THE LEEDS DEBACLE

LEEDS

ISSUE3 - £FREE

WELCOME WELCOME WELCOME TO ISSUE THREE OF THE LEEDS DEBACLE We complete our hat-trick with more stories, reviews, comments, poetry, rants and recollections from and for Leeds’ finest on music, comedy, food, booze, sport, media, art, fashion and, of course, a whole lot more!

Issue three of The Leeds Debacle is: John Barran Ross Newsome Tom Dean Kyle James-Patrick Gareth Jones Rebecca Elliott David Marshall Adam Lee Jones Robin Jahdi Gareth Tantram Rachel Gardner Tom Pearson Danny Egan John Gandy Glen Pinder Appyman Ed Teale Ian Bavill We welcome all who want to contribute to The Debacle, writers, readers, advertisers, artists, please contact thedebacle@hotmail.co.uk to be involved next time!

Read us in full colour and everything at: issuu.com/thedebacle Befriend us at: facebook.com/leedsdebacle

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The Royal Wedding

Harry insisted on fancy dress at the unveiling of the new ‘Royal Opening’ There was a young chappy called Will Who hated all fashion until He went to a show And from the front row The boobies and bums were a thrill There was a wee lassie called Kate Who he asked on a right royal date The fella was called Willy and was bald So she said she would rather be mates But things weren’t the same ever since They’d meet and he’d blush and she’d wince Until she was told That his fortune was gold For Willy was only a Prince!

And so little Katy did doff An item of clothes for a toff Infront of the world In diamonds and pearled She told him “I give thee my troth”

TheLeedsDebacle_3

S

ince 2007’s opening, Live at Leeds has grown in stature without shrinking in style. Inspired by the likes of Camden Crawl and SXSW, it seemed, at first, a mighty ambitious and slightly deluded notion that Leeds was a city suitable and musical enough to carry off such a festival. Triple figure bands, double figure venues, single figure interest?

Mostly local bands with the odd national headliner, the event has gradually grown and is now listed above London’s tired equivalent, attracting a higher profile and more eclectic mix of performers.

The bank holiday event immediately became a reason to swap traffic jams to loutish seasides for drunken crawls to vital venues.

The 2011 version eases into it with a couple of events on Friday and closes with even more gigs on Sunday for those that won’t go home, but it is Saturday’s alldayer that is at the heart of Live at Leeds. Previous years have taught me that by mid-afternoon, several pints in, prior timetablestudying and route-planning could become pointless. Nevertheless, I begin at Brudenell with timetable studied and route planned.

Sadly, my early arrival is not to see what I’m sure was a fine display by Various Cruelties, but to see a uselessly splendid display

by Leeds United. At half-time I join the huddle for some Blood Oranges, a bespectacled bunch of boys and girls, fleet of foot and high of brow. The obvious influences are not a problem as 4_TheLeedsDebacle

their outsider stories to skipping melodies are a perfect way to start the day.

A sunny walk and a belly-lining gyro later, we find ourselves in a relaxed Faversham looking at three unassuming chaps called Squarehead, scuzzing out breezy garage surf and harmony for an enjoyable, if hardly lifechanging, half-hour. Norwegians Katzenjammer follow with a kids’ party for adults, wearing clown wigs and inviting chants of ‘we are Leeds’ for her United-supporting brother. Look past the comically simple dances they have the surprisingly large crowd doing and their European waltzes and jigs are actually pretty good.

And so, unusually, half way through the day, the headliner.

This year’s explosion of Mr James Blake is not easily explained. Yes, he’s now on a major label, and yes, they’ve pushed his album to an irritating extent. But why they thought his irregular beats and silences would appeal and why they were right is more baffling than Stone and Walliams.

A heaving Academy proves his popularity and I stand squashed and sweating and unable to see.

The sound of Blake’s beautiful vocals trying to penetrate his robotic barriers create a battle that occasionally bores but mostly intrigues. The stop-start rhythms heighten the impact when the pace increases, the tunes cease to relent and the crowd break loose, especially, predictably, on single Limit To Your Love.

Climbing the steep steps of Milo, Micky P Kerr never fails to attract a following or entertain on this weekend. The atmosphere has changed into the night as the balance tips towards pissed. Not the most demanding of crowds lap up Michael’s every word as he jokes, raps and sings an apt set. He’s not arrogant, he’s just better than you. Going through the motions has never been so much fun.

A lesser turnout at The Academy

for The Duke Spirit as the Blake masses are replaced by leering little men, too old for this, staring unnervingly at singer Liela Moss. Undeterred, she poses passionately and belts out opener Send A Little Love Token, backed by her competent band of static middle-aged men. This proves to be a bad move on their part as it’s my favourite song and I saw them only a couple of months ago so I decide to check out somebody else.

Somebody else, it seems, are five lads, football clad, modish hair, moody stare. Soul Circus are taking this band thing seriously. Whether this well-worn path really needs more footprints is debatable, but when the traditional formula is lifted past bored sneers by outstretched arms of anthemic choruses, The Well and the world is on their side.

When I first heard Let’s Wrestle I had no idea if they were brilliant

or terrible. A couple of years later and it’s still hard to tell.

Improbably-named singer Wesley Patrick Gonzalez looks like neither a singer nor a man called Gonzalez and some might argue he neither sounds nor performs like one either. Their anti-rock ‘n’ roll rock ‘n’ roll is out of key, mocking and sloppy but somehow genuine, smart, hilarious, emotional and infectious. Songs about “four and a half hour coach journeys and hating the very essence of the person you’re sitting next to” create an excitable moshpit.

Brilliant. Unless it was terrible.

From the back room to the main room of The Met and The Twilight Sad are a far more serious, if slightly pompous, presence. Still, their wall of sound is at once terrifying and beautiful, the Scottish vocals charm rather than annoy, and they leave you with a glorious feeling of the end.

Except this is not the end and

we stumble on, now to the other Uni, where last decade’s next big indie thing The Futureheads are chopping their way through new tunes and old favourites, sounding impeccably tight and energetic.

Smiles surround and bodies sway.

The huge crowd suggests this lot just could be indie’s next big thing.

We take our leave at Holy Trinity and, unless you foolishly frequent Halo, the unusually super sight of tired drunks supping in church.

Anna Calvi is a beguiling presence and her mix of jazz, rock, pop and more hint at a unique talent, maybe trying too much too soon.

The respectful audience disagree with an outpouring of love.

As Live at Leeds continues into the night and the more youthful, alive, idiotic or enhanced amongst us stagger on, I retire, satisfied that I’ve seen some mighty performances, and missed a whole lot more. ENCORE! Anna Calvi - Trinity Church. Photo Ian Bavill

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izen Report

ctCit ur continue...

The Subajetrou bado the tales of

I

t’s genuinely beautiful to see you all again readers.

By now, if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll be well on your way to realising your musical wet dreams.

Despite intense pressure from the unforgiving greasy underbelly of the music industry, I’ve been working tirelessly and fearlessly to deliver to you, the struggling skint talented youth of this corrupt nation, more sensational secrets which should arm you with the knowledge to crack this ‘industry’ like a chucky egg cooked so near to perfection only a lady who survived two world wars knows how to cook.

Vicious, Doherty, Winehouse, Katona - they’ve all been there.

ambled my way slowly home safe in the knowledge I’d done my music career the world of good.

So for my next live appearance/ spectacle at the launch of Manchester’s ‘ShiteGiest’ I chose to commit social suicide and waited till all the acts before me had been on, Krystal and the Pistols, Disco Nasties and another one, before consuming an oversized scoop of what can only be described as a sedative for our equine cousins, or as it’s also known…you’ve got it readers…

Ketamine!

As discussed in previous editions, the following week I was to support the voice of the Seahorses, Chris Helme, and after telling him to pay attention to my set, I was first on the bill and at the time I took to the stage there was about 20 ears to hear the magical message I came to deliver - that’s 10 healthy people. I greeted this turnout with a blasé attitude, playing some songs twice and others just to a certain point.

I couldn’t say the letters B, D, or T and as a result was refused access to the mic, my attempt to sneak out unnoticed was in vain as the announcement spilt out of the

Afterwards one of the 10 advised me that he was Helme’s agent and to play every gig the same.

I am a subscriber of this motto myself, I just tend to forget

I just tend to forget exactly what I subscribe to after 74 hours without sleep

Firstly this month, I glance over my metaphorical shoulder to our peers, our idols, the ones who have somehow etched themselves into the wet cement of our hearts and minds, and asked myself what’s the common denominator, what have they all got in common?

Then, at that very moment it hit me in the mouth like a pissed-up husband……….

A drug-induced public meltdown!!!!!!

Joplin, Richards, Morrison,

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speakers to a full room of about 40.

exactly what I subscribe to after 74 hours without sleep.

Eyes burned my twisted soul as I wobbled up a flight of stairs and out of the bar. It was then I was confronted by the national press (or possibly my mate Simon, I can’t be sure) all asking loads of questions. I established that my guitar was still downstairs with the hate mob so I offered the press a tenner to go and fetch it.

Once the switch had been made, I

Next time I’ll be demonstrating how to infect the music nation with ‘the soundtrack of the summer’ you know, the song that gets used on all the montages you’re likely to see on tele for the rest of the year. An integral part of any successful genius music god.

Thanks for reading, always a pleasure…

We’re almost there…

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE f you have recently been into the centre of Leeds you may have seen a very tall white rabbit, although this is no Easter bunny - this is the rampant rabbit of comedy, handing out flyers to his comedy burrow. A recent addition to Leeds’ myriad of clubs and bars, Mr Bens is a no-holds-barred comedy club.

Located firmly in the centre of our city’s hub, the bar was formerly never-quite-made-it music venues The Mixing Tin and Trash. Down the steps, there are echoes of the bar’s previous incarnations, with band artwork and flyers on the wall, left in-keeping with the toned down atmosphere and the feeling of close intimacy to nights and bands that came and went long ago.

I

The venue is long, with the main focus on the leather sofas directly on the stage. If you are deranged enough to want a comedy club in your front room, this is your lucky day. If you have a long front room. The stage draped in deep red velour above the acts like a womb with a view, depending on how the spartan of the comedy circuit fares. Triumphant basking in applause? Or assuming the comfort of the foetal position and in need of a stiff drink.

/APPYMAN

night of comedy. “I wanted to open a venue with an underground (quite literally) Edinburgh Fringe Festival feel to it, appealing to a more sophisticated lover of comedy, not your average stag & hen parties.”

The resident MC is Sully O’Sullivan, a Kiwi with an edgy air about him who thinks we (Leeds residents) “are a little bit stabby”, hovering on this with a dry smile and the notion that you know he’s right. Watching the audience like a hawk for any sign of desertion, which would be the next bullet delivered to the gathered with the precision of a stand-up comedy sniper. As competent a compere and quality a coup as Sully is, his subject matter rarely wavers far enough from Jongleurs to match Mr Bens’ Perrier-nominated ambitions, but there is enough intelligence to avoid the lad-audience, and it is he who arranged the worthy Stand Up For Christchurch charity nights in various venues in support of The Red Cross.

At Mr Bens turn to host the event, Daliso Champonda from Maliwa makes light of our economic woes with “you don’t see humanitarian

from BBC’s Vic & Bob’s Shooting Stars. Definitely the type of act that could set this club apart from the obvious lazy insults of comedy.

There is the side of the comedy circuit, an underbelly, that can make it difficult to sustain the level of act Mr Bens aims for. There are egos to be massaged, there are ‘unforeseen circumstances’, aka a higher paid gig elsewhere.

One good routine seen by a TV agent and you’re doing your next set in front of millions on the way to your Christmas DVD offering.

But, as one comedian tells me, the reality is “travel is a pain, home life can be strained. When gigs get cancelled last minute it can throw you and show you how cliquey comedy is. A lot of people are out to screw you over.”

It takes a certain type to want to do stand-up and, as much as it is many people’s worst nightmare, the comedy circuit is packed with those hoping to emerge as a force to be reckoned with. It is no surprise that some wannabes are gunning for that top spot. One false move and now the audience is in charge with no tolerance for a lame joke. If you have the bravery,

The stage draped in deep red velour above the acts, like a womb with a view

Mr Ben, whose background includes a professional rugby career and promoting clubs and events in Leeds, opened the doors in 2010 and has been growing a following to the venue by word of mouth, building up a reputation of a good

planes flying over Leeds throwing fish & chips to the starving masses below, or how a poor old chav will walk miles for some J2O”.

Headlining is Leeds’ own surreal comedy legend Charlie Chuck

the idiocy, the cojones to take on the gauntlet of a cold, heavy mic and make a room full of eyes and ears consider your musings, and a room full of mouths and bellys laugh at them, good luck. You may need it.

TheLeedsDebacle_7

PAP DIARY Day One

Several pints of London value lager in the middle of the suburbs under the watchful eye of a barmaid who wants to share her cultural opinions, when in reality we're just waiting for her to blow a tap all over her cash generator skin puppies. By the time the 6:30am alarm is throwing fists into our eyes, thoughts of whether you really can wash a banana costume with washing up liquid come crashing in like a wasted gorilla.

The washing machine survives, we soldier out.

Waiting outside a seedy television studio, we stalk our prey as she leaves the carpark. Windows up, lenses down, we follow the car.

A painful 30 minutes of watching an idiot drive pass and we stop in some restaurant district nonsense - we dump the car like a piece of drift wood and circle the target car. What follows is us, the camera-faced yelping idiots, running backwards shouting meat market versions of her name.

On returning to the car, which at this point seems to be a massive turd in the London traffic toilet, two street psychos are getting in to 'move it'. Any sight of a toothless urban hillbilly getting into your mobile tech centre is going to cause one reaction - the lowest, most aggrieved, "OI MATE WTF?" is all that booms over the commotion of cockney limb flapping. I was greeted with some sort of curse assortment being told that I "should be $&£*ing grateful", this was then doubled up in chorus by the charming street cleaners who wanted to bring their dirt wagon past.

Naturally, the gummed diplomat pushes me while Ghetto (stalker partner/driver) quickly stashes the cameras back in the car and finds the driver's seat, apologising and assuring my encounter doesn't 8_TheLeedsDebacle

see me pulped before 11am.

A waitress, skilled in smiling, drops the ball on our bill and we walk out with a free bag of food courtesy of stupidity. Standing in the rain waiting for someone you despise is a strange experience such as the attempt you had to perform some heavy relief in a toilet so small your knees acted like they were holding your ears on. Ghetto had instructed me to "commit, get in front", this was followed by "Left! Left! Keep to the left!" As I block every single one of his shots while my flash gun decides it wants take the piss out of me. The target protests how close I’m getting, completely ignorant to the traits of a wide angle lens, but here lies the debate; dignity verses cash. The photo means you can pay your rent, but to what extent do you push? The target is just a voice paid to say what someone else writes, but for some reason women wish to see what they wear, how they look. Back in the motor, laptops out we edit our photos in silence while cigarettes are fumbled out of packets.

Ghetto packs in enough long shots to make up for the flash error, we send in, we might have made £50.

Who knows.

Ghetto reminds me, “They make more in a day than you make in a month and they're looking down on anyone who recognises them.” The only cuts these people understand are on the leg of their designer jeans. These thoughts help keep any morals at bay, aware of the intrusion that we immediately impose. I'm then told the story (and later, shown the video) of one famous British

actor who assaulted Ghetto in his car for taking a picture of him from across the street. I pointed out that cheating on Sienna Miller is not the greatest testimony to a regimented thought process.

She's with the baby, that is worth BUCKS!" hisses Ghetto as a silence falls over the car. Adrenaline sears through our hands and chest, double breaths, cold sweat.

All over a pop star no one really cares about doing some shopping.

The blacked out windows of Ghetto's car help to blend into the background, as in this industry, it's better to look like a chav drug dealer then a photographer.

I fall into a silent coiled spring of action. Ghetto needs to piss.

Now. Before I can question where he plans on finding such a facility, he's climbing over the driver's seat into the back whispering, "shut up, shut up, it'll be fine, I've got a bottle". The next two minutes are not something I shall forget. A grown man urinating into a Fanta bottle less than eight inches from my head, the sound, the smell, the fumbling of the lid and panic as splashes alert us to the danger of giving away our position. I inform Ghetto that I am not impressed with this situation (old bacon and ripe cheese). The target leaves the cafe and heads away from us, a minor argument about whether we should follow or wait by the target vehicle pushes the rest of our day into silence.

The long lens prevails and as we leave we stalk another talentless drip to his house and get shots of him smashing his alloys against a curb - which he claims was because we "made him nervous".

Whatever, I hated Gavin & Stacey.

Later I chase Vanessa Feltz down the street wearing only a banana costume screaming “chicka chacka!

Day Two

Sleeping in is not a good idea.

Most celebrities will be out by 9:30, you can follow them on Twitter if you want, but only the ones who desperately need the publicity will actually tweet, "I'm outside my house at 7am wearing a peekaboo bra". Most of our information comes from tippers, who for a fee of 10% of the photo, will tell you where a target is and what story the press are going with. Don't be fooled, 75% of stories in the tabloids are completely made up. When we send in photos we have to attach a brief, a description, the 'sale'.

Sitting outside Radio 2 for an hour trying to bait a certain target with Yorkie bars that we scattered all over the street is called 'making news'. If we can't find it, we make it. So when a photographer sends in a rubbish shot of someone in a cab with both eyes closed they won't place in the blurb, "soand-so with eyes closed because I funked it", no no no, they will write "so-and-so smashed out of their mind". This is the Game. The harder they make it, the more the price on their head increases.

Check out Hugh Grant beating up a pap with a tin of beans on YouTube.

We find nothing. Literally casing the same few streets and shopping areas notorious to the ultra rich or ultra reality, not a single face jogs the memory. I'm convinced I've spotted Meat Loaf but Ghetto refutes the claim: "It's not Meat, that guy's got jizz on him". We get a single tip about a person we aren't allowed to take photos of, yet still go their house because a court injunction triples the value (celebs really are idiots sometimes) - but after four hours of waiting all we get is hunger pangs.

Day Three

Our morning plan was to naked surprise a popular DJ who was celebrating a birthday, this was an idea sent by the office after the success of a similar photo the week before. But something didn't quite sit right as we waited, one of us virtually naked holding a birthday card filled with false names. The slapping sound of bare feet on concrete was echoed by the snaps of the camera shutter as our frame came together like a birthday party for David Lynch.

Later I chase Vanessa Feltz down the street wearing only a banana costume screaming "chicka chacka!" Then I had to follow a famous drag queen to her home where I would surprise her with another naked assault... our concept of 'making news' was running away from us. What started as "wouldn't it funny if we got a snap of a fat guy eating food from the street" suddenly turned into a mockery. Hearing the news that we missed the Terminator because we were struggling to get our clothes back on from the stunt was a heartbreaking moment in which the teenage boy inside me wept, whilst I had to remind Ghetto for ninth time that day that a cleaning apron is called a 'tabbard'.

What happens when you get a large group of photographers together is what the industry refers to as a scrum. Each pap will be working for an agency and each want the opportunity to sell the picture at first opportunity to the tabloids - obviously the more people taking the target's picture will devalue the overall set, but what happens in a scrum is a battle for quality. No one realises how much skill is needed to create all those shots you see in your sweaty magazines. The press

will not accept any image unless it's PIN sharp and full body. Most of these hipsters on tumblr claim to be photographers, but having to rapid call a lighting situation and a moving target whilst trying to engage a person over the ten other idiots while your gear is falling from your pockets and your car is being robbed by the tooth fairy is what sorts the men from the boys.

There are only an estimated 30 paps in London verses a few thousand skinny-jeaned muppets with cameras, the skill, commitment and concentration needed to be a successful pap creates a rank of navy seal. Most are attracted by the lure of the £250k shot, or a couple of £10k winners that could allow you to set up your own agency and get other monkeys to do the graft for you.

But most leave with frustration, doubts and anger for the morons they have to follow around. "If you can get them to just stop and smile for a second then everyone can get on with their lives," explains Ghetto after disarming himself in another water bottle in the back of the car.

The paps would be nothing without a star, but the celebrity would be nothing without the pap.

You can call paparazzi scum, but the real problem lies with the readers of these trashy magazines - the same people who call us 'lowlifes' yet babble on to their friends about clothes, handbags, make-up... We watch everyone yet hate to be watched ourselves.

Living as a pap can teach you a lot about this media circus, but what it will teach you is this: people are stupid. Joe Rogan summed our world up better then I ever could, "I know I'm pretty stupid, but what really bothers me is that I'm smarter than everyone I meet, and that is frightening."

TheLeedsDebacle_9

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semi-detached

S

o there I was sat in a Bolivian prison cell being told how the system works

by Jacques. He had been an inmate of La Paz’s San Pedro prison for five years, arrested at the age of 22 for drug smuggling.

He was a year older than myself but looked twice his age. I could tell prison life was tough.

Jacques was six foot and scrawny with scruffy blonde hair. He had grown up in the heart of Paris, a place that he could now only see in his dreams. He stood in front of Mark and me wearing dirty blue jeans and a tatty dark green shirt.

Being new to the prison he could see that both of us were nervous and not at all at ease with our new surroundings. Sitting in a Bolivian prison was off the beaten narrative of the trip we had both envisaged when at home in northern England. He motioned for us both to sit down on the bed in his cell before asking if either of us would like a drink.

“Can I get you both a drink? CocaCola, Sprite, water? Anything you want,” he offered.

“Sprite please,” responded.

I

nervously

“Same here,” followed Mark.

Jacques opened the door of his cell and yelled to someone at the bottom of the stairs.

Jacques’ cell was situated at the top of a tight staircase in the far left corner of the main court yard that minutes earlier we had come through. He looked at us both with a stern face and said: “This prison is very dangerous.

You need to keep safe, they think you are American Gringo!” he warned us.

“Who are they?” Mark asked.

“The Bolivian prisoners that stared as you came through 12_TheLeedsDebacle

/GAZ JONES

the gates. They do not like Americans,” explained Jacques.

player and another tower of music discs.

“What’s the problem with Americans?” I was eager to hear his response.

In the right corner he had a small kitchenette consisting of a small gas stove and sink. I sat on his raised bed looking towards a blocked off room by the entrance to his cell. Maria could see that I was inquisitive so told me:

“Because they are bastards!” he barked.

I wanted to ask him why but didn’t. Jacques had an unsettling look in his eye and it felt like his mood could change. I just nodded politely and agreed.

The awkward tension in the air broke as someone wrapped a fleshy fist against the heavy wooden cell door.

“Jacques it is me, I have your drinks,” came a soft Spanish voice.

“Come in the door is open,” ordered Jacques.

The door creaked open on its rotten brackets and in walked a small Bolivian woman with black hair in a bob and caramel skin.

She smiled warmly at Mark and I as she placed two bottles of ice cold Sprite onto Jacques’ small bedside table.

Jacques grabbed hold of the woman, who giggled. He then introduced her: “This is my wife Maria; she is pregnant with my child.”

Before entering the prison I had expected the worse. I was expecting the conditions to resemble those of the Turkish prison in Oliver Stone’s Midnight Express. Thankfully they were not.

Jacques’ cell was closer in prison terms to the Orient Express; he had everything he could ask for apart from his freedom.

I scanned his cell and was amazed to see that at the bottom of his bed he had a 26 inch television.

On the far wall was a black shelf full of books and stacks of CDs. Underneath the shelf on the chipped concrete floor sat a CD

“It is the shower.”

Jacques’ cell was small but he had everything he needed, including a wife. He lived in better conditions than we had backpacking through Peru. I was amazed that prison could be so comfortable.

We all know that prison puts the ‘ow’ into shower. If I had to stay here it was something that I would most certainly ask for, Jacques was lucky.

As I finished my inspection of his cell, Jacques turned his back on us. He faced the book shelf and started to flick through his collection of CDs. I couldn’t see what exactly he was doing and started thinking that perhaps he wanted to play some music to break the awkward silences that punctured our conversations. I was wrong.

He turned to face us holding out a rolled up Bolivian bank note and casually asked if we would like a line of cocaine. I sat at the end of his bed in shock.

“It will put you at ease my friends, go on try it’s the best!”

I couldn’t believe the situation we were both in. Sat inside a cell in Bolivia’s most notorious jail with an inmate kindly asking if we would like some cocaine to complement our bottles of Sprite.

Jacques could see that we were both sceptical so before we answered he took the note and snorted two large lines up his right nostril. He pinched the end of his large nose and asked us again: “Please my friends I insist,” he said.

Brian

/KYLE JAMES-PATRICK

My legs have become stiff and numb from the cold, yet not a stray wayward thought of warm blood can divert this eye from the image that shrills out of the window behind the trees. Between the masking branches there is noise, a noise so loud it shakes the air yet does not draw attention to itself like the summer punch of thunder, instead it is more like the silent sister lightning, a dangerous bolt that strikes before a cry can call, casually ignored until the embers touch the soles of the unprotected. Her face is hidden from where the spark is brightest, straining under the weight of a thousand pummelled strikes far beyond the detection of any scan or x-ray, these cracks, these splits, these breaks are not forming in a weak calcium held by some mortal marrow, no, the damage through this window, through this tortured view, this broadcast of pity to which there is only a niche audience, is a... is a demonstration of how to destroy a... a... The rain skips and hurries between feet, stone and gutter. Forming slick black currents that leap from the street, fused together they create rivers who by crude scale turn cigarette packets into ferries of ill to sail hand in hand into a labyrinth cavity of what we will forget. They take so much of our unclean, our unwanted, yet for all the imagery and flowered wisdom, her face still remains caved behind her hands which fumble trying to hold all the blood that streams from her head. Buses, cars, pedestrians, she falls below the frame set by the bare bark. He appears dissatisfied that she cannot hold so much fluid in her cupped hands, to which a single crimson palm reaches upwards to protest much as the lady of the lake would have done if she had been savagely beaten to within a whisper of her life. He removes his belt as a slaver removes his whip, vanishing downwards out of this frame of snuff, the room is bare, the sound touches the skin, she falls. As the small floating stubs stare back from the street, dancing towards their underworld, a slight flash of silver places the attention back to the frame behind the trees, the heated sand that separates an injustice to a... Justice. Buses, cars, pedestrians. Without the thunder they do not heed the lightning, only to suffer when a surgical strike of this reality rocks their very core of what lies beyond this rabbit hole. The steel is sharp and in the tension of such a moment, a small dark warmth runs from a hand to meet the rain river below. To be the shepherd one must herd the sheep, to save the girl, I must kill the man.

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VINYL FETISH

/GARETH TANTRAM

So women have shoes… and handbags… and… …now I have vinyl. I used to find it amusing how (some) women appeared powerless to the gravitational pull towards certain shoes and handbags and were obsessed with their ever-growing collections.

That Carlsberg advert where all the girls who are screaming at the sight of their friend’s walk-in wardrobe were shouted down by the high-pitched screams of their respective men over-joyed by the sight of their friend’s walk-in bar used to crack me up too. But no more…

In the past I have had a few materialistic weaknesses where my bank balance has been at some small risk. Watches – I currently possess 16 in total – and sunglasses – a more respectable 11 pairs – represented the extent of my vices; and to be fair my taste in both of those (Casio in the main and fake sunnies) is pretty cheap and they are financially viable addictions. My new and most financially crippling of compulsions has engulfed me since the passing of this New Year. Now it is common practice for people to endeavour to start afresh and give things up come January 1; unwittingly this year I embarked on the opposite.

I was at home with my mum over the festive period and in a most altruistic act of human kindness (or so I thought) she offered me her much-loved, yet under-used Grundig radiogram. Now this is 14_TheLeedsDebacle

an absolute beauty from back in the 50s and has long been coveted by myself; I thought all my Christmases had come at once.

Little did I know the tribulations which would follow.

Upon my return to Leeds I treated myself to £180 worth of vinyls to beef out my collection a little and was absolutely chuffed with them. The radiogram took pride of place in my flat and I whiled away the hours listening to my new LPs. Hell, I even used them to woo a lady, with a little help from a limbo competition and three bottles of red but that’s a story for another day.

The first few months drifted along swimmingly. I added the odd record or two to my collection here and there and my spending was very much in check. It is in this positive ‘honeymoon’ phase where I shall continue with my tale for now. I (belatedly) discovered a whole new world of shopping for music; the independent record store. I apologise to those purists who have long been part of the game but hey, cut me some slack, I’m new to the game. Each store is different and entertains a different type of weird and wonderful clientele; Leeds offering three great examples to me thus far: Jumbo, Crash and Relics Records. Each of them has a different spin and it is in these stores where most of my money

has been spent. But then there are different cities to explore and new independents to scour.

A recent trip took me to Birmingham and specifically – on the recommendation of my good friend Midge - to two separate shops. Firstly, The Vinyl Exchange round the corner from New Street station. This place sells some great records and is well worth a look for some classics, but that’s not what drew me in, oh no. Now here is a shop with a ridiculous amount of crap in its racks! This is no bad thing, for me it’s the beauty of the place. The bargain racks are bursting at the seams with each and every vinyl going for the princely sum of just 10 English pence! Some of my more memorable purchases (from the £3 I spent) include: The Oliver Soundtrack, Abba – The Singles, Now 7, Manilow Magic, Cilla (yes, THE Cilla) Sings a Rainbow, the ‘Remember you’re a Womble’ LP and some of the finest Lionel Richie cover art you have ever seen. All tat I know, but each in their own way a touch of class, or at the very least bound to get some laughs at a party and great value at just 10p.

The second shop I cannot off the top of my head recall the name of but was instantly different to its neighbour a five minute stroll down the road. To conjure up an image of this place think of the

record store in the film ‘High Fidelity’… minus the annoying loud guy (Jack Black) and the sunny streets and Chicago and add in old guys with thick Brummy accents and you’re almost there. This place is a collector’s goldmine and a great place to lose yourself for an afternoon. In the short time I spent there I picked up an original Tamla Motown recording of the Marvin Gaye album ‘Let’s Get it On’ in splendid nick to boot.

And trust me, there is no feeling like the feeling you get when putting on Side 1 Track 1 from this album.

The record shops themselves are only a fraction of the experience to be had though, there’s so much more. It begins when you get through your front door; you make a brew and pull the vinyl out of its plastic bag. You look at the beautiful cover art, pull the record out of its sleeve and continue to marvel at the way everything is put together and packaged with far more thought and intent than a CD could ever be. For those vinyl virgins out there I would describe it as like playing a game of pass the parcel on your own. Each layer you dispose of is more exciting than the last and the best thing is that all the while you know you are going to win the prize at the end.

Now; the piece de resistance… it’s time to put the record on. The sound of a vinyl for me cannot be trumped. The imperfections, the crackles and the bass all equate to an incomparable end product.

Music as it should be heard.

Four months into the game I’m

starting to realise that I have a problem. My brain has evolved and has developed cunning new ways to persuade me to part ways with my hard-earned cash. It used to be that he would just say, “you didn’t go out last Tuesday night so you’ve got £20 to spare…” An old favourite sure, but an argument I managed to knock on the head with some time and effort. Now, however, my sub-conscious has an ace in the pack; a trump card if you will.

The traditional forms of the music business are struggling: illegal downloads, iTunes and Spotify have all flexed their considerable muscles and influence. So now when I think to myself, “Oooh, I really haven’t got the cash for that Gold Panda record” - which, rather predictably I bought – my brain kicks in and goes, “To be fair we all need to do our bit to save the artists and the independent record stores that we know and love”. Dammit, there goes another 20 quid. New up and

coming artists in particular owe me some serious cash, as these are the ones I have deemed most worthy of my moolah this far in.

My problem is fast-approaching an addiction of nicotinic proportions and I do not yet see where the end is coming. Fast-forward six months and it could be “My name is Gareth Tantram and I have a vinyl addiction…” Watch this space.

In short I suggest you should start (or restart) buying and listening to vinyls; it gives a feeling of satisfaction which will lead you to question how you ever lived without it. But this recommendation does come with a warning, you may too develop an (expensive but rather lovely) obsession. So when (insert dearest relative’s name here) offers you their beloved record player for free be sure to snap their hand off. But do so knowing that altruism doesn’t truly exist;,it’s just that they have managed to kick the habit…

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Josh T Pearson

It’s 2001 and I’m standing in a boiling Borders reading a copy of Uncut magazine ruined by many sticky hands avoiding handing over their £3.95, avoiding handing over my £3.95. Three battered men with the finest mutton chops and cowboy hat stare at me beneath the words “Album of the Month”, my arms lenghten, my pockets rise and I am persuaded. Ten years on and it turns out that the only error in Uncut’s heading is that “month” should have read “decade”. The TexasJerusalem Crossroads by Lift To Experience was an album so full of grand ideas, narrative, emotion, poetry and, lest we forget, tunes, that it was almost too ambitious to understand and subsequently fell into the unknown. The mutton chops in question were owned by singer Josh T Pearson who also apparently imploded under the weight of his debut opus by disappearing. Until now, as he returns with hollow eyes, Jesus beard and a punishingly honest, unrelentingly heartbreaking solo debut, Last Of The Country Gentlemen. We are relatively eased into Josh’s tortured mind with the three minute Thou Art Loosed before being pulverised by four double-figured minute trawls, from Sweetheart I Aint Your Christ to centrepiece Honeymoon’s Great! Wish You Were Her, to the depths of a man trying and failing to gain forgiveness from women and himself.

Without his band’s driving rhythm, the music meanders, searching for a tune, but beautifully pained vocals and brutally bare lyrics (“when I said I’d give my life, I wasn’t talking suicide”) reward what is an undoubtedly demanding listen.

Josh T Pearson is not a man made for this generation. Last Of The Country Gentlemen is not an album to be interrupted by Spotify adverts. It is, however, an album to be amazed by every time you’re strong enough to share his pain.

handmadehands

The brothers Fletcher together form local three-piece handmadehands, on the surface an unimaginative mix of singer with guitar, bassist and drummer. However, instrument listings including Budweiser bottle, Oxford Street, iPhone, nutshell thing, super speak ‘n’ spell, saw and rude ralph, suggest there may be more to this family than it first appears. Their new debut album, recorded on Shipley’s bdeye, confirms this combination as playful and inventive, bordering on annoying. Occasionally, the quirky touches sound try-hard and off-putting but being rooted in classics keeps the music to an impossibly catchy verse/chorus formula which welcomes the off-beat pace changes, as often caused by poor musicianship, one suspects, as ideas, which, no doubt, this record is happily overloaded with.

What keeps handmadehands a notch above the schmindie game-chasers is the outpouring of genuine joy fighting against the cynicism of the world. It’s difficult to argue in the face of single Sunshine’s chorus, “I have a mind of a child they tell me, ‘cos I still fall in love with the sunshine and butterflies... too stupid to understand that happiness is meaningless it seems.”

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Louise Distras

There is something lovely about Louise Distras that makes you want to give her a really big warm hug and tell her how wonderful she is, yet you can’t help but think she’d be shouting and raving and wriggling around so much you’d look like an inexperienced farm hand trying to capture an unruly goose; this is how I feel about her new EP Heartstrings On A Handgrenade, covered in bites and feathers without the slightest idea as to where my trousers have gone. Quite the left over XX chromosome from one of Mr Frank Turner’s late night love ins, Louise does stamp both her feet in the Shout/Folk genre, there lies a juxtaposition of gentle strings and shrill. Just give her a full band to match the the raw, energetic power of her volatile voice to let you know if you’re marching along passionately with a smile, or charging full pelt, froth and all, with a brick in hand to smash those who have harmed you, then we’ll be fighting or hugging for Miss Distras.

Dustin Wong

On a night where it seemed impossible for the locals to pull themselves away from the comforts of the good weather and burnt animal products, those who did make it to the Brudenell for a night of music from virtuoso composer Dustin Wong, were certainly smug as they left. With the 30 or so crowd sat on the floor waiting for Dustin to take to his stool, it was like private moment with the Dalai Lama, before his hands blurred beyond the skill of my eye and a massive sound lept around the room. It was quite clear, it was happening, right now. What Dustin transcends is the most beautiful and empowering soundtrack we all wish we had for our lives, the music we wish we could hear to signify that we’re doing something right, something that is justified by a musician who produces more layers then your nan at a knitting convention. But it’s not simply one memorable field running moment after another, like a cosmic atmospheric yoda he knows when to change his song to keep the tracks complementing each other back-to-back like the paralympic champions’ wine mixer. The experience became too much for this reviewer and I had to retire to the back of the room where I could rub my face on the wall hoping for some distant memory of reality. Good work Dustin, damn good work.

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Jay-Z, Raisins and Ballet /GAZ JONES Wrestling Greko-Roman with another three subjects.

Before Jay-Z made it as a wellknown rap artist, he went to school and wasn’t the smartest.

He went to a school called the ‘School of Hard Knocks’, where he was constantly picked on by the jocks.

One day at school he had had enough, and started to rhyme off the cuff.

The kids at school were all surprised, as Jay-Z was a child they all despised. Most of the class wanted an ‘Encore’. Jay-Z stood on his chair asking ‘Do you want more?’

At the back of the class, stood in the dark, were a group of boys called Linkin Park. Rapping and rhyming was what they liked to do, listening to Jay-Z was hard to chew.

Two weeks later Jay-Z had gone from zero to hero, if school was the movies he was Robert De Niro. He had become notoriously B.I.G, the school’s number one playground MC. He had ‘Girls, Girls, Girls’ and had ‘Changed His Game’ but the girl that he liked didn’t know his name. She wasn’t interested

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in a boy like Jay, she was busy recruiting for the school ballet.

Linkin Park were really upset, Jay-Z had become a major threat.

They had to find a chink in his armour, he was an ugly boy and far from a charmer. They knew he liked the girl from the school play, if only they could get him to join the ballet!

Beyonce Knowles was a born survivor, but was easily bribed for under a fiver. Linkin Park knew she had ‘Bills, Bills, Bills’ and £5 was enough to enrol her skills.

Their plan was simple and far from ambitious, because everyone knew she was bootylicious. All they wanted was Jay in the production, easily done with a bit of seduction.

The next day at school Jay-Z went ‘Redman’, unaware of the evil plan. Across the playground came his number one dame, “Hey Jay-Z, say my name!”

“Beyonce Knowles!” he replied as she stood by his side. “What do you want, I could write you a rap?’

He was unknowingly falling into a trap.

“I would like you to join the

theatre group, having you join would be a major coupe!”

“Why would I join you in the ballet? I’m now really cool, not bloody gay!”

“Listen I’m not a Bug a Boo, the choice isn’t mine, it’s up to you!”

Beyonce stormed off knowing full well, Jay-Z was now under her magical spell. Jay-Z had ‘Money, Cash, Hoes’, but went home to think and ‘Change Clothes’.

He sat on his bed totting up issue after issue, thinking about Beyonce with a box of tissue.

Ninety-eight problems was the amount he had, having one more would not be bad. ’99 problems but a bitch ain’t one, being in the ballet could be fun?’

He rang up Beyonce on ‘1-800 Hustler’, who was sat at home with a chicken rustler. Jay-Z told her that he would perform, but it was only for her - it was not the norm.

Linkin Park were ‘Numb’ with pleasure, watching this play was something sure to treasure. The school all laughed when they heard the news, cheers for Jay-Z had now turned to boos.

Jay-Z drank a ‘2Pac’ of ‘Ice-T’, shaking backstage, wanting to flee. Playing the lead in ‘California Raisins: The Show’, was it worth it, all for this beau?

He went out on stage in white gloves and mascara, sweating like a camel in the Sahara. He was dressed as a raisin, a giant fruit, it was then he saw Beyonce collecting her loot.

Far from ‘Big Pimpin’ he felt like a fool, how would he live this down at school? With Linkin Park he was on a ‘Collision Course’, as for Beyonce there would be a divorce.

As he left the stage he didn’t know what to say, so put in a call to his Doctor Dre.

Please send your three thing requests for issue four to thedebacle@hotmail.co.uk whoever’s suggestion Gaz uses will win a copy of his book Semi-Detached!

Jobseeker Blues / G.A.Pinder Welcome to this day of mine, Another day stood in line.

Got no money, On a diet of bread, Times like these I should have stayed in bed.

Waiting for a call back, Got to get my check stamped, Buy another paper That says I’m on the wrong track.

Looking at these vacancies, I must have sent a hundred CV’s, But all I keep hearing is…

You’re good, but not for me.

Every day up with the early bird, Walking the streets, Looking for the fattest worm, Is this the day When my fortunes turn?

Or get back in line And wait for my turn?

So I’m sitting in the interview, I fill my application, They want a credit check And proof of reputation, I smile and say the right things, Laugh at all their jokes, If I can start Monday, They’ll show me the ropes.

Monday morning The joke’s on me, I’ve got to wear a hair net And sweep the factory.

You say at least you’re earning And collecting a wage, Well I’m still learning ways Of controlling my rage.

At The Dinner Table / John Gandy “What’s the worst way to die?”

Asked the children, at tea; “Is it bitten by sharks As you drown in the sea?

Or boiled up alive In a cannibal’s pot, Or hung, drawn and quartered, Or poisoned, or shot?”

“You’d be lucky, my loves, To never find out,” I said with a sigh, Which made them both pout.

“There’s not such a thing As a worst way to die, As any fate’s worse With nails in your eyes, Or rats in your gut, Or if you’re on fire, Or covered in acid, Or wrapped up in wire.”

“You’re weird,” said the kids, As they picked at their jelly, Then skulked off instead To stare at the telly.

“You asked,” I replied As they slipped out of sight, And I smiled because really They know that I’m right.

Closed / John Barran The quiver of an eyelid The half-light burns I tried to keep you closed

The tears cascade on childhood To drown the myths An innocence removed

In sleep you are enchanting I catch your breath It whispers we can fly

Revolting affectations This vulgar smile I miss them now they’re real

Some dreams are disconnected Some visions blurred It’s clearer when you lie

My sin remains unspoken The air is numb It’s colder when you win

A gradual awakening Split-second bliss You cry when you’re alive

The quiver of an eyelid The half-light burns I tried to keep you closed TheLeedsDebacle_19

STEWART LEE

I

t is easy to see why Stewart Lee is not everyone's idea of a popular comic.

Deliberately subverting the genre, Stew tells little or no jokes, rambles, mumbles, expresses disappointment in his audience, all the time pointing out these deficiencies. To make things harder still for himself, he chooses to pre-warn us exactly what his set will consist of, deconstructing his own act so we all know why he's saying things now, when he'll be returning to them and what and when the pay-off will be, thus eliminating surprise, spontaneity and fun. Basically, a guide to how not to be a comedian. All of which makes it all the more unlikely that Stewart Lee is currently our greatest comedian.

Stewart Lee is currently our greatest comedian. Having began his career in the alternative eighties scene, Stew came to most people's attention alongside Richard Herring on fabulous midnineties' cult series Fist of Fun, a show which moved quickly enough and spawned enough catchphrases ("you want the moon on a stick") to be studentcool, it introduced Stew as the literate killjoy who still evoked the most laughs. Despite working on various projects, including a reactionary masterclass to his position in one of those ludicrous lists - Britain's 41st Best Stand Up Ever! - Stew only returned to popular consciousness in 2009's Comedy Vehicle, six half-hour shows of one man telling little or no jokes, rambling, mumbling, expressing disappointment in his audience and pointing out these deficiencies. Needless to say, it was brilliant.

Which is the reason I am part of an odd audience of outcasts at The Playhouse tonight. Vegetable Stew is a live set of what will make up the new series of Comedy Vehicle. After following the last series by touring the vitriolic, wry, perfectly-paced If 20_TheLeedsDebacle

You Prefer A Milder Comedian Please Ask For One at the same venue in November, Stew has set quite the expectation. He begins the evening by highlighting the disappointments we face and that if we laugh too much the show may last longer, "which, frankly, I think is too long". The set consists of four subjects: charity, Adrian Chiles, terrorism and David Cameron. Being as the material is for separate TV shows, the whole set doesn't quite fit together as expertly as previous shows, but, taken in their individual sections, there is still a whole lot to enjoy here.

There is a ridiculous story about doing charity gigs to steal free crisps for his grandad who loves crisps so much he even loves things with crisp in the name.

There is a relatively straightforward joke about a 13-yearold saying cunt - "which is the c-word isn't it" - for which he mocks reviewers who say he has no jokes, himself for writing the joke, and Mock The Week for jokes that "mock the weak". Typically, there is much self-analysing and audience-analysing throughout, proclaiming that it only seems like he "goes on and on" if you're not listening carefully, a selfdepreciating line that becomes true when the charity story veers from Japanese prisoners of war to comic superheroes to crisp flavours to other comedians to hiding in a wheelie-bin to probably a load of other things that, despite the intentionally slow pace and trademark repetition, the attention to detail of his storytelling and language makes impossible to re-tell.

We have been warned that his piece on Adrian Chiles "under new laws is deemed a sustained and unlawful attack". He describes Chiles as "a speaking toby jug filled to the brim with piss" and compares him to the Six Million Dollar Man with the poetic insult, "I'd at least expect Chiles to outrun a train - as it is he can barely keep ahead of the slow-moving cloud of disapproval that follows

him down the narrow corridor of public opinion". Yet Russell Howard comes off equally badly in a routine that compares the £44,000 he reportedly would earn in four days with the £44 Stew had to pay to do one of his own gigs, the only time this evening we see one of his infamous ventures to rant in the crowd.

The IRA skit is amusing but a sign that he has set his bar so high that his "I'm sorry if it's not politically correct but I hate Al-Qaeda" lines feel a little obvious. There is still plenty of laughter in his reminiscing about the IRA as if they were a band who he hopes reforms. Similarly, the David Cameron material falls a little short but only in comparison to last year's identically-structured Hammond-attack, both consisting of a long anecdote about going to school/university with said person to showcase their personality deficiencies to the nth degree before declaring "that story's not true, but what it says about him is true".

Aside from the main subject matter, there is a magnificent ramble about the difference between comedy in the eighties, when everyone hated the Tories, and comedy now, when everyone hates kitchen appliances, where he acknowledges that his "observational comedy can sometimes turn into consumer advice". Finally, he performs two songs, an opportunity that allows him a routine on comedians with guitars, though these sentiments become slightly dubious when he carries out the musical threat, thus producing a relatively mediocre end to another remarkable set. The self-pity, abuse and smugness should be enough to make anyone unwatchable, let alone intentionally revealing and removing all the tricks a comedian can use to make people laugh.

That Stew more than overcomes this to make his audience both think and roar with the two oldest comedic tricks in the book - timing and language - is the sign of a middle-aged, out of shape, modern-day genius.

Mark Thomas

O

nly weeks after Stewart Lee, The Playhouse welcomed none other than agit-comedian Mark Thomas.

Not so much with the laugha-minute material, I decided.

When did he have regular stuff on TV? Was it the mid-90s? Feels like a lifetime ago, and in a very real sense, it was. I remember him as a youth (me, not him), watching him as he’d tear into the Government, or Balfour Beatty.

Or the Government’s relationship with Balfour Beatty. Heady days, they were: sepia toned, Leeds United were good, and summers would never end. And we’d all get together for a 20:20 or Strongbow outside the Arndale Centre on a Friday evening, and we’d diss Balfour Beatty while harassing students.

Anyway, it’s now 2011, and Thomas has been off my radar for a while. He has merged into the Radio 4 ball of sorta-intellectual personality. Did he do that programme where he makes the world a bit better? No, that was Mark Watson. How about the one where people have genius ideas for society and he evaluates them?

Nah, Dave Gorman. Was it the one where he tours small towns in Britain and tailors his set to that town’s foibles and history? Aye, that sounds like it. And when he wasn’t doing that, he’d mainly be trying to get arrested outside the Houses of Parliament, so he’d have an excuse to humiliate the police officer making the arrest, as he’d use esoteric parts of legislation to get away with, oh I don’t know, having races with some crusties in modified bathtubs running on creamed celery while listening to The Levellers. And then he’d have a bit of banter with the police, because even though some of them brutalise people, deep down, most of them are actually nice people. Who knew that some people in a sector of society and others are less so?

But now he’s touring big cities,

like Leeds. The show was called Extreme Rambling, with danger signs on the stage and a map of the Gaza Strip, and we joked about how coincidental it would be if it was about him circumnavigating said Strip on foot, as only a few months before that we saw Will Self in Morley, as he talked about circumnavigating Hollywood.

On foot.

Imagine, then, our surprise as that turned out to be the exact theme of the show. Technically the show was based around the Israeli West Bank Barrier, to afford it proper nomenclature. I must admit, Thomas has something of a bad reputation in my head for ramping up the shouty politics to the detriment of the laughs, but that wasn’t the case this evening. He was as surprisingly pleasant to my sensibilities as the aforementioned police were to his. The first thing I noticed was how filled with nervous energy he was. It took a few minutes for me to focus on his body, such was the rapidity with which he flailed his arms and legs in gesticulation.

The content itself was excellent.

Though the first half felt long, it never felt like it dragged: it just felt like lots of interesting, and quite regularly amusing, stuff.

In an effort to attain balanced reporting, he would sometimes walk on the Palestine side of the wall, and at others on the Israeli. There was even a spot - of a regular protest, wherein protagonists and antagonists would turn up out of a sense of routine more than anything else which he viewed from both sides.

He met some Palestinians and Israelis that he liked, and some that he didn’t. He managed to get himself arrested on numerous occasions, which should surprise

nobody. He made it all the way round, and clearly survived to tell the tale. His fixer was the heroine of the piece, even if Thomas made her sound like Arsene Wenger, and Thomas himself was equally brave and foolish in the face of rockthrowing youths and M-16-bearing soldiers.

Thomas’s telling of the tale was interesting. Though I am in no doubt as to how genuine he was in relaying his emotions to us, his time in showbiz has noticeably changed him. I’m torn as to whether I found his many pauses for dramatic and poignant effect truly touching, or merely a transparent emotive ploy. In reality it was a bit of both, as were the anecdotes that were obviously geared towards getting a round of applause from the duly obliging audience. I’m all for the little tricks employed by the raconteur to vary what is in essence a man talking for a couple of hours to a room of strangers, but I’m sure there’s a way of doing so that is less on the nose. Henry Rollins is one talker (they’re not really stand-up comedians, are they?) who can go on for hours without seeming blatant, but still alter his tempo, tone and mood to prevent boredom.

Overall, though, Extreme Rambling was touching, and it was amusing, informative and engaging. So that’s what he’s been up to.

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Then Thickens The Leeds Debacle meets Jon-Lee Martin aka Then Thickens aka Magpie from Kong TLD: So, are you out in the sense that Magpie is Jon-Lee? JLM: They are separate. I guess everybody’s got a dark side, I just have a cool little venue to vent it.

But after five years of being Kong, Jon-Lee started to fade and I was starting to live more like Magpie.

I was drinking and partying and being sexual but I started to lose grip of what I can do other than screaming and shouting, you know, being obnoxious.

TLD: It’s like Jon-Lee was the humble country boy to Magpie’s debauchery and sweatfest.

JLM: Totally, they are complete opposites. Doctors will tell you I’m bipolar but I say I’m just like everyone else. I think everyone’s a little bit bipolar, rather than prescription pills, just get rid of it by playing in bands.

TLD: I think that’s why art came in for humanity, it became our own little self help.

JLM: Exactly, I needed Magpie to cover up the pussycat that was underneath. It’s something I’ve always done in secret and now I feel it’s the right time to let people hear it.

TLD: How would you describe the sound of Then Thickens?

JLM: To me it sounds like The Kinks but everyone else I’ve said that to just looks at me with a bemused fucking grin on their face.

TLD: I’ve given you that exact same face now.

JLM: I suppose I’ve not really had any direction for the album Blood on the River Ribble, it’s just a collection of material recorded over the past 4 years alongside whatever I’ve been playing. It’s like a little exorcism and I keep testing myself to see whether I can still write pop songs. I had no intention releasing it, it was just a personal exercise.

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TLD: How would you explain the connection between the album cover and the music?

JLM: In the States, in the late 60s early 70s, there was this big movement of cheesecake recordings. I loved the visuals of these beautiful women exposing themselves on a record sleeve when the record is lovely, pleasant melodies with x-rated lyrics, great binary oppositioning. I did feel by releasing Blood on the River Ribble I was exposing a part of myself. That image of somebody’s legs wide apart on a photocopier is quite exposing but at the same time it’s a beautiful record.

It’s dark, it sure as hell ain’t bubblegum.

TLD: So, that’s not your arse on the cover?

JLM: No, it’s not my arse! For the physical copy I’m going to do a different version of the record.

I threw everything together and released 27 songs in one day. They will all come out as a physical release but there’s going to be a new record coming out first.

Which seems a little bit silly.

TLD: When you get the momentum going you just can’t stop releasing.

JLM: I want to keep that up, it’s encouraged me to work more.

If it was up to me then I’d be releasing stuff every couple of weeks. The art of the album is completely lost. There’s no joy anymore because we don’t have the patience to listen to three half-decent tracks before you find a gem, it’s all got to be top drawer fucking tunes or people switch off. I wanted to do the opposite by flooding people with masses of material so they have to spend a couple hours listening to an artist’s material rather than making playlists on Spotify. I’m definitely into, you know, more!

TLD: What I found I was doing when listening to this album was trying to find a favourite track and I can’t, which is great because it means I’m going to keep looking. It’s not download that, then forget the rest of the material.

JLM: It’s homemade, as if Fleetwood Mac made Tusk in a

bedroom with one microphone and one person making it. Listen to Self Preservation Act by The Kinks, there’s parts 1 & 2 for a reason, it’s not going to give you everything, it’s gonna take you a month to find that favourite track, and you’ll find another pretty damn soon. So I’m hoping it’s a slow release for people.

TLD: The album has a patchwork quilt of ideas, emotions and states of mind and is more of a soundtrack to a period of time.

What would the plot of the Then Thickens film be, if this is the soundtrack?

JLM: If I read into it deep, I’d say it’s about being confused and almost being on the border of ending your own life but not having the balls to do it. Like ‘it’s getting pretty dark, it’s getting really dark, fucking hell, where do I go?’ but there’s obviously some parts of what I’m doing that I really enjoy. It’s a diary and I hear the difference in the songs.

I never just sit and concentrate on one song, I’ll always write a little collection so there’s a family of four songs here, four songs there. But the over-riding theme is ‘everything’s gone wrong, I’ve had enough, but I’ve not got the balls to finish it’.

TLD: You had the balls to record it and put it out there.

JLM: That is because I’ve come out of that now. There was a period when I was using drugs quite heavily and I’m just starting now to see the funny side of it. I’m definitely not going to take it too serious, I don’t wanna be one of these fucking bed-wetters. It was a very open and exposing time for me and I never expected to let anybody in through that, it’s just kind of a joke to me now. It’s over and done with so I can move on from it.

TLD: Does this mean that your next album is going to be like a Kylie record?

JLM: I don’t think so, the next album will probably be ten of the best pieces from what I’ve already recorded with a couple of new ones thrown in. The new ones aren’t so much ‘fucking everything’s great, let’s all go buy

candy floss’. I’m still broke but I’m not taking coke every day.

TLD: Good man. If there had to be a sexual act that came with the record, what would the instructions say?

JLM: I think it would probably start off pretty damn violent with pretty much full on fucking then it would progress to..

TLD: Using your tears as lubricant?

JLM: Yeah! It would be dry and hard. But slowly as I get into it, we’ll start to lighten up a bit.

TLD: How would that work with the Kong record?

JLM: Kong is just great fun. I suppose I needed this so I could appreciate Kong, I was starting to get a little bit bored. Doing this is getting back into the mind frame to get excited about the second Kong album. But I think Kong would just be like ‘tie them up and strangle them’.

TLD: What would be your dream tour with Then Thickens?

JLM: I would just be really happy for anybody to pay attention

because it’s old news to me, yet it’s brand new to everybody else.

I’m the worst at self promotion.

Early on we’re going to have to do the rounds playing whatever shows we can get. It’s a five-piece, which is the biggest band I’ve ever played in. I don’t think we’ll be playing many pubs, it’ll be more riding the shirt tails of others and begging for support slots.

TLD: If I gave you a blank cheque to get you on any tour, who would you go with?

JLM: Somebody who is really smoking hot to look at. Maybe Broken Social Scene or Metric or Feist.

TLD: How about Shikira?

JLM: Yeah man! If Melanie Laurent made a record then that would be a perfect tour.

TLD: What’s it going to be like gigging and promoting away from Magpie and the sweaty mask and the bravado?

JLM: It’s more a drip feeding process because it took me so long to come to terms with letting people hear it that it’s a case of

let’s see what people think. Doing this interview thing is bizarre because I’ve always been within the constraints of Magpie. I’m learning a lot, I’m not expecting anything to hit overnight but so far so good. I’m talking to you now, I’ve got a record being released in America, which has all come about from me putting up a bandcamp website. It’s like starting again from scratch.

TLD: Are you Manchester’s answer to Nick Drake?

JLM: Wow. Fucking hell. That’s some statement. That’s on par with my favourite reaction to this music so far, from Tommy of Brew Records, who called me up, said he adored the music and wanted to help me out, and I said yeah but this is nothing that Brew could take hold of and he said, “what the fook you on about? It’s just like when Nirvana did that unplugged thing”. I found that to be absolutely hilarious in a really strange way. I think it makes sense.

TLD: Is that why you went on to Bloood? Was it a more suitable platform for your music?

JLM: I used to do Bloood Bootlegs, I would find artists that were making cool music and make these compliation CDs. I’d make the artwork for them, print them up, give them away and I’d be like “just check it out”. That art of making mix tapes has gone. Sending each other playlists is just not there, receiving something physical that you can slowly digest over time.

Because I’ve not been looking for a record company or anything for this project, I decided to revisit Bloood and I have actually got a couple of other artists lined up.

The ones I’m working with are all bedroom artists and I think there is a great art in making music at home, on TheLeedsDebacle_23

your own. I always found demos much more interesting than actual albums because it’s more intimate.

TLD: Before anyone has a chance to screw with the song, just raw. I’d be well happy to find a label full of bedroom musicians.

JLM: That’s the vibe I was going for with Bloood. I’m not stupid, I don’t have the money to put this stuff out physically as yet in the UK. But this whole vibe is really interesting, there are bunch of people pushing homemade music. We’re at a point where the Internet is flooded with too much choice. I’m lucky, I had Blood in the River Ribble out for two days and I got this guy called Art Carson contact me to release Then Thickens physically in America. I looked at his label (Blueberry Hill Records) and it’s 90% bedroom artists. At first I didn’t want to be lumped in with anybody else, I was standoffish from my experiences with record labels, but I thought, fuck it, this music has been alive on the Internet for two days, with me for years, so for somebody to go ‘this is great, I want to spend 24_TheLeedsDebacle

money on it’ was a bit of a wake up call. And to find out that they were doing something I was aspiring to do in the UK, that’s when I decided to jump right in.

TLD: I’ve felt there is a musical renaissance coming where, away from the flavourless commercial mass market, the rest of us can have this nice niche where we support each other.

JLM: That’s what I’m hoping will happen. It seems that we are insistent on killing it then moaning about it at the same time. I don’t want to be part of that process, I don’t want to be the mad arse.

I’ve got friends who say to me, “If you’d have done this ten years ago you’d have been a rockstar”, and I’m like, well that’s probably why I didn’t do it because now I’d be an old fucking rockstar from a flash in the pan, left as an unskilled labourer. It sounds really stupid but taking your career in your own hands is liberating. You can’t get grandeur thoughts, “oh I’m brilliant”. To me it is an honour and a fucking privilege that people have paid money because I know how easy it would be for them to open audio hijacker. It’s no big

deal for somebody to steal music these days so the fact that some still buy it, that’s the people I’m aiming for.

TLD: I do download a lot of music but the stuff I really enjoy I’ll buy a physical release. Plus there’s the actual experience of buying a record, having the artwork, owning an anchor to a memory. If you like it, buy the fucking record.

JLM: I think that this generation in particular is going to suffer and it’s their own fault. Buying a piece of music on their iPhones or their fucking Blackberrys or whatever, you know, 79p, it’s the same as buying a can of Pepsi man, it doesn’t have any relevance to them. Music is so isolated these days that people don’t share their enjoyment with each other.

You’ve got these tiny fucking 3mm speakers in your ears and only you can hear it and you only play what you like. My friends still take a ghetto blaster to a park and listen to CD albums, when I’m at home with the girlfriend we listen to vinyl albums, we’re sharing our enjoyment. I think this generation is not only helping to kill the

“I nearly died, but I didn’t.”

music industry, they’re gonna kill enjoying music as a collective experience. We still hold on to having a collective group of people enjoying it together and socialising, learning. Most of our record collections come via suggestions from like-minded friends. The MP3 is so disposable it’s ridiculous, what happens when your record collection and your hard drive dies?

TLD: For me, vinyl is the musical experience of owning a piece of art. Vinyl made a comeback before, but now with download, I think it could become the - dare I say it - saviour.

JLM: I totally agree. When that idea to do the whole vinyl and download thing first came about I thought that was a great happy medium, it was embracing the technology. We’re not dumb fuckers, I listen to MP3s and I have a Spotify account, I’m not ignorant to these things, I’m not some old hippy going, “I want my records back”.

TLD: Coming back to Then Thickens, what would be your single?

JLM: When I was putting the tracks up, I thought in all this stuff there isn’t a single. That’s why I did the Shoot Shoot EP, because it does need for the idiots amongst us a couple of slabs of something quick and instant. Shoot Shoot and Worms were actively wrote as singles, to be popular I guess.

TLD: What is a more frightening prospect, Then Thickens fans finding Kong, or Kong fans finding Then Thickens?

JLM: Knowing the people who enjoy Kong, I don’t think Then Thickens is for them, and vice versa. If I was to play it safe I would have gone down the middle, made a band like Queens of the Stone Age, but that isn’t in my nature, I’ve never compromised anything so I think we’d struggle to find anybody who likes them both equally, as I do. I’m not going to be so nitpickety as to promote them separately but I’m sure as hell not going to let Then Thickens get involved with what Kong is.

But I guess I would like people who found out about Kong to find out about Then Thickens because there’s a hell of a lot more of them!

TLD: Personally, I’ve been listening to Kong for a long time but I prefer Then Thickens, how it doesn’t make my teeth rattle in my head, but there is such a large body of work to get my face into.

JLM: Then Thickens is playing catch up in the popularity stakes.

Kong is an international band, as much as I hate to say it, it’s quite a popular band now. We travelled a lot of the world with that music on the back of ten songs, and Then Thickens came out day one with 27 songs, I can foresee there being fifty songs before the end of this year. So there is going to be a lot more for you to get your face into, and to play it is a joy! I’m just relaxed, there’s no nerves, no tension. I have to drink half a bottle of Jack Daniels to play with Kong because you

can’t fake being crazy. I’m not having to fake anything when I’m playing with this band. OK, so we smoke a couple of joints, a couple of whiskeys, not smashing your face off on chemicals and climbing all over people.

TLD: So when are we going to see it? A nicely intoxicated JonLee Martin.

JLM: The band is sounding so fucking unbelievable. They really do their homework, the musicians are great, fantastic people and they learn such a large body of work. I just let them do what they like and I turn up and they can play the records and it’s fantastic. So we would be ready now. It’s just me personally, I wanna get healthy again, I’m coming out of a rough patch physically and mentally and I just want to be clean, focused and straight. This next Kong tour will be a test of that, I don’t want any old fucking demons coming back when I’m out with these guys. So I’m just making sure I’m ready for it. Playing in front of 2 people or 2000 people, that’s not the problem, the problem is me.

Whether I’m going to be able to keep it together long enough, because with Kong there’s just one gear - it’s GO for half an hour. This thing has got 3 or 4 gears and it’s going to take a bit of getting used to. But I’d like to be playing shows by summer. Fuck, it’s summer today! Ain’t it beautiful!

TLD: We’d better get out there and enjoy it. Any last words?

JLM: I nearly died, but I didn’t.

TheLeedsDebacle_25

Real Ale Ramblings

/ED TEALE

To the West End... Post haste!

What image enters your head when you hear the words ‘West end’? That expensive part of London the residents of Albert Square go “up” to when feeling flush? I picture great pubs and great ale, because I am of course picturing the west end of Leeds city centre.

West of the City Centre Loop you can embark on a crawl of pubs offering better ale, a nicer atmosphere and less annoying people in fancy dress than the oversubscribed Otley Run. By starting at the most westerly pub on the crawl, you are starting at arguably one of the most unique

pubs Leeds has left to offer – The Highland. The tiny, front room feel to the Highland is all part of its charm. Lovingly restored last year following what was feared permanent closure in 2009, you can be assured of a quality pint of Tetley’s or Leeds Pale in the comfortable surroundings.

The Highland isn’t the easiest pub to find, which is why you’re better off starting your crawl here! From the Highland it’s then only a short stroll to the next stop, The Fox & Newt. Unique is also a suitable word to describe the Fox & Newt as there aren’t many brew 26_TheLeedsDebacle

pubs left in the Leeds area, but the Fox & Newt is one of them.

Choosing an ale from The Burley Street Brew house is an indicator you‘re drinking a pint brewed in the basement of the Fox & Newt.

A bitter, a blonde a pale and a mild are currently being brewed so you are sure to find a fresh pint to suit your taste.

Providing you don’t sample all of the Burley St Brew houses fine offerings, you will be able to walk back towards the city centre in the direction of the Town Hall Tavern.

Now, don’t be put off by its less than inviting appearance outside, because inside you will be in one of the few places permanently offering the fantastic Ram Tam, from Timothy Taylor. At 4.3% this smooth dark ale is stronger than a mild, but lends itself to the session drinker by not packing the same punch as, say Ghost Ale. Although Landlord is a fantastic ale from this famous brewery, break from your norm and go with Ram Tam.

At this point you will need to resist temptation for a second pint of Ram Tam and move on to the newest pub on this crawl, Veritas. Market Town Taverns first venture in to Leeds city centre is still several months off its first anniversary, yet it is already well established on the local ale scene. This is hardly surprising though when you consider Veritas comes from the people that have

given us the fantastic Arcadia in Headingley. With roughly eight rotating ales from around Yorkshire you will be spoilt for choice, but that isn’t Ve r i t a s ’ o n l y selling p o i n t .

The deli counter selling f r e s h , l o c a l produce is a great addition should you feel peckish while drinking your pint, or need to take something away. If eating is cheating and you just want a good quality pint, I can highly recommend the recently stocked offering from the Kelham Island Brewery that was linked to a recent wedding that might have taken place.

So, we venture on to the final pub of this crawl and arguably the finest pub Leeds has to offer – The Victoria and Family Commercial Hotel (to give it it’s full title). This really is a pub that speaks for its self. Whether it’s the buildings fantastic Victorian features, the never ending selection of ales to choose from or the live jazz evenings that float your boat, this pub is a gem that any city would be lucky to have. If you’ve never been to it then pay a visit, if you’ve been before, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about.

A BADLY PHOTOSHOPPED GUIDE TO MAKING ELDERFLOWER CHAMPAGNE The time of year is nearly upon us! Time to make a free(ish), fizzy, floral treat! Wowch.

Elderflower Champagne is famous for being from the Champagne region of you kitchen and hence why the French can’t claim the name for their own sub-standard, carbonated plonk.

The final thing to note is this stuff can be volatile, some might say explosive is not kept refrigerated once bottled. So it’s a good gift for someone you don’t particularly like, such as your boss.

You will need the following to make 6 litre: -4 Litre of hot water -2 Litre of cold water -A recepticle that will hold 6 litre (a big *clean* bucket) -700g sugar -4 Lemons - Juice and zest -2 tablespoons of white wine vinegar -15 Elderflower heads (in full bloom and cleaned of bugs. The less stems that go in the better) -Suitable bottles (I used glass swing top bottled from IKEA - one exploded!)

-Clean muslin to strain

2. Disolve sugar in hot water and add the cold. Add the zest,juice and heads and stir.

Ron is optional and often unhelpful.

1. Pick Elderflower heads in full bloom, preferably in the morning, like Brian here...

3. Cover with clean material such as muslin or a tea towel and leave for a few days. After 2 days if it’s not beginning to bubble you might need to add a pinch of champagne yeast. Cover and leave for another 4 days.

5. Like Liz here, Elderflower Champagne is best enjoyed in a yellow hat. The drink is also nice served cold.

4. Strain through a muslin lined funnel into the bottles. Leave sealed in bottles for at least a week, the pressure might need relieving every other day.

TheLeedsDebacle_27

Marco Pierre White’s Steak & Alehouse

C

ooking on telly is a strange concept. The viewer must use food’s least valuable senses of sight and sound to decipher how it smells, feels and tastes. Which leaves us braindead enough to accept Greg’s ‘exceptionals’, Jamie’s ‘puckers’ and Nigella’s ‘scrumptiouses’ as gospel. In Gordon, Delia, Ainsley and Heston we trust! Occasionally, I remember that these unusually jobbed, highly-strung celebrities once had a title with only one word. Chef. Unless you’d rather call them dinner ladies, like I do. So, realising I am allowed to pay not insubstantial amounts of money to use my other senses to decide if the aforementioned are as wondrous as they like to self-proclaim, I booked a table at Marco Pierre White’s Steak and Alehouse in London.

Marco Pierre White is a man of

many contradictions. At once charming and rude, patient and petulant, elitist and grounded.

Having worked tirelessly to gain three Michelin stars, upon reaching his ambition White felt unfulfilled, suddenly returning them and packing it in. Since emerging from self-imposed retirement to take over from Gordon Ramsay in Hell’s Kitchen, White exuded such an air of quality that his use of the likes of Lea & Perrins in high-end cooking was looked upon as genius rather than idiotic. Many fell under the spell of White’s piercing eyes and conflicting mystery as he became the nation’s new favourite celebrity chef!

Marco is a man proud to proclaim he is born and bred in Leeds. Though hardly banging on about it like Moyles or babbling like Boycott, White seemed undoubtedly a Yorkshireman at heart who, despite his many travels, triumphs and travails, still liked the simple things in life done well. Steak and ale. Perfect.

I expect.

This is an alehouse where nobody drinks ale. I hear that this is because it is £6 a pint.

I didn’t bother to ask because it had been made immediately apparent by the surly staff that any suggestion that you might not want to throw money at them for saying hello would lead to an evening of disdain.

The menu didn’t bother to tell us, presumably because they are aware that it is unacceptable and nobody would order such a thing without being tricked into it.

Marco regretted taking fancy dress tips from Prince Harry 28_TheLeedsDebacle

We order their worst bottle of wine and try to ease into the atmosphere. To the right, a roaring

open fire, providing warmth and comfort. Or, at least, two plasma screens pretending to be roaring open fires, providing distaste and tack. That and the clocks telling us the time in London, Tokyo, Paris... you know... complete a sterile and pathetically unimaginative room. I believe the word is soulless. This is not an alehouse.

Still, sod the surroundings if the food makes our hearts sing and stomachs bulge! Picturing plentiful portions of perfect platter, I am presented with pate on toast on a par with Tesco Finest and onion soup on a par with Cafe Rouge.

We clear our plates without the slightest enjoyment. Next up, the supposed star of the show. The steak surely cannot fail as badly as the ale... well, no, it didn’t quite, but not without trying.

Without wanting to sound like the tight northerner, the moneygrabbers were at it again! I am aware that posher steakhouses than Garfunkels, if there is such a thing, do not always include the chips or salad or peas or pop tarts or whatever it is people eat with meat these days, but are ten tasteless chips really worth the price of an ale? Well, maybe, but you know what I mean.

One mediocre slab of beef and one worse steak tartare (ordered as the only thing on the menu including sides) later and it is less of a mystery why Mr White has been bigging up Bernard Matthews. We sit back to at least relax with the rest of our wine before getting the hell out of there. Except there is no wine left to enjoy or endure because the bloody waiters wouldn’t stop refilling our glasses. That might be a sign of good service in some places. It wasn’t.

So, next time Hugh, Clarissa, Michel or Marco - especially bloody Marco - tell you that the cheese sandwich they’ve just made is like ejaulating in heaven, you may as well lick the telly to try to extract the flavour. After all, it’ll more likely be closer to the reality of its taste.

Exhibit E Two Souls

dogpound_withbleed.pdf

Photography Exhibition Hosted by What is Art at Milo Bar, Call Lane, Leeds Opening: Closing: Sunday May 8th 18.00-21.00 Saturday June 5th The stunning architecture and statuary of the many religious sites in Hong Kong serve as a constant and sincere reminder of the deep faith of those who live in the region. From the imposing architecture and grandeur of the Chi Lin Nunnery and Wong Tai Sin, to the humble street temples of Lantau island, this collection represents the full gamut of religious sites in Hong Kong.

26/8/10

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Huw Andrews

/REBECCA ELLIOTT

videoandtheartist.blogspot.com

RE: I recently saw your video You’ve Been Framed (2010) from the series Please Don’t Make Me… (2010), on Slice arts show reel, Parkinson Steps, Leeds University Light Night 2010.

When I saw the video, I was with a few friends that had an obligation to stay with me, as I was there to document me and a friend’s works which were also on the show reel. What really drew me to your film was the reaction it seemed to provoke in my friends, it drew them out of their lull of disinterest and seemed to connect with them on a level that the other films didn’t. What led you to using the Stig in such a way?

HA: I wanted to put the Stig through multiple challenges, sharing and ridiculing my selfimposed ban on the TV show Top Gear. I started the ban because it and its presenters seemed to be everywhere, like a plague or something. In response, I left a post-it note on the flat shared TV which said, “Please don’t make me watch Top Gear anymore”. I also instinctively drew a hangman’s noose next to the words. I think I

30_TheLeedsDebacle

was trying to offset pettiness with oddity. Unintentionally, the note provided enough entertainment to rival Top Gear and months later received a public outing at 2 Beechwood Avenue’s Salon show.

I was invited by the Umbrella One-Offs curators (http://www. umbrellaoneoffs.co.uk) to use Umbrella for their first One-Off. I wanted to produce a series of works based on the note. It would be a challenge in itself, as I had five days to make and install everything from scratch ( h t t p : / / w w w. h u w a n d r e w s . com/pleasedontmakeme.html).

Months earlier, I received a Stig stress toy as a gift. I wanted to see what would happen when driving over him, putting him through a washing cycle and mixing him with standard YouTube clips.

RE: You seem to have an interesting relationship with television, how would you say that this impacts your practice?

HA: It does impact, but only when I refer directly to television. Not all my works do so, as I don’t consistently

follow a single theme or medium.

In this instance, references to television were inescapable, due to the notoriety of Top Gear.

Regardless of project, I loosely aim to celebrate the undervalued and trivialise the valued, aiming to balance their places in society. I find talent, reality and magazine programming extremely concerning, as they frequently encourage us to worship manufactured individuals and shiny objects. Once completing the videos, I realised they may reflect television’s attitude towards British masculinity. If I don’t empathise with Top Gear’s lauding of gadgets, flowery shirts and ‘witty’ xenophobia, does that make me less of a British male? Fortunately, there are some truly innovative, thoughtful and genuine comedy, documentary and natural history programmes broadcasted, so I definitely don’t see it as a wholly negative medium - just one to approach with care.

RE: What drew you to start experimenting with video as an output?

HA:

Complete

chance,

although I’m sure it would have happened anyway. I started experimenting with appropriated footage, specifically a consumer programme I was interviewed for at home in Wales. Virgin Atlantic had lost my bag for 28 days and turning to The Ferret was the only way to force the appropriate compensation.

I hated the sound of my own voice and my inexplicable use of the word ‘and’ five or six times in one sentence.

To maintain a resemblance of sanity whilst editing, to mock my television appearance and to highlight the fragmentation of time, I chopped up the footage and reorganised it into lists. It opened with each breath in chronological order and continued with a few other collections. As my editing improved I started recording my own video, I find it more fulfilling.

RE: I know that currently you are using a number of different mediums within your work, with one of them being video. It would be interesting to try and understand how video seems to coincide with the other mediums, and how it currently has an impact on your overall

practice?

HA: Video art seems to have a higher tendency to become easily inaccessible and self-indulgent than non time-based media. When recording video, I try to shoot in the interest of the subject and edit in the interest of the footage; hoping to guide rather than force an outcome. Video commands the viewer - there is a start, end and it’s experienced face on. It is dictatorial. With sculpture, the viewer generally chooses the duration and positions they use to experience it. I feel video should at least value and engage the viewer’s thoughts, as it’s more demanding; requiring a fixed period of time, concentration and plenty of surrounding space.

As with television, I hope to treat video with care. I try not to look for coincidences with other mediums, just for mediums to complement each other where possible, which is why I generally resolve a project with a series of works. So far, I have avoided video installation. If a video is strong enough, then it should be able to stand alone.

RE: A number of your videos are

very funny, do you see there to be a role for humour in art/video art?

HA: There is definitely a role for humour in an artwork, as long as it’s a genuine rather than a forced outcome. Drawing an emotional response from the viewer is the sign of a relationship forming, a communication exchange. I find a good piece of work lingers well after you’ve left it. I find some reductive or predictable work too cold to find a connection with.

Humour, if present, is purely a byproduct, as I set out to explore a thought or moment I have actually experienced or witnessed.

Something lived is more genuine and therefore more emotive in content than something purely researched. I’m glad that humour can appear within art, although it’s not essential, emotion is.

Since finishing Please Don’t Make Me… (2010) I was concerned that the use of the Stig could be gratuitous, attention seeking and an easy laugh, so that particular show is also banned from my future work. I have to go, as my brother has just flicked onto Dave and guess which programme is on?

A clear sign for me to finish typing.

TheLeedsDebacle_31

TV IS DEAD

/ADAM LEE JONES

S

o there I was sat looking at the TV guide after a much deserved ham, lettuce and salad cream sandwich when it hit me – TV is dead!

Television is another format to which we are fed information that we then absorb through our retinas and into our brain. This black box that lives with us in our living rooms can quite easily be classed as a family member - it is there for all occasions - New Year’s Eve, Christmas, Birthdays and the moment that you are told that you have been lied to for the past 21 years and are in fact adopted.

I bring up this subject of discussion because with another year comes another onslaught of repetitive dross that continues to invade our lives and become the main talking point at the office water cooler. On the telly box there is no lack of programmes that attempt to quest for what some nobhead distinguishes as talent, and reality TV shows which aren’t reality TV shows because they’re scripted.

‘Britain’s Got Talent’ is here again, but with the absence of karaoke tycoon Simon Cowell. In essence three ‘judges’ – whom I 32_TheLeedsDebacle

presume must be so overloaded with talent that their bodily fluids are administered to Katie Price in abundance – search for the next big thing and a suitable act to subject to the Queen at the Royal Variety Performance.

Members of the public (who I presume are mentally deranged) are herded onto a stage one at a time in order to showcase their talent to a leering, ignorant and judgmental studio audience, only to be laughed at if they fail, or sympathised with if they have a sob story or/and are ‘ugly’.

Ever since these ‘talent’ shows have been resurrected from the graveyard of 1980’s cheese, I have come to the conclusion and stark realisation that the future is full of all-singing and all-dancing cretins. Performing monkeys is old now, it’s time to evolve.

the plot or turn to drink and drugs.

You can be whatever you want to be; you just have to put your mind to it.

In my opinion talent can be anything that you are good at, and even if you can’t sing and dance it’s not the end of the world as you would perhaps think if you tuned in to this rubbish. Fame isn’t something that you are handed on a plate, nor is it something that you should strive for no matter what the cost. People who become famous overnight will most likely have a nervous breakdown, lose

Real life doesn’t consist of popping champagne corks, getting pampered in swanky nail bars, driving expensive cars, submerging your skin in fake tan, and upsizing your boobs. Perfection isn’t what magazines or television tells you it is, everybody is beautiful in their own unique way and this should be embraced not changed. So what if you don’t conform to what the media tells you is beautiful, you are perfect regardless.

‘The Only Way Is Essex’ is another programme that has me thinking Alan Partridge’s idea of monkey tennis wasn’t so crazy after all and that it would be far more intellectually challenging than this shite. I swear that some of my brain cells were brutally butchered whilst flicking through channels and skimming past this preposterous programme, how anybody can consider this entertainment is beyond my comprehension. I am seriously starting to genuinely consider disowning people that I thought were my friends; nobody, and I mean nobody, with a brain could possibly watch this vile tripe.

THE DATING GAME

T

he cherry on the crapcake of TV programming has to be “Take Me Out” with the baldy bouncer from Phoenix Nights. This indication of how we have slipped as a society should not be ignored! First of all, there’s Paddy himself, a man who would not be out of place, and indeed would be the coolest, funniest guy, in Oceana. Have you heard the shit this bloke comes out with?

And to rapturous applause from the overweight, undereducated rabble of an audience. So, what’s it about? Well, a particularly pathetic man descends down an oversized hamster tube into somewhere within the 8th circle of hell. Where has he come from?

What’s at the other end? Is the tube just sucking up twats from around the UK like some massive dickhead hoover? If only. How I would love the idea of moving the chute to the middle of the North Sea. I fear the reality of the situation is far more disturbing, they’re actually putting themselves forward for this - oh, the humanity! He strides to the back of the studio (or dances) in either jeans and a shirt (George at Asda) or an illfitting suit (purchased for court appearances), turns round and strikes a pose. His job is to impress and then choose one of about 40 hags, all as charmless and desperate as the jabroni up for grabs. At this stage the females decide whether they would like to go on a date with him or opt out, Pad then asks a select few the reasons why they are interested or not. The answers require subtitles.

I have no idea what they’re plying these women with beforehand but judging by their answers it may have started life as floor cleaner.

Perhaps one of the requirements for applicants is a full frontal lobotomy, “.....well ‘e’s a bit full of ‘imself inni, I mean yer

/TOM PEARSON

know...what’s all this eh”, she flails around showing off her bingo wings. The next is completely indecipherable, god knows where she’s from but she sounds like a cup of hot water thrown into a deep fat fryer, cackling something about “not her type”. Because he doesn’t have two heads? Is

will be average enough for them.

“Hi I’m fucking Greg, I have a car and a job (great start), I’ve been to see James Blunt 12 times this year already! (really great start).”

Greg, or whatever he’s called, is on a roll, but if round two (his mum/sister/boyfriend telling everyone he’s a wimp/bully/bore)

god knows where she’s from but she sounds like a cup of hot water thrown into a deep fat fryer his forehead not quite as sloping as she would like? Should Paddy carry round a protractor testing for homosapiens? “Oooh this one’s borderline!” One of the girls with their ‘light still on’ is questioned.

“I loved the way ‘e just come out, like you know, with a bit o’ this (she shakes her hips) I think ‘e could be a bit of a wild one, and I’m a bit of a wild one too!!” The audience go fucking crazy, she’s a character it would seem. He then gets to show a tape of himself, a kind of promo, showing the girls how average he is, hopefully he

doesn’t get him, round three (displaying his delusion of having a talent, such as playing air-guitar whilst showing no shame) sure as hell will. Greg then selects one of the bozos not turned off by a man who defines talent as sitting in a bath. As our Pad spouts one more nonsensical rhyme and the word Fernando’s rises above the wit of Wilde, it is time to turn my TV light off this excrutiatingly moronic meat-market. No lighty, no fucking likey.

Paddy recommends potassium

THE SEASON SO FAR LEEDS UTD V BARNSLEY You may recall that I left you on tenterhooks at the end of the last issue, disappearing a day before this match, this revenge of the Oakwell debacle. I hope you have succeeded in your Likely Lads pursuit of avoiding the result to enhance the pleasure of reading the outcome right here, right now. Expecting more than the limp draw we achieved in 2007’s Barnsley revenge... we limp to a draw. The worst 3-3 I’ve ever seen.

SWANSEA V LEEDS UTD Tuesday nights and TV. The villains of the season. Swansea look really good and dominate so much that it’s hard to complain about two clearly wrong refereeing decisions that could’ve changed a game we weren’t embarrassed in.

LEEDS UTD V IPSWICH So I’m deciding which matches to go to to break my duck, end this winless curse, and I decide on Donny. Then work changes my hours and I must divert to Ipswich.

Inevitably, we beat Donny 5-2 sans moi. Inexplicably, I squeeze into my restricted view seat between two very fat men, full of optimism. Nothing happens in a first half that sees the most inept referee manage to get booed off despite not having a decision to make. Nothing much happens in the second half either and we all regret asking for less stupid scorelines.

34_TheLeedsDebacle

SHEFF UTD V LEEDS UTD Absolutely hammered by the worst team in the league, our only consolation is that Sheff are the worst team in the league.

LEEDS UTD FOREST

V

NOTTINGHAM

A six pointer on telly, it could only go one way. It is, indeed, increasingly going their way until Jackie Coen Chan chops Georgie boy and we have a man advantage which we handsomely exploit.

Alas, I cannot claim the victory as my own, as I am merely watching with Guinness in O’Neills.

DERBY COUNTY V LEEDS UTD Robbie Savage is a tosser.

LEEDS UTD V WATFORD As Mr Ian Brown once profoundly sang, This Is The One! I’ve been waiting all season to see us bloody well win and this is the last live disappointment I can take. I know we are going to do it! Becchio does it! Then Becchio bollocks it, then Becchio gets injured, then the defence depart as usual, then we don’t win as usual. At least Barry Beckham Bannan buys a point.

LEEDS UTD V READING Instead of Elland Road, Yates’s Wine Lodge. A £4.95 bottle of mainstream wine nonsense and a beer garden turn this ghastly bar into the perfect spot for some sunny evening bank holiday celebrating. Leeds, of course, don’t allow for the latter by missing a handful of chances in a decent display against a team who don’t look like they’ve just won 46 matches in a row or whatever it is.

LEEDS UTD V BURNLEY And finally, the inevitable disappointing end. A smashing performance should see us score a hatful but one’ll do until Forest score five to ruin any chance of promotion. Probably for the best.

See you next season...

Something to do every day...

MAY

1st - Live at Leeds (Brudenell) 2nd - Diana Cross (College of Art & Design) 3rd - Upside Down: The Creation Records Story (Hyde Park Pic. House) 4th - Al Murray (Carriageworks) 5th - Samantha Smith (Mojo) 6th - Moscow State Circus (Woodhouse Moor) 7th - Dirty Feet (TJ’s) 8th - Leeds Half Marathon (Millennium Square) 9th - Fucked Up (Well) 10th - Creative Writing Course (Adelphi) 11th - West Side Story Guided City Walk (Leeds Railway Station) 12th - Black Dice (Brudenell) 13th - Whisky Tasting (Mint) 14th - Yellowman (Wardrobe) 15th - Sporting Heroes (Leeds City Museum) 16th - Rob Rouse (HiFi) 17th - Thornbridge Beer Supper (Cross Keys) 18th - Ellen & The Escapades (Oporto) 19th - Pete Doherty (Academy) 20th - Toro Y Moi (Musiquarium) 21st - Vintage Fair (St Gemmas Hospice) 22nd - One Man Star Wars Trilogy (WYP) 23rd - Braids (Cockpit) 24th - Fictions Of Every Kind (Library) 25th - Wine Tasting (Salvo’s) 26th - Giselle (Grand) 27th - Jimmy Carr (Leeds Town Hall) 28th - Hercules & Love Affair (Fav) 29th - Tinchy Stryder (Academy) 30th - End Of Year Show (College of Art & Design) 31st - The Kills (Met)

JUNE

1st - Wicked Words (Seven) 2nd - John Cleese (Grand) 3rd - Rod Stewart (Elland Road) 4th - Judy’s Affordable Vintage Fair (Corn Exchange) 5th - Exhibit E (Milo) 6th - Battles (Cockpit) 7th - Henry Moore (Leeds Art Gallery) 8th - Yo La Tengo (Cockpit) 9th - Stacy Makishi (Seven) 10th - England v Exiles (Headingley) 11th - Gomez (Met) 12th - Leeds Rhinos v Hull KR (Headingley) 13th - Trash Talk (Well) 14th - The Sound Of Music (Grand) 15th - Finding Adam (Harewood House) 16th - Brendan Fletcher (Mint) 17th - Steve Tilston (Grove) 18th - Nick Harper (Headingley Stadium Supporters Club) 19th - Jane Tomlinson 10k (Leeds Town Hall) 20th - Matt Roberts Tribute to Miles Davis (Sela) 21st - Foy Vance (Brudenell) 22nd - Yorkshire CCC v Derbyshire CCC (Headingley) 23rd - Jean-Marc Bustamante (Henry Moore Institute) 24th - John Grant (Holy Trinity) 25th - Ghostfest (Uni) 26th - Dylan Moran (Grand) 27th - The Wiz (WYP) 28th - Footloose (Grand) 29th - The Girlfriend Experience (Carriageworks) 30th - SAA-UK - Ek Awaaz... One Voice (Seven)

TheLeedsDebacle_33

The journey of my life has been fantastic. I have never experienced anything like it before, and I never will again.

The peaks and troughs of elation and desperation have made me who I am, and there is no-one else who will ever share my experiences and conclusions. Equally, I acknowledge that I will never understand yours.

I remain driven by the moments of clarity I have found, and I deplore those who indignently deny what their soul confronts them with - simply to retain a balance and to refuse to look - or to accept.

The connection I find with others may differ from yours, but still I can pretend, just like you.

There is no ‘should’, and I want nothing from you. Only for you to understand for a moment how naive, entranced and controlled by inevitable implosion we all are. Even those struggling for a basic survival.

I found my soul and gained an understanding.

This human race has had its day, and prosperity has died.

There will be no trips to Mars, or inhabitance of the Moon. The energy for such fantasies has long been binged upon.

Just a slow demise of the human race and the exposure of innate greed and singularity will follow.

A departure is not a sad affair, simply a gesture of truth and awareness. I hope you do understand. /DAVID MARSHALL

THANK YOU FOR READING THE DEBACLE TO CONTRIBUTE TO ISSUE 4 PLEASE CONTACT THEDEBACLE@HOTMAIL.CO.UK