the film. Sets are gaudy. Asgard appears more like a pretty video game render than a realm of myth. Thor’s merry little band of warriors look as out of place on screen as they do when they visit a small town in New Mexico. They’re wasted to the extent that is questionable whether leaving them out to focus on other parts of the story would have been wiser. This is Thor’s story and besides humour, there is little that can be done with a character who is Norse

God, and that is the summary of Chris Hemsworth’s character. He is entertaining and does nothing wrong, which is more of an achievement than you would expect. His eyes twinkle and I would love to see his Berserker, but his turn is not memorable. His brother and successor as heir, Loki (Tom Hiddleston), is altogether different. Their comic book history is amazing – they have fallen to and been saved by each other on numerous occasions, and this tradition continues in the film. Here, better than in the comics, Loki is complexity to Thor’s simplicity, as both character and intellect. As a tale of two brothers, the film is at its most compelling and his scenes are among the film’s finest, overshadowing the natural gravity and presence of both Anthony Hopkins (Odin) and Idris Elba (Heimdall). They are to Branagh’s credit – with Loki, he escapes the decades-long lazy but unpunished practice of employing one-dimensional villains in superhero films. Despite his insidiousness, there is much to like in Loki. Although it is always watchable, Thor excels only occasionally, despite being quite long for a film in this genre. It has a very good cast, though none are stretched, but more importantly, also a wit and charm that is still quite uncommon and unfortunately not necessary for box-office success in this genre. | Aameer Patel

not lose his reflexes, he cannot lose his instincts. With age, his eyesight has weakened, but augmented by his tortoiseshell-framed glasses, his vision is as clear, sharp and focussed as ever. Quite often in this dimly-lit world, they are the only part of him that is visible – his penetrating scopes of silent surveillance and understanding. This Smiley has greater edge and, in the actor’s own words, malice. This does not conflict with the reasonable, considered and humane character found in the novel, however, with these aspects being clearly visible also. He considers his restraints, which he is knows are not shared by the enemy, to be strengths rather than weakness. Smiley is a man who had devoted his life in the service of his country and in conflict with another ideology, yet is sincere when he acknowledges the comparably significant deficiencies of his own side. He

Director: Kenneth Branagh Writer: Ashley Miller, Zack Stentz, Don Payne Key Cast: Chris Hemsworth, Tom Hiddleston, Natalie Portman Year: 2011 Runtime: 115 minutes Home Release: Available now

can’t help but refer to previous offerings in the comic book superhero film genre, not least because even the very poor offerings are quite popular. In tone and more, Thor is most like the two films about his fellow Avenger, Iron Man. It is fun, watchable and is regularly brightened by flickers of wit. However, despite similar overall star and directorial quality, as films, the mismatch between Mjölnir and Iron Man Armor is reversed to be in the latter’s favour, but not by much. The plots of superhero films are all very similar. The ride however, does. A very important reason for Spider-Man’s popularity is his imperfection (that is why his main rival in the popularity stakes, Superman, is so dreadfully boring). Despite undeserved hostility, he persists as a vigilante because he has seen the destruction selfishness and indifference can cause. Thor’s is a similar story. Odin banishes his son and heir to earth, that he might learn this for himself, and be wise as well as mighty. He does so remarkably quickly. The plausibility depends on whether or

ZADE ROSENTHAL

Thor

Chris Hemsworth as Thor

seems a far cry from his successors and such ethical questions – of the borderlands between effective interrogation and unethical conduct are undyingly relevant. He is joined by a stellar cast. The charismatic snobbery and bourgeois hypocrisies are carried to a tee by Colin Firth. Tom Hardy is strikingly effective as the young, excitable and unusually sincere Ricki Tarr. The shape-shifting, survivalist sliminess of Toby Esterhase oozes off David Dencik. Women in the world of Tinker, Tailor cannot but be pathetic. They are but secretaries, reliant upon and waiting upon men. The only exception and indeed the only real female character in the novel is Connie Sachs (Kathy Burke), and even she, despite being an intelligence analyst who has been undeservedly discarded, would much rather the happy memories of the old days than the hard truth. This handicap is translated to the screen subtly and convincingly. Tellingly, the camera lingers for a moment on graffiti that posits the future to be female. Helen Mirren recently noted that women could have been given a more prominent role in the film and at first, I wondered whether she had read the book. Upon consideration however, I am inclined to agree – Sachs for one is even more exceptional in the novel, and as such, her treatment is even more foolish and wasteful. Even so, it is important to acknowledge the difficulty of containing all of such a dense novel into 127 minutes and for this reason, other notable aspects of the novel, such as a deep-rooted class tension, are also omitted. They do not harm the film in any way, and better that they are not explored at all than not effectively. Arnesen’s principal achievement here is his boldness. It would have been easy for a seasoned director, let alone one with a single film under his belt, to succumb to the pitfalls of translation without interpretation – the film would probably have succeeded regardless, on the strength of its cast and the persisting relevance and popularity of the novel. This however, is his own film and an adaptation of the highest calibre. | Aameer Patel

4Special

Tuesday 27 September 2011 | PartB

urning Man is, for want of a better word, an annual ‘festival’ held in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada. Treat that statement with caution, however – this is not the mud wading, cider drinking, pop mash up that many of us will associate with that term. Rather, it is an experimental community based on principles of radical self-expression, self-reliance and inclusion. Presiding over the event until the moment he is burnt to the ground at the culmination of the week, is a giant sculpture of a man. For me, The Man represents the everyday, the commonplace rules of social interaction and the cultural norms we live each day of our lives. For the time spent in that alien desert, all such regularities are surrendered to him in favour of pursuing a version of life that allows the individual to fully explore their potential, free from the shackles of the social standards and expectations that hamper many of us from doing so in our day-to-day lives. It is a place of invention and constant personal re-invention. Within the confines of the enormous temporary city built entirely by the power of volunteers are experiences to be lived that would take aeons to accumulate outside of the event. Go to explore the art, go to dance like a fucking lunatic at the world’s wildest party, go to explore yourself, go to explore spirituality, sexuality, gender, self-image, movement, lights, movement, drugs – the important thing is just to go. The economists among us should be interested to learn that the event is entirely moneyless, as it is based on a gifting economy. All 50,000 participants bring everything they need to survive and a whole lot more which they just give away. Huge theme camps organise to provide experiences, food, drink, spaces, raves, all without a dollar bill ever changing hands. This makes me question whether profit maximisation is as natural to the human being as we have come to believe. It may be argued that the event only lasts a week, and that even the most hard core capitalist can give up the idea of markets when it comes to a big, fat desert rave, but this neglects to recognise that some groups spend the whole year fundraising, building and preparing for a festival, participation in which will net them zero financial gain and often a considerable financial loss. The currency in Black

KYLE HARMON

Burning Man 2011 B

Rock City is thus the pleasure derived from inspiring wonder in someone else; from giving moments or tangible things to others and expecting nothing in return. Having seen this radical alternative at work, and it does work, it makes me wonder what could be achieved if we could bring a little more of that ethos to our everyday

lives. Every year the festival is completely different and everyone lives it in their own way. In fact, it is such a complicated mass of interactions and ideas that to try to describe it fully would be futile because the experiences of the man in the next Porta Potti along would be entirely different

to mine. I neither want to contradict how others encountered it nor prejudice the views of those yet to go, so I will restrict myself to providing some sketches of some of the most remarkable things I did and saw during my stay in Black Rock City 2011. I apologise if I raise questions I do not attempt to answer. In fact, I recant

that! I hope I raise questions you want answering. However, please be assured that I am not the man to answer them. The only man who can is 30 metres tall, made of wood, and will stand proudly over Burning Man 2012 – so I advise you get yourself a ticket and direct all further questions to him. | Major Gressingham

rules. Firstly, that we were to ask what boundaries our client had – i.e. what parts of the body they did not want to be touched (if any) – and to respect them. Secondly, we were to treat each other with attention and care. By the time we came to begin, the crowd of nudies had swelled to around eighty. Before we started the wash we formed groups of twelve so we could wash our hands: “This is a desert, and water is precious” said our leader. “I want you to place all of your hands in the centre, one on top of another.” Once done he began to pour water on the top hands. “Wash each other’s hands, do not allow the water to hit the ground.” Slowly the mass of hands began to writhe and pulsate with the rhythm of the wash. It was not possible to tell which hand was mine and which was not. “Now, I want to ask you a question. Look at these hands – do you care if the hands you are washing are black or white? Do you care if they are male or female? Do you care if they are gay, straight, young, old, thin or fat?” “No!” I saw instantly that bodies, so often valued for their sexual potential only, can be an amazing means of communication and a way to give pleasure to someone on a non-sexual basis. We were washing and touching each other in a way that in everyday life would only be experienced with a

tiny handful of people, solely because it felt so good to do so. Pleasure was being derived from our consensual touching. It feels good to be so touched by another human being. This is the foundation of the radical power a well-timed hug can have on a bad day.

Soon enough it was my turn to go through the wash: “What are your boundaries?” “None” I replied. And I was washed. Thirty-two hands touched every part of my body in the next five minutes. I emerged clean, refreshed, glowing and with an altered feeling about my body, other bodies and nudity. While I respect people’s desire to remain clothed in public, and I would never seek to get naked when it would be awkward to do so, the feeling of freedom and the complete comfort I felt having become so used to my own nakedness in the hour I had spent in the Human Carcass Wash was very alluring. I had accepted my body as a body among bodies – all equal, all pleasure seeking, all human. Never had that truth been exposed to me. I am not now a nudity warrior, I do not champion its cause or want to go shopping in the nude, but I loved every second of feeling that warm air on my skin and feeling at peace with myself and the others there with me. I returned twice for the same experience. About halfway through my wash the leader shouted: “Who wants extra credit?” A chorus of ayes. “Notice how beautiful everyone is!” he cried triumphantly. A huge cheer erupted. I can offer no better summation.

The Human Carcass Wash

wo o’clock on the first Monday of the festival and I was ready and waiting at the PolyParadise Camp, which is run by people who describe themselves as ‘Polyamorous’, meaning those open to, or in a relationship with two or more people at the same time. The programme of events in this camp were largely based around discussing, exploring and thinking about the nature of human sexuality, the body, and emotions such as jealousy, mistrust, love and desire. Although it was only the first Monday I had already built up a healthy deposit of ‘playa’ (desert) dust in parts of my body that may be unmentionable but were certainly not unreachable. In fact, this is why I had come to experience The Human Carcass Wash. Under a large canopy stood forty or so men and woman of all shapes and sizes, colours and age. The one thing they had in common was that they were all totally naked. I quickly disrobed and went in to hear what was being said by the leader of the exercise, a middle-aged man with pink and blue hair, the warmest and most constant smile I have ever seen, and a temperament which quickly began to help me overcome the slight paralysis I felt at being exposed before so many people. My tolerance for public nudity was not a boundary I had ever attempted to gauge or move. As far as I was concerned, public nudity was not something I would probably engage in,

minus the odd nude night-time swim. I do not mean I frowned upon it, but it was not something I had ever considered as a pastime. The leader was explaining that in each of the four one square metre trays that had been placed in a row were workstations at which teams of four would perform a service for the ‘client’ who had arrived there, having started at box 1. Before one became a client, we had to work at each of the stations starting at the fourth and working backwards.

I was connecting with other humans in a very basic way – we were speaking with our bodies At the first station, four people used misters to spray soap all over the client and used one hand to make sure it got to all areas. At the second, eight hands were used to scrub and work the soap into the skin. More misters at the third, the rinsing station, before finally the client went to box number 4 where eight hands would dry them using nothing but force and a downward motion. There were two important

I had accepted my body as a body among bodies – all equal, all pleasure seeking, all human The rule that we had to treat our clients with care was beneficial not just for the client but for me. It was fun trying to make the experience as pleasing as possible (bearing in mind this was entirely non-sexual). Using my hands to please other people of many different body types was uniquely satisfying. I was connecting with the other humans present in a very basic way – we were speaking with our bodies, recognising them as a primary source of entertainment. Think of the delight a baby derives from tugging on its toes, or when someone blows a raspberry on its belly. A connection on equal terms.

Special5

PartB | Tuesday 27 September 2011

I was in an enchanted forest of green light and the silver trunks of trees of whose branches I was never to see Two of our party needed the toilet (bear with me on this anecdote!), which was a slight inconvenience as the nearest Porta Pottis were a long ride away. Nevertheless, things became desperate and I agreed to cycle with them. We set off and noticed some toilets about halfway between us and the Temple, which was a happy result for all. We cycled along the path until it came to an end, about 70 metres from the destination, at which point my two allies dropped their bikes and ran with all their might toward their goal. As I remained with my bike, musing on the whimsical nature of the sight of those two strange creatures sprinting for a piss, I noticed them sprinting right back! They arrived breathless and more explosive than ever. I can only imagine the horror at running with ever increasing desperation which must have given way to an overwhelming sense of joy at the coming relief, only to find that doors were locked. It was at that moment of near orgasmic relief that they realised that the whole installation of twenty toilets was just that: an art installation – entirely two dimensional. Twenty toilet doors to nowhere, in a row! By the time we got back from the real potties the sun had dipped behind the mountains, the full moon was rising, and the colours I was seeing were burning much brighter than before. They were not necessarily different, but I could distinguish all the different hues and tones and palates that made up every single part of the multilayered, multi-coloured evening sky;

the clouds now pink with the sun’s rays cutting horizontally across them, and the silver lights being shed by the all too present moon. It was time to explore, and we decided to head in the general direction of anywhere. The next ten hours were spent in a deeply exciting voyage of discovery. It was a physical exploration of the wonders and structures of the Playa. It was an exploration of touch – everything felt new, as though touching it with fresh fingers. It was a visual exploration of colour, form, reality, and vision. It was a whole body exploration – the sensation of sitting or lying were completely altered, the way my body felt was wholly different. I could move and stretch in new, formerly unappreciated ways. We came across a ten metre long wall made of fractured mirrors which I ran around and around because to see the lights of the city in a broken reflection made me feel that it was not I, but the entire world that was revolving. I spent an hour laughing uncontrollably with a hundred others

could touch and possibly enter that cloud if I just, reached, out, my, hand – but someone had thought of that and cleverly put a net in between us. This was before I discovered there were 3D glasses to accompany the light show. Oh good Lord. And then we found the ribbons. In a camp toward the back of the city some clever sod had erected, in an ‘S’ shape roughly twelve metres long, a net about three metres in the air and one metre wide. The edge of the netting was peppered with lights which may or may not have been changing colour – my eyes were more than making up for static lighting by now. Hanging from this net were thousands of long silver strips of ribbon than came down almost to the ground. They ran for the whole of the length of the S-shape. As I lay on my back nearby, gazing at the moon and the rush of colours streaking through the thin cloud cover, I suddenly decided to walk through the field of ribbons which looked so pretty in the lights. As soon as I parted the ribbons

used my arms to part the ribbons, or shards of light ahead of me and explored with wonder and dumbfoundedness. I felt completely surrounded, mystified and alone. My time in that world ended and I was reborn into the real world with all its sights, noises and smells, as the

MARCO WALKER & RAE RAE

I was swimming while all around me bubbles were effervescing toward the surface and reaching the sky

under a giant conical tube containing thousands of tiny lights in the size and shape of ping pong balls. They worked in sync and gave me the impression of lying just outside a huge cosmic nebula of stars that were flying around their universes of colour, and that I

MAJOR GRESSINGHAM

n Wednesday evening we cycled to the trash fence. This is in what is known as ‘deep playa’. In other words, it is two or three kilometres from the city, beyond the Temple, where only one or two art installations are posted. Not many people venture out here (at least not at the same time), which is precisely why we had come, about an hour before sundown, to begin a journey that will stay with me as one of the most hilarious and mind-stretching evenings of my life. The mountains to the West were beginning to cast their formidable shadow on the vast, perfectly flat ancient seabed that is The Playa. The mountains to the East, which looked like they were created by an almightily hand that scooped up a handful of dust and let it fall slowly through a clenched fist, and which I imagined would crumble under even the slightest pressure from a human foot, were stroked by the golden light of the late afternoon sun which retained much of its heat. This was nowhere. Absolute nowhere. They sky was still electric blue, save for a small gathering of clouds leisurely making their way towards us from the South. The scene was beautifully alien and was about to become more so. We dropped our bikes and sat in a circle and passed around a small brown vial which contained liquid LSD. A tentative and solitary drop was placed on the flap of skin between thumb and forefinger and then licked off. This was a nervous time for us all, being as we were, relatively inexperienced with hallucinogenic drugs. Not long afterwards, my limbs started to feel slightly twitchy, or uncomfortable in the position I was sitting in, and a great pleasure was taken in stretching and moving them. The feeling of unease had long since vanished and been replaced by a quiet contentment.

MARCO WALKER & RAE RAE

Take me back to the ribbons

and entered I was not in the real world anymore, I was in an enchanted forest of green light and the silver trunks of trees of whose branches I was never to see. I was a child of the Brothers Grimm. I was fantasy. I was tiny in the great new world I had discovered. I

last ribbon slipped from my forehead. I instantly yelled to my friends to get inside, and that was pretty much what we did for the next two hours. Occasionally I would meet a companion in the midst of their own visions; an unidentified form would appear in the foggy distance, until, right face to face, a moment of joyful recognition and hysterical laughter before continuing onwards with our own missions. One time I went through and I saw myself reflected thousands of times in each ribbon. I was singing a song, although I could not hear the music

– yet the layered heads of the video to Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” now spring to mind in recollection. A vehicle of some sort parked near the ribbons distributing red light onto us. This changed everything. I was now swimming, actually swimming through deep red liquid while all around me bubbles were effervescing toward the surface and reaching the sky. Often, the wind would blow to change the dynamic yet again; the ribbons were now horizontal as I struggled through a hail of metallic elements. Sometimes the wind would lift the ribbons completely above my head and I was rudely dumped in and exposed to a reality that I had no wish to participate in. Instinctively, my hands would raise upwards pleading with the ribbons and trying to pull the blanket of imagination back over my excited head. At the end of each trip we would talk about what we had seen, contemplate leaving, and decide that one more adventure through the ribbons was necessary. I have a piece of that ribbon in my backpack at home. As a friend and I curled up under my fur coat in a hammock we came across in a nearby camp, and watched the moon set and the sun rise, I would be lying if I told you but that the conversation returned, not infrequently, to those magical ribbons.

Music5

PartB | Tuesday 27 September 2011

The musical habits of a free man S ummer is something that just requires filling. Going from end of term to new term requires nothing but time-filling. Of course, the recursive nature of that last statement is itself testament to this space/time/ article filling time-wasting that we find so comforting. In reverence to the idea of a ‘slow start’, here’s the token lazy ‘stuff--Ilistened-to’ article to get this music section off to a much-improvable whimper for the year.

The Veils – Sun Gangs

inn Andrews is a revelation: throughout the backcatalogue of The Veils’ material, he’s always managed to produce a variety in his vocals that is unmatched by their genre peers. From warbles to cracking of the voice to animalistic screams, there’s always been that little spice in their music to make them instantly separable from would-be contemporaries – Sun Gangs is no exception. The introductory track, “Sit Down by the Fire”, starts with the delicate tinkling of piano keys and the lightest of percussion. This combination is soon to be met by a warbling Andrews. In comes the full band, and with full effect, the plodding percussion so typical of the Veils is soon introduced, but not in a manner reminiscent of any of their prior work – there’s more of a seeming purpose to it. Rather than taking a back seat as it had in prior efforts, the percussive element of the music is brought to the fore, and with a wonderful effect of creating a sense of minimalism admist the complexities of multitracked music. “Sun Gangs”, named (quite obviously) in a fit of eponymism, is a step down in tempo and demontrates further Andrews’ range: fragility being the face card here, replete with the most endearing of vocal faults. Piano and bass lines lead these most wonderful of flaws into a simple, yet somehow rousing, chorus of “Where I am going you can’t save me”. “The Letter” and “Killed” by the Boom are the more typical fare of hypnotic guitar mixed with prominent percussive instrumentation, yet still find a niche of their own through their somewhat innovative use varying tones to accompany the state of the vocals perfectly: the guitar manages to somehow flit from sounding angry one moment to fragile another; distortion and delay shown to be the most useful of tools for creating moods. “It Hits

The Veils

Deep” is probably the weakest track on the album and may well have only served as a vocal masturbatory act for Andrews, while his ability to shift moods in tone is admirable (I may have made my appreciation clear by now), this track just seems to labour upon this one trick, when it’s clearly apparent that the band are a pony of multiple finesses. The vivacity and sheer energy of the band are once again adroitly demonstrated by “Three Sisters”. The resonance of the guitars amidst a minimal drum pattern create a wonderful depth for the wails of Andrews to find a home in. In a horribly incoherent lack of foresight, “The House She Lived In” brings the reader back down to a lowtempo state with a shock and really does rather interrupt the flow of the album, even if it is a delicate and (dare I say it) ‘pretty’ song with male-female multi-layered vocals in the chorus creating a warm atmosphere.

The Winter League

nstrumental and minimalist music are two genres which are somewhat of a taboo in certain circles: it’s seen by far too many to be the case that music has to be immediate; music has to be loud; music has to be fast. The Winter League pretty much serve to define the veritable opposites of all of the above ‘requirements.’ Here we see progression, subtlety and lowtempo music executed with a sense of freedom which could be considered irresponsible. Nods towards Efterklang abound through their use of esoteric percussion and almost choral vocals. Even at their most monotone, the vocals are expressive beyond that of many bands/artists generally accepted to have music defined as capable of eliciting emotion. Far from one trick ponies, They also compose music to suit film, and do so with a great competency. If folky, indie-esque minimalism is your bag, The Winter League are definitely to be your cup of tea.

Frank Turner – Poetry of the Deed

t a recording pace of around one album per year since being signed as a solo artist, Frank Turner is definitely an artist for whom I have a fair amount of respect. His punk ethic has not been lost since his change of pace from Million Dead to

Frank Turner his folk-rock efforts as Frank Turner. The quality of his output has rarely wavered since Campfire Punkrock and starts off strongly once again in this album. The album opens with the upbeat piano, overdriven electric guitar and drums of “Live Fast, Die Old”, a song resonant of the will of humans to run and ruin their own lives. Turner’s voice is as beautifully hoarse as it has always been, and the newfound addition of an organ to proceedings adds a delightful new dimension to his music. The chanting of the song is somewhat reminiscent of Death Cab for Cutie’s “Transatlanticism”, and is just as effective in highlighting Turner’s voice as it was Gibbard’s. The certain ability which Frank Turner holds in being able to motivate in his songwriting is shown once again through lyrics in this song such as “it won’t last, so be bold/live fast, die old”, with the crescendo of drums at the end serving as punctuation to this universally applicable message. “Try this at Home” is Turner’s brand of meta-music; whilst it is lazy music-about-music,

it is also witty, incisive and cleverly brash punk-ethic propaganda; the beat which carries the song along is unapologetically folk-punk to the extent which it would make the early work of Billy Bragg blush. “Dan’s Song” is a Summer song if ever there was one. A song with an acoustic guitar in a major key about friends and drinking in parks; the very epitome of British Summers. The development of the instrumentation as the song goes on is also symptomatic of aspersions between this song and Summer: the bright tones of a harmonica cast rays of melodic delight upon the resonant ground of acoustic guitar chords. Poetry of the Deed is a return to Turner’s more sonorous work: electric guitars deliquesce into the mesh of Turner’s voice with the percussion of the track. The refrain of “life is too short to live without poetry, if you’ve got soul darling, now come on and show it me” is perfectly demonstrative of Turner’s continuing theme of the importance of the Arts and living life rather than being the passenger of time. “Isabel” is a more

downtempo track, and is ultimately a let-down compared to prior comparable efforts (see Jet Lag for comfirmation of this point) – it’s not downtempo and compelling, it’s downtempo and dull. Dreadfully so. Even Turner’s typically wry and insightful lyricisms miss their mark here,m which is a rare occurrence. “The Fastest Way Home” is a return to form, and a song of devotion made more than believable by Turner’s borderline scream in places and a drop to muted guitar strums amidst “darling, oh my darling you know that everything that I do is to try to make me good enough for you”, the drop to barebones-strumming making for Turner’s voice to appear more naked and more poignant. The oscillatory guitar lines add body to the whole experience and work wonderfully alongside Turner’s vocals. Turner’s penchant for pseudo-political commentary is resurrected in “Sons of Liberty”, with little positive to say about it. Much of the commentary seems forced as it has become expected of him; the melodies too familiar within the genre and vocals lacking Turner’s individual charm. Zane Lowe’s call of “The Road” being the ‘hottest record in the world’ wasn’t far off: Turner’s vocals return to their sometimes haunting, sometimes transfixing norm, with vocal faults intact; swirling in symbiosis with delicious guitar parts. Another shortcoming of the album comes in the form of “Faithful Son”, a song, while delicate in instrumentation and even Turner’s voice, most drab and another ‘plodding’ song; the tale of faith through paternal strife is an overplayed concept. Richard Divine is another carbuncle on this album: it features a strange rhythm which Turner’s vocals seem unable to keep up with, and little in the form of lyrical content up to his usual standards. Sunday Nights and Our Lady of the Campfire do little to improve the quality at the tail of the album, and they’re both weak songs lacking the fire which Turner is so capable of delivering. Journey of the Magi makes sure that the album ends with a squelch rather than a band through its lacklustre delivery and pacing. From its strong start, it truly is a shame to see the album end so poorly; but it’s more than likely symptomatic of an artist looking to evolve from the formula which has come to be expected from him and faltering short of the mark. All that can be hoped for is a return to form for album number four. | Alexander Young

TV | Places5

PartB | Wednesday 28 September 2011

Summer on the small screen I f you’ve spent the last three months travelling all over the world, building orphanages, or locked in an obligatory internship, then you may have been too busy to soak up some of the lovely television that has kept the rest of us entertained over the holiday. In the name of sacrifice, therefore, we have separated the wheat from the chaff to present the best bits of television from the summer.

The Hour Often referred to as the British version of Mad Men, thanks to the 60s setting, but this is really where the similarities end. Mad Men is all about the lavish excess of working on Madison Avenue whereas The Hour’s setting is the slightly more staid BBC. The Hour presents the Beeb at a fulcrum in its history, when women are beginning to wield influence in the Corporation and broadcast journalism is changing beyond recognition. The show has not been particularly well received by critics but is quite rewarding to the patient viewer.

This is perhaps not one for fans of the original show, but if you’re a Shameless newbie then you’ll find plenty to enjoy here.

cast, all of which adds to its exploration of life in an English country house – both upstairs and downstairs.

Downton Abbey

True Blood

The second series of the critically acclaimed drama returned in September just in time to bask in the glory of a raft of Emmy awards. The first series of ITV’s period drama was set just after the sinking of the Titanic and the second series finds itself in the midst of the Great War. The show revels in lush cinematography, a strong script and a stellar

Not yet showing on this side of the pond, the fourth season of the phenomenally popular show aired in the US over the summer and appears to have been streamed online by most of the UK. This season sees Sookie and her gang of vampire fans dealing with a mean old witch. For those who have lost count, this brings True

Downton Abbey: Michelle Dockery as Lady Mary Crawley Blood’s count of fantasy creatures to: vampires, shapeshifters, werewolves, fairies and witches. Got it?

Shameless USA The US interpretation of Channel 4’s original award-winning series got off to a good start stateside but has been criticised in the UK for being too much of an imitation of the original, with much of the script remaining unchanged. The show calls the South Side of Chicago home and boasts William H. Macy as the alcoholic Frank Gallagher.

Damages For the uninitiated, Damages follows lawyers Ellen Parsons (Rose Byrne) and Patty Hewes (Glenn Close) navigating the dangerous, corrupt and rotten world of business. Each season follows a major case that the pair works on and previous

seasons have been heavily inspired by real-world cases that include complex accounting fraud and a large-scale Ponzi scheme. The fourth season follows an investigation into private military contractors in Afghanistan and guest-stars Chris Messina as a psychologically damaged veteran. | Simon Chaudhuri

The Hour: Romola Garai as Bel Rowley

PartB Places – You really should go... E veryone knows some great places that they’re shocked more people don’t know about. We’re the same. There are a lot of them in London, but as you’d expect, it’s a needle in a haystack affair. This term we’re going to act as a magnet for that needle. We’ll be writing about these places – what you can do there, where they are, what’s special about them.

Prince Charles Cinema

ood cinemas are dying. If I were growing up in Lancashire today, I would take it as a matter of fact that there must be a bowling alley and overpriced arcade to go with every cinema. More than that, I would not be aware of the existence of films that did not originate in Hollywood or its dreadfully poor imitation, Bollywood. London does not suffer from this often-underestimated problem. Of

all the great cinemas here, the Prince Charles is my favourite. It has nothing to do with the snake oil salesman who is next in line to the throne. You expect to pay more in London, whether sandwiches or sangria, but not at the Prince Charles Cinema. The seats are the best around. There’s a lovely atmosphere and patrons are courteous, which is increasingly uncommon. Tickets are cheaper even than in my one-horse town, where rich people live in poverty (poverty is relative, as I’m sure LSE100 will teach you, and by my definition, it includes not having the opportunity to see good films at the cinema). The variety of films being screened at the PCC is also why I like it so much. In addition to newer films, they have carefully chosen themed seasons, double-bills and all manner of multiple movie merriment. They even have sing-a-long-a shows and accept requests.

Borough Market, SE1

The Markets, Borough

orough Market is the spiritual home of any London foodie. Tucked away behind the Southbank, this rustic market offers sweet and savoury delights that will inspire even the most worldly of palates. From a smorgasbord of luxurious meats to mountains of sticky brownies, I can promise you two things; you’ll be sure to find something you’ve never tried before and you’ll definitely leave full to the brim. The best thing to do is to take a wander down the rickety main road sampling small portions at each of the different stalls, despite your instincts to commit to just one budding chef. Anyone interested in photography will find a wealth of opportunities to take scrumptious photos that will convince you that your true calling is culinary journalism. This experience is best shared amongst friends, so be sure to make this a group excursion.

Prince Charles Cinema, WC2

Portobello

f you have a penchant for vintage then this is a journey you must make while in London. Portobello Market exists to bring gems of the past to us today. Whether you’d like antique maps of British Colonies or a vintage quilted Chanel handbag, it can be found amidst the hundred vendors on Portobello Road. The road itself is open throughout the week but the best time to head down is on a Saturday morning when the market is open. If you can handle the weather, try to venture down to the market on a drizzly day when it is sure to be a little quieter, this will give you the best chance to scout out Portobello’s hidden treasures. Make sure to stop at the Hummingbird Bakery along the way to tickle your taste buds with their famous pastel cupcakes.

8Private B

Tuesday 27 September 2011 | PartB

PRIVATE B

LSE Ends up with Clegg on its face

LUKAS SLOTHUUS: Hails from the same country as the regirstreret partnerskab, Kierkegaard and Cnut the Great.

s we all know, there is a statistical theory which states that any citizen in the world can be linked to any other one in six simple steps. We at Private B have had a little fun with this, presenting the links between two of our new Sabbatical Officers.

ALEX PETERSDAY. Newly elected General Secretary. Yorkshirewoman, one of the few people from the county not to refer to actors as “Heathen Mummers”.

STOCKWELL DAY: Former leader of the Canadian Alliance and prior to his retirement at last May’s General Election, served in a number of senior Cabinet positions in Stephen Harper’s government.

I’m Ranking as I Write This

espite making significant gains in both domestic and international university rankings, the LSE Council has maintained its opposition to a perceived failure by league tables “to take into account worldleading levels of bigotry within the School’s academic community”. A spokesperson for LSE External Relations was tacit in his support for the leap taken by the School in international rankings, stating that “despite the best efforts of several hard-working members of staff”, the LSE “continues to be punished for its prioritisation of controversies related to the social sciences.”

The School have proposed two changes to league table methodology that, it is hoped, will be introduced for use in next year’s publication. The introduction of a “Kanazawa Number”, based on the Erdos version used in mathematics, will rank university academics with regards to their links to the titular Reader in the Department of Management. It is expected that most members of the Department will be granted a ranking of 1, thus propelling the LSE to the highest position within the League Tables. Also proposed will be the splitting of Employment Prospects into separate categories for “ICC-

Indicted” and “Non ICC-Indicted”, both of which the School continues to perform well in. “It is sad that the LSE continues to suffer because of an international conspiracy against our superior institution” the spokesperson continued, “fortunately, it is obvious that, whilst falling in certain league tables is clearly the result of methodological failings, our recent successes are purely down to investment and the talented efforts in seeking out new markets.”

FIRST OF OCTOBER: “Registered Partnerships” came into force in Denmark, becoming the first country in the world to legally recolonise samesex relationships.

Students’ Union ‘Could Face Eviction’

embers of the Students’ Union have reaffirmed their ancient right to continue living in their traditional home, despite threat of eviction by the university’s governing body. For almost two decades, members of the historic community have maintained their commitment to living in their ramshackle abode. Names such as ‘The Quad’ or ‘The Three Tuns’ have resonated on the tongues of Union hacks ever since, people who have long considered themselves an integral part of the university’s patchwork community. This has come despite criticism from the university mainstream on the damage resulting from the Union’s many “cultural banter’and

‘demonstration exchanges’ that are traditionally fuelled by copious quantities of ‘Strongbow’ or ‘Socialism’. This summer, the university began the construction of a project aimed at rehousing members of the Union away from their current lodgings, recently described by a spokesperson from the Estates Division as “dilapidated and built semi-illegally upon a prime site of outstanding natural beauty.” “Aside from the negative effects of the settlement on the School’s image”, the speaker stated, “It is also our view that the ‘Union’ concept is a dangerous one, often forcing impressionable youngsters into unpaid servitude for a rotating quartet of senior figures who

LESTER B. PEARSON BUILDING: Home to the Canadian Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Stockwell Day when the latter was serving as Ministry for International Trade.

dominate the organisation.” The Students’ Union has sought to block the planned eviction of ‘The Quad” by seeking judicial review. The High Court is due to make a judgement before the end of the decade, but noted that they would rather spend their time handing out harsh sentences to “riotous oiks”, because it was “rather a lot of fun and almost as good as S&M”. Our sources indicate that the Union has already made plans to take their case to courts on the continent if British judges do prove to be unfair and corrupt, as is common wisdom in the land, because they can neither believe nor accept a decision that is not favourable to them.

CN TOWER: Designed by WZMH Architects, in 1976. The Toronto landmark still serves as the tallest structure in the Western Hemisphere