Vhcle Issue 7 by Vhcle Magazine

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INSIDE ISSUE 07 No One Remembers The Boring Days: Pop Culture’s Version Of High School / It Can’t And It Didn’t 9-11 / Our United State Of Exit / Post And Beam, Ignored / Vhcle Man / Vhcle Fotografía: Sissi FW 2011, Joanne O’Neill, Raoul Ortega and Nicholas Wray www.vhcle.com

ISSUE 07 SEPT 2011 VHCLE MAGAZINE

“ The f-word is an opportunity to throw away the uniform, drink in a field and do as you please to an exclusive live soundtrack. ”

OUR UNITED STATE OF EXIT writer

ANDREW DONAGHY

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VHCLE Fotografía A / SiSSi FW 2011, p46 B / JOANNE O’NEILL, p62 C / RAOUL ORTEGA, p74 D / NICHOLAS WRAY, p84

CONTENTS Vhcle Magazine Issue 07

music

vhcle

life/politics film

ISSUE 07 SEPT 2011 VHCLE MAGAZINE

reviews photography

040-043 VHCLE MAN Recommendations by Tony Bader

fashion art

044-095 VHCLE Fotografía Sisii FW 2011, p46 Q&A Joanne O’Neill, p62 --

INSIDE ISSUE 07 No One Remembers The Boring Days: Pop Culture’s Version Of High School / It Can’t And It Didn’t 9-11 / Our United State Of Exit / Post And Beam, Ignored / Vhcle Man / Vhcle Fotografía: Sissi Fw 2011, Joanne O’neill, Raoul Ortega, & Nicholas Wray www.vhcle.com

006 CONTENTS 007 MASTHEAD 008 - 009 Contributors --

010-011 No One Remembers the Boring Days: Pop Culture’s Version of High School By Mark Ingber 012-017 It Can’t and it Didn’t 9-11 By Tim Sunderman 018-031 Our United State of Exit By Andrew Donaghy 032-039 Post and Beam, Ingnored By Carlos Eliason

Raoul Ortega, p74 Nicholas Wray, p84

Vhcle Magazine Issue 07

Charlie Lee / Founding Director Editorial Cassie Lee / Founding Editor Jamie Thunder / Sub-Editor Marketing / Vhcle Reports Jonathan Young Designers Raoul Ortega Bruce Mai Contributors Andrew Donaghy / Writer Carlos Eliason / Writer Joanne Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Neill / Illustrator Marc Ingber / Writer Nicholas Wray / Photographer

Vhcle Magazine P.O. Box 2907 Sacramento, CA 95812 Tel: USA +1 415.364.8568 contact@vhcle.com www.vhcle.com Facebook: Vhcle Mag Twitter: @vhcle -Published by Charlie Lee: Vhcle Magazine, www.vhcle.com All content copyright 2011. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior written permission from both the copyright owner and the publisher of this magazine. Vhcle Magazine is not responsible for the return or loss of, or for any damage or injury to, any unsolicited manuscripts or artwork.

Raoul Ortega / Photographer / Designer Sisii AW 2100 / Designer Tim Sunderman / Writer Tony Bader / Vhcle Man

VHCLE ISSUE 07

CONTRIBUTORS

alphabetically by last name

Vhcle — DURHAm, UNITED KINGDOM

ANDREW DONAGHY / WRITER Andrew is the Editor of Under The Influence magazine and works as a freelance features writer between issues. He graduated from Newcastle University in 2008 with a Masters in Journalism and has since experienced the joys of working for ITV and BSkyB in London. Now back in his hometown of Durham, he is bearing the fruits of taking stock and working hard. Andrew was inspired to write after discovering the New and Gonzo Journalism of the 1960s when he was sixteen way back when.

Vhcle — SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

CARLOS ELIASON / WRITER Carlos Eliason produces photography, video, graphic design and music in the Sacramento area. He has a passion for things energetic, filled with vibrancy and dripping in color.

Vhcle — Minneapolis, Minnesota

MARC INGBER / WRITER Marc Ingber is a journalist with Sun Newspapers, based in Minneapolis, MN. He was born and raised in the Twin Cities and attended journalism school at the University of Kansas. His primary interests include rock n’ roll, movies, food and drink, the Minnesota Vikings and the Minnesota Twins – probably in that order.

Vhcle — KOBE, JAPAN

TAKASHI KOIKE / DESIGNER & DIRECTOR Sisii is “dead body and limbs” and “reformation.” Leather is a primitive material. This sustainable, ancient material reforms as our second skin. In the observation of the reality of society and the economy, our changing emotion will be realized. It is not a fad that will fade away, but a universal and immortal style that lives forever. www.sisii.com

Vhcle — manhattan, New york

JOANNE O’NEILL / ILLUSTRATOR A designer living in New York City. Originally from the UK, she is currently a Communication Design student at Parsons The New School for Design and has previously interned within the department of Creative Services at MTV Networks. She enjoys hand lettering, wood type, iced tea, tattoos, winter months and Morrissey. www.joannemoneill.com

Vhcle — SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

RAOUL ORTEGA / PHOTOGRAPHER Raoul Ortega is a Sacramento based visual composer comprising of skills in the disciplines of graphic design and photography. Inspired by the sounds, textures and colors of everyday simple occurrences and most of all the quality moments he shares with his son, Raoul lives each day to the fullest. He is a storyteller when it comes to his work and expresses nostalgia in the compositions he creates. His ambitions for the future of our visual culture have him working hard to do his part in shaping it. www.jetstreamprojector.com

Vhcle — San francisco, caLIFORNIA

TIM SUNDERMAN / WRITER A graphic designer in the San Francisco Bay Area whose first love is drawing and painting, tries to avoid computers until there is no other recourse, and because there is no other recourse, yearns for the open spaces.Tim is a graduate from the Academy of Art in San Francisco, and majored in Philosophy at the University of Pittsburgh. He is a college art and design instructor and freelance artist. www.timsunderman.com

Vhcle — SACRAMENTO, caLIFORNIA

NICHOLAS WRAY / PHOTOGRAPHER Nicholas Wray is an urban photographer originally from Cincinatti, OH, now based in Sacramento, CA. He enjoys outdoor activities, cigars, people and good beer. www.nicholaswray.com

No one remembers the boring days: Pop culture’s version of high school writer

MARC INGBER -September 2011 Vhcle Magazine Issue 7, pp10-11

HIGH SCHOOL MOVIES tend to present the proverbial “wonder years” of a person’s life as one of two extremes – the best years of your life or the worst years of your life. Anything in between doesn’t exist. They are the days when you can play hooky, joyride in your best friend’s dad’s convertible through the streets of Chicago and become the main attraction at a downtown parade. The days when you can throw trash cans at mailboxes, smoke bud on the 50-yard line of your high school football stadium and subject helpless freshmen to wooden paddlings, all while a constant loop of Foghat and Kiss songs play in the background. Or they are the days when your whole family forgets your 16th birthday because it’s your older sister’s wedding and the only ones who pay attention to you are the geeks you don’t like. The days people shove you into lockers because you wear moon boots to school and draw pictures of “ligers” in your notebook.

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High school movies vary, but they almost always deal in extremes. Rarely does one suggest the high school experience can merely be just ok. And since the people who make them are much older than 17, there tends to be an element of nostalgia injected into all of them, as though these years will have a lasting effect on your life. They all seem to imply that what you experience between the ages of 15 and 18 will somehow be important when you are 37. Either you will look back at this time as the “glory days” and never find true happiness as an adult because you will forever be stuck looking back upon times of fewer responsibilities, carefree parties and a future that had yet to be written. Or you will be so emotionally scarred by the constant bullying and rejection of high school that you will make it your life’s mission to “get back” at your classmates by becoming an amazingly attractive raging success story that they will look on with jealousy. There are a couple reasons high school movies traffic in these areas. For one, watching kids’ wacky hijinks at parties tends to be more interesting than a movie about a sophomore who goes to school, does his homework and falls asleep watching TV. Another is that adults tend to look back on their own high school experiences through an unreliable prism, where only the extremes stand out. If you enjoyed those years, your memory glosses over all the bad (or more likely) boring recollections of adolescence. It’s much easier to remember the night you and your best friend snuck out of the house and drove your parents’ car to a house party where you hooked up with the hot girl from your math class than the other 364 nights of the year that didn’t happen. The same holds true for the opposite. The people who were miserable for most of their high school years probably gloss over some of the happy memories.

Personally, I enjoyed high school. Nobody would have mistaken me as “cool,” but I had plenty of friends and I went to a big school so it was difficult to tell who was “cool” anyway. I wasn’t exactly Ferris Bueller, but I wasn’t Napoleon Dynamite either. What’s funny is that I had this sneaking suspicion at the time that these would be the “best years of my life,” thanks to all the high school movies I watched as a kid. I was somehow nostalgic for my life in the present, just assuming everything that came later just wouldn’t measure up. Ten-plus years removed from that time period, I can safely say I rarely think about high school, good or bad. It was just three years out of my three decades thus far and I’m not sure I remember them any more than the three years that came before or after. Maybe I’m not particularly sentimental or just have a bad memory, but I don’t spend too much time getting nostalgic about any period I’ve lived through. I have plenty of good memories from several different eras if I dig enough – I just don’t often have a good reason. Good memories are nice to have, but I find they aren’t much help if you’re looking for happiness in the present. If you dwell too much on them, you will just feel sad, or old, or both. The reason good high school movies will always find an audience with adults is because they can remind us of a time when we weren’t quite as jaded – a time when we had most of the independence of an adult with very few of the responsibilities. That feeling conveyed on the screen is what draws us in, more than any specific memory. We all had it at one point or another. We just didn’t realize it until way after the fact. --

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It Can’t AnD It Didn’t 9-11 writer

TIM SUNDERMAN -September 2011 Vhcle Magazine Issue 7, pp12-17

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AN OBJECT IN MOTION will remain in motion until another force is applied to it. That is Newton’s First Law of Motion, or simply the ‘Law of Inertia’. It has been well understood for over 300 years, it is broadly recognized in common culture, and there has never been any observed exception to it. That is why it is given the distinction of being a natural law. And though the Law of Inertia can be understood metaphorically, I am, in this case, speaking literally about the physical world, about mass, velocity, and force. We have arrived at the tenth anniversary of the attacks of September 11, 2001. It is an emotional time that triggers both sorrow and anger. The personal losses that people have suffered and continue to suffer must never fade from our attention when the matter is considered. But neither should we be so incensed by our emotions that reason is left behind. And so, we are confronted with an irrefutable observation. The Twin Towers fell at nearly free-fall speed. The problem with that is that it contradicts the idea that the buildings experienced a compression or ‘pancake’ collapse where the upper floors crushed the lower floors. Free-fall speed definitively shows that airplanes were not the sole cause that brought down the Towers. I have very little patience for conspiracy theories, but I steadfastly hold on to the immutability of the laws of physics and gravity. The proof is this: the top of the building cannot fall as though the bottom of the building was not there. In other words, the Law of Inertia as it applies to the bottom floors collapsing is that their mass provides resistance to the mass above it, which will unerringly slow down the acceleration of gravity. An example would be a car driving sixty miles an hour hitting an unmoving car, the moving car will automatically slow down upon impact. The only way that it can maintain its speed is if another force is acting on the still car to move it out of the way when the moving car passes by. Another example would be a bowling ball dropped

through tiers of plywood or even cardboard. It is clearly understood that the bowling ball cannot hit the ground at the same speed that it would if the plywood wasn’t there. And yet that is exactly what we are asked to believe in the collapse of the Twin Towers. But it was not plywood and cardboard holding up that building, it was structural steel and concrete designed to support the massive load of the building above. The resistance it provided was considerable and would have been significantly measurable as the building fell to the ground. The blunt fact is that is not what happened. We are left with one alternative. The supporting structures of the Twin Towers were ostensibly being severed during the collapse as the only possibility to account for free fall speed. The only other alternative is to suggest a gravitational anomaly that somehow appeared at the site temporarily during the collapse and then went away, which is as insane as denying the constancy of the laws of physics. When internet blogs speculate about government or domestic terrorist conspiracies, I can chuckle. But when a group of over 1,500 architects and engineers sign a petition to reinvestigate the causes of the Twin Towers’ collapse because the official report is grossly inconsistent with the facts, then I become seriously concerned (see Architects and Engineers for 9-11 Truth: ae911truth.org). Here is a group of highly educated, skilled professionals whose livelihood and reputations can be seriously affected by publicly

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taking this stand. But they have the courage to take that risk because the truth of this matter is critical to the credibility of this nation.

Is the American public so abysmally uneducated that clear evidence of deceit escapes their attention? Partly, yes. But it would be more accurate to suggest that people believe what they want to believe, especially when it comes to matters of nationalism and religion. Reason holds little influence in this realm. We would like to think that our beliefs dictate our behaviors, but unfortunately, it is more common that our behaviors dictate our beliefs.

Stephen Barasch, AIA (American Institute of Architects), one of the architects of the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco, stated in regard to the official NIST version of the collapse: “The way it collapsed does not compute for an unplanned demolition.” Demolition expert Tom Sullivan, (who worked on imploding Three Rivers Stadium, the Seattle Kingdome, and the Philadelphia Naval Hospital) and his company CDI is widely recognized in his field as one of the best, flatly spoke: “What I saw was a classic implosion [controlled demolition].” Statements like these by leading experts carry a great deal of credibility and persuasion, but not as much as the incontrovertible laws of motion and direct observation of the videotaped event we have all witnessed a hundred times. In other words, the response to the conjecture that there was a compression collapse that achieved free fall speed is: “It can’t and it didn’t.” If the principles of physics are to be believed, then we are obliged to ask who has benefited from this tragedy? To suggest oil companies is short-sighted. Geologists estimate that there was only 115 billion barrels of oil in Iraq at the start of the war, and yet we have spent 3.7 trillion dollars up to this point on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that resulted from the events of 9-11, according to a study by Brown University. Obviously, this exceeds the value of the oil. Government contracts to military suppliers make up the vast majority of that money. The likes of Black Water and Dick Cheney’s Haliburton corporation are two examples of the kinds of businesses that have amassed billions and billions of dollars on the backs of the American taxpayers under the false pretenses that manufactured support for the war.

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To put it another way, if we want to continue using twenty five percent of the world’s oil supply, and ‘they’ have it, then we believe that ‘they’ attacked us so that we are justified in taking the oil from them. We choose to look no further. In fact, even when it was finally acknowledged that Iraq had nothing to do with 9-11 and that the rumors of the weapons of mass destruction were shown to be pure and deliberate fabrication, we did not react with outrage at being deceived. We simply plodded onward asking only, “Hey, what was the score in the Yankees game?” falling prey to our own (to repeat the phrase) weapons of mass distraction. It was no different when Robert McNamara admitted that he had completely made up the story that the Vietnamese had attacked the United States war boats in the Bay of Tonkin, which was the rationale that we used to go to war with Vietnam. It was barely a footnote on the evening news. But it is not a footnote to the Vietnamese, who lost over three million people, and who were regarded as nothing more than collateral damage in the path of profits for American weapons manufacturers. The major media corporations are in lockstep with profit motive and the messages that maximize market share, without being held accountable to what they know to be true. Fox News is the obvious example of

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this, but even though MSNBC puts itself up to being the alternative to Fox, we must not forget that NBC is owned by General Electric and General Electric makes most of its money through government contracts. They will not say anything to put those contracts at risk. In fact most news organizations, MSNBC included, are far worse than dismissive to any efforts to look into the events of September 11th, they use their full force to marginalize anyone who questions the dubious conclusion that planes brought down the Towers. One must be clear here. Popular opinion does not constitute evidence. Physical objects, chemical analysis of dust, and multiple video angles of an event constitute evidence. Simply likening people who encourage further investigation into 9-11 to people who deny the moon landing, Obama’s birth documents, and people who deny the holocaust is nothing more than pathetic name calling and an impotent diversion away from facts. But some poll numbers suggest that interest in a new 9-11 investigation is not marginal at all. In an independent Siena Research Institute poll, 48 percent of New Yorkers support this effort, and a Zogby poll found that 45 percent of all Americans want to have the investigation reopened. These are genuine patriots, those who are willing to shine a critical light on our shortcomings in an effort to steer us back to a course of credibility and accountability. Yet the term ‘patriot’ has been co-opted by those who equate patriotism with blind unquestioning obedience. There is a certain proportion of the population who will fall for anything if you wrap a flag around it and loosely throw around terms like God, honor, and family. Some have been fed their flag-wrapped excrement for so long that they actually acquire a taste for it and

will willingly vote against their own interest and the common good because they will not see what lies behind the symbols used against them. The disheartening outcome of uncovering the truth of the September 11th tragedy for the mainstream is that it will likely not elicit any more of a response than “Did you see the Cowboys game?” But this apathy, arrogance, and hubris does not escape the attention of the rest of the world. We cannot always count on being the world empire, or the largest economy, or the largest military. And even with these things, can we as a society, afford to set aside our own accountability within the world community? If we are to honestly wear the mantle of a just democracy, we must demand of ourselves a level of attention and cold analysis of plain facts to guide our actions. But what we see now is a voracious push to set aside even the most basic central laws of science and physics to swallow what we are being told. So, when the 9-11 rallies inevitably seek to incite anger and play up how we have been victimized, let us try to calmly hold to our sense of reason and not simply accept the first scapegoat we are presented with. The demeanor of truth is that it does not fear the light of attention or become angered by questions, and then resort to name calling. Those who do usually have an agenda to hide. --

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;The demeanor of truth is that it does not fear the light of attention or become angered by questions, and then resort to name calling. Those who do usually have an agenda to hide.â&#x20AC;?

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Oil Reserves In Iraq http://www.bloomberg.com/news/2010-10-04/iraq-lifts-oil-reserves-estimateovertakes-iran-update1-.html http://www.brookings.edu/papers/2003/0512globalenvironment_luft.aspx Stephen Barasch Architect Transamerica Pyramid http://www.ae911truth.org/en/news-section/41-articles/182-high-rise-architect-withtransamerica-building-design-experience-signs-ae911truth-petition.html Tom Sullivan Demolition Expert http://cms.ae911truth.org/news/41-articles/315-explosive-evidence-at-wtc-cited-byformer-cdi-employee.html

Zogby Poll All Americans http://www.infowars.com/articles/sept11/zogby_poll_over_70_mil_support_911_investigation.htm Siena Poll New Yorkers http://911truthnews.com/poll-48-of-new-yorkers-support-new-investigation-of-wtc-7/ Cost Of War http://www.bu.edu/today/node/13223 Percent Of Oil Used http://www.nrdc.org/air/energy/fensec.asp War Casualties Vietnam http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_War#Casualties

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OUR UNITED STATE OF EXIT writer

ANDREW DONAGHY -September 2011 Vhcle Magazine Issue 7, pp18-31

THE SUMMER MUSIC festival: an idyllic state of carefree abandon where time holds no rule and rules no reason. The f-word is an opportunity to throw away the uniform, drink in a field and do as you please to an exclusive live soundtrack. Watching musicians, artists and wired people twist and shout their way across a number of stages, genres and weird scenarios, you laugh and remember and think about remembering in years to come. That is/was a festival. Over the past five years I have witnessed the dilution of the BIG TIME festival, washed away by commercialism, sponsorship, price hikes and Topman androgyny. It’s not about the music anymore; it’s about having your photo taken for Facebook points.

It’s about that t-shirt with these jeans and those loafers. It’s about haircuts, and £150 sunglasses, and morons that don’t know why they’re there, only that it’s the right thing to do to fit in to whatever genericism they’ve been sold that month. I am not suggesting that my teen and early twenties was a rich vein of originality in an unimpressionable world. I was very aware of the cool thing to do back in the day, but at 16 to 18 (2002 – 2004) there was a different feel to the notion of the festival and why we wanted to go. For instance in 2003, my friends and I bought Leeds Weekend tickets five days before the event for £90. If I wanted a ticket now, stick £100 on top of that, as well as eight months forward-planning, saving and finger bashing to beat the online hoard.

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This considered rant is my flag in the sand after returning from Serbia’s Exit Festival. In the UK, the festival has been sold down the river to the hyper selfconscious ‘what do I look like, what do I look like now, what about now’ 18 – 30 Radio 1 listener.

When we are 10 strong we leave for the city of Novi Sad. The passport and wallet patting is now a fading distraction as the ex-KGB-looking hard man in the driver’s seat is wielding two phones like a pair of hand grenades. The ring tone is the sound of automatic gunfire and goes off every 3-4 minutes. My thoughts are firmly on the grave mistake we’ve made, the hole in the hot earth and that scene from Casino.

Not an evil thing of course, but it’s not what you want in a field off your face trying to embrace another place, an altered state. Here you want to experience the plain camaraderie of the unconcerned. The all-night ‘look around I love this place, them over there and them over there, here together for one thing, to get loose and forget the world back home’. Perhaps this is merely the result of four days without sleep, but at least it’s raw like the crowds I turned my head to see at 5am on a Sunday morning in Novi Sad’s Petrovaridin Fortress. But before I get to that euphoric state there is a journey to go on. I begin in arrivals at Belgrade airport with a bag too full and a rattling head of anxiety. It is Wednesday, 5 July 2011. The time is 6pm. Serbian men skulk through the over-encumbered swathes, catching travel weary eyes and slurring “taxi” under their breath to the weakest and most confused. The initial hint of heat is now slapping me across the face as I wait in a queue for currency. I repeat “no” several times to several lurching advances and shuffle towards the exit to breathe it all in. Outside there’s a sense of calm, patience and confusion. My arriving party and I are equally in the dark at this very bright point in the afternoon. Devoid of all knowledge and experience about what awaits us on our adventure into the Serbian hills, we stand and we wait.

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It’s only when we veer off to overtake on a blind corner that I genuinely start to see the end and grip the seat. Turns out the road through the national park quite subtly splits into a dual carriageway. I look to my friends and share silent relief. My ignorance of Serbia and its people is incredibly high at this more lucid stage. I shoot the same look as the majority of people back home gave me when uttering the word. That kind of twisted look of confusion alongside a sharp shriek whilst repeating Serbia back to me. A curious human reaction when people are caught off guard with an unexpected response to their question. Once out of the national park we shortly arrive in Novi Sad. The landscape is lush and green, but the town strikes me as grey and dusty as we drive quickly past a dilapidated stadium that has the headline ‘HYSTERIA AND TRAGEDY’ written all over it. Exiting the car and grabbing the bags, we’re soon stretched out in padded seats drinking ‘local beer’ Jelen in an evening heat you’d kill for back home. We relax and initiate various conversations about how this is much better than whatever it is we could be doing. A warm satisfaction takes hold and we all sink into the experience in a very rare, sober way.

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It is here we meet our Serbian friend Vukasin. Some of the guys have already taken to calling him our ‘Serbian fixer’. I like it but hope he never hears. He is 22, stocky and has short afro-style hair. He’s an all round cool guy. He and his friend Marko look like brothers but they’re not. Marko, it turns out, is the crazy one. His English teachers must have included such luminaries as John McLane and Snoop Dogg as his frequent use of “bitches” and “motherfucker” builds throughout the four days.

In the convoy to the villa, we stop off at the supermarket for essentials. The locals look in dismay but not disgust as we invade and load up with booze, spirits, water pistols, bats, beach balls, crisps, cheese, ham and litres upon litres of water. I never got the ‘not wanted here’ feeling in Serbia even in a situation like this, causing mayhem in the late night shopping aisles. 5000 Dinars (1000 = £10) gets me more bags than six people can carry 10 yards. We did well. It would last only one day.

Vukasin is quieter, more reserved, but not without an edge. He is now busy and concerned as we learn he was not expecting us until tomorrow. It soon doesn’t matter - he fixes it.

As we veer off onto a dirt track with potholes that can only be the scars of land mines, thoughts of sun and beers poolside turn to massacre and an international incident. They’d never hear the screams.

It’s now dark, I’m now drunk, we’re all drunk and high on breaking the ‘first three hours’ mark. It’s that stage when you know everything’s sorted and the real fun is still to come.

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Vukasin laughs as our nervousness fills his Renault. In his thick accent he says: “Don’t worry guys we’re not going to kill you.” Our choked

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sniggers can’t hide the fact that we’re wondering at what moment the armed men will appear from behind the trees. Thirty minutes later the car’s headlights see us turn left and through some open gates. We finally make it. I can see a pool and so far nobody is here to kill us. We spill out of the car in celebration. The next hour is spent drinking heavily, smoking and diving head first into the pool. Some minor injuries later and minus luggage, we get changed and head back into Novi Sad. The nightlife is hot and busy. The place has a Mediterranean vibe as we hit a narrow street filled with bars and restaurants and pick our spot. Everyone is outside and the dance music is loud. There’s an obvious foreign festival goer presence, but I get the feeling it’s always this way. Vukasin and Marko saunter around greeting every other hot local girl and we start to like them more by the hour. Chatting shit, we do

rounds of the Serbian Rakija until my mind melts in a good way. By 4am the unwanted flirting with the beautiful hostess has ended and so has our search for a club. We apologise to ‘the fixer’ for keeping him up and catch our lift back for a couple hours boozing and the wait for the sun. No sleep. Only when the days reach 44 degrees can you live like this. Like those dogs I saw in Naples last year - half dead in the shade, not sleeping, not eating, not doing much of anything. I am in total neutral mode during the hours of 7am and 7pm for the next four days. I nap, I drink, we call for a lift into Novi Sad and we eat. I eat the same meal from the same place three days in a row. It’s chicken, it’s ham, it’s chips and this strangely brilliant vegetable mix-up

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on the side. I like the waitress most of all though; she’s feisty and always says, “This is your bill... without my tip.” I don’t know if it’s just the difference in temperature at this point but I notice the gene pool is pretty special. My time spent by the villa is some of the best. The world is different, we’re completely isolated from the madness in the camp site and town. Here, time wears no wristwatch and the days can freely merge into one long, cool happening. Private pools and villas must be in life’s top ten things, nothing grand, just somewhere on its own with nearby cool bars, restaurants and people.

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Maybe if I try to record that wall of noise that crickets make in hotter climates and play it in the office I’d relax more? Who knows? Nature’s soundtrack to the summer holiday that your mind tunes out almost instantly until it breaks into the foreground when you look up and realise where you are. Thursday night is now upon us and so is the first night of the festival. Everyone is in that state of drunkenness that won’t pass if they choose for it not to. After more Rakija we stride up the hill, our group of seven guys and three girls; nine from London and one from somewhere up North.

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At the entrance to the ancient Petrovaradin fortress, a place where the Austrians ended the Turkish threat to central Europe in 1716, we exchange money for beer, energy, water and wine tokens. I imagine things were slightly different 300 years ago. We move into the festival like some strange collective of computer game characters having rolled our dice and selected our levels of energy and beer to take us through to sunrise. Out of breathe we reach the first stop - the reggae stage. The layout feels mazy straightaway, separated by pathways and tunnels rather than fields and tree lines. I’d liken my first traipse round to a stroll through a film set with more alcohol

and drugs. I come across an outdoor cinema, numerous tucked away genre based music stages, one silent disco (I never make it here, the closest I come is napping outside on Sunday night), one salsa area, one really shit indie stage, a zip wire, suspect hot dog stands, and everything else as standard until we hit the dance stage. Arcade Fire is the first band I see. I only get into ‘Wake Up’ and ‘Keep the Car Running’. My friend behind me is way past drunk and unimpressed, killing my buzz in the process. I think the midnight slot might not be the best for the band, but I am blown away quite literally when they fire up the bass so loud it shakes

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my face. I get the feeling people are yet to adjust to Dracula’s sleeping patterns, so by 2am and the beginning of Pulp, I know much more effort and trips to the bar are needed.

We move forward as one, all ten, safe in numbers and stumbling in unison. Tripping up several steel steps, I can see people peering through rips in the hoardings to the crowds below. I move forward with a purpose and look down to behold the scenes. I can’t quite figure out what to think at this point but turn my head and comment “...intense, it looks properly intense down there.”

When Jarvis Cocker takes to the stage, he quickly gyrates and thrusts his way into the hearts of the massed crowd. The guy just oozes charm. Stopping between each song to casually chat and awkwardly read Serbian phrases as if he were hosting his 6 Music Sunday slot. The performance confirms he is a rare breed of front man the likes Mick Jagger made infamous, in not only the way he moves and pulls his face, but the way he can entertain between songs. Nothing is forced, it’s like watching a malnourished show pony in a suit and thick framed glasses mince up and down a stage trying to attract an equally outlandish female. ‘Common People’, ‘Disco 2000’ and ‘Sorted for E’s and Wizz’ ignite a sea of smiles and screaming to happily establish the reason why everyone bought the ticket and took the ride. It’s not the performance that sticks out for me though, it’s one of the more contemplative moments when Jarvis for some reason discussing the concept of time, signs off with “...I mean, a plant doesn’t know it’s growing, it just grows”. I look around and see a few eyes widen and store the moment in a kind of philosophical wank bank. I’m done. When Pulp close their nine out of ten set, a stampede of bodies thrust their way in a direction I’ve yet to go down. I hear a thudding beat in the distance like some invading army thirsty for action. I realise where I’m going, I’ve seen the pictures... straight into the belly of the beats.

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I can only compare it to a purgatory for those who’ve chosen to fall but are being forced to wait. The red lighting and thunderous wall of noise soak the soul with an intimidating rush of now. Ambling down the steep death trap of a metal staircase, I take a pit stop in what are clearly day one festival toilets and head to the bar. The characters on the periphery of the crowd look different to the previous bunch. They are as predicted, more intense, more skinheads and vests than the previous lot intermingled between your ‘slightly wired at 3am and just getting started type’. I start mixing wine and energy when the beer offers no buzz whatsoever. Refreshed, if you can call it that, we push our way through sweaty bodies hand in hand until we get in front of the main stage. I turn around and notice we’re heading up a narrow passage filled with maniacs standing in one spot doing a kind of running puppet dance. There’s no tension as we slither and push our way up to some kind of viewing platform for the damned. The erected stands that arch around this section blow my mind. I now know how Russell Crowe felt after gutting that loose tiger in the Coliseum. Deadmau5 and his 3D face is high priest to his energy, beer and drug fuelled followers at this point.

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I watch everyone sway and press hands to the sky as if beckoning down the fourth horsemen and his final apocalypse for relief. If the Mau5 starts making human sacrifices and introducing snakes to the stage, I would not flinch and nor would the others. I am not that familiar with his work but appreciate ‘I Remember’ and ‘Brazil’ as they draw screams of elation from the gods behind me and pit in front. By the time we see our second sunrise our group of ten is now four and we make a move.

There should be a sign at the entrance that reads ‘welcome to skin city where the gene pool runs deep’. For a measly 50 dinars we’re on the strip and into the various waterside bars. The place is full of locals, always a good sign, in what could be their take on Baywatch by the river. At 42 degrees we find the nearest shade and coldest beer. The place is a hive of activity - young and old, fat and thin, fit and fitter all either lying down or strolling around completely oblivious of worry or stress.

Few words are spoken in the car home. Vukasin asks if everybody is okay and we make small talk about the dance stage and the three acts we’d seen. Seven hours later I would be up right absorbing a conversation that includes: “I was 10 when the bombings happened. It was fun for us in a way. We got days out of school. I mean, when something like that is happening what can you do?”

A young crowd with brightly coloured towels gather by the water’s edge to greet the Danube on its 1800 mile epic journey from the Black forest in Germany to the Black Sea. I walk in like some dazed pilgrim looking out to the other side where the Petrovaradin fortress cuts a proud silhouette. Framed by trees that won’t look better all year, the beautiful view cannot distract me from how cold the water is. I stop to gaze at a woman in her fifties swimming back and forth before leaving.

From here on in you have what I call the golden formula for mine and my friend’s united state of Exit (I hope). It really was a beautiful thing. I’m not done yet though. I steadily drink, shower, brush teeth, eat, swim and sunbathe for the rest of the morning. Drifting off around eleven, my twitching dreams and bitten feet are interrupted by some of the guys organising the ride into Novi Sad. I can feel the heat outside so I slump out to stretch and then complete wake up with a dive into the sky blue pool. After food, three mojitos and a sharing session based around future entrepreneurial ventures, we jump in a taxi to the shores of the Danube.

Friday night sees Editors smash their noise out of the park with their high tension riffs and haunting vocals. Exhilarating crescendos and flashing lights transform tunes like ‘Munich’ and ‘Blood’ into rabble rousers and make my next four beers the best I have all trip. Any remnants of sleep deprivation are knocked to hell. Even though singer Tom Smith appears, let’s say, worse for wear, he and his band manage to make indie music matter for the hour or so they navigate the stage. By 1.30am, where the guitar was once king, stands a slight Sri Lankan lady with a Shoreditch drawl. Looking up at the big screens I want this woman, M.I.A or Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam to her friends - a tiny fire ball of sexy energy working

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her way through beats, bangra and rhymes. When she’s halfway through her set I see her dragging about 50 girls on stage. One girl’s jumping bot in a pair of green and yellow hot pants then continues to appear several times on two mega screens for at least half the audience’s viewing pleasure.

cleaning net is used to trebuchet the suicidal rodent into the surrounding field and I head back to the fridge for ice, vodka and Fanta.

It really is some sordid stuff from the cameraman. I wonder whether he knows her, seen that ass before maybe, lost in thought wondering where. Most of the now hysterical girls on stage just dance away, but five or six decide to live the moment through the camera like so many opt for these days. Concerned about the photograph and not the moment nor the once in a life time view. The arm around the shoulder and camera light in M.I.A’s face eventually does her head in and she pushes them back. I notice that one guy made it up there and think, “fuck you guy”. Paper Planes is massive but the gun shot chorus gives me the chills thinking back to Wednesday night’s villa drive. Life at the dance stage is busier tonight and I get the sense that this is the warm up for the main event tomorrow. By the time the five of us get there to join the others, Underworld drop ‘Born Slippy’ and the whole place goes off. Glow sticks circle my head, a man to the right of me is wearing a full Native Indian headdress and the buzz takes us through all the way from that moment ‘til daylight. Saturday morning provides me with the gift of two hours sleep. Four of us stay back at the villa; a place I grow more and more passionate about for no real reason other than it’s polar opposite state to where we just were. It’s only us and the flies, and a dead mouse that turned up in the pool. The pool

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The iPod dock allows The Shins, Death Cab for Cutie and their Genius-selected counterparts to become our mid-morning / afternoon resident DJs. 40 to 60 cigarettes a day begin to feel like they’re competing with oxygen for the space in my lungs. When everyone is back, without announcement or pre-meditation we attack the late afternoon, drinking like an AA meeting gone bad. My mood about the night is borderline ecstatic but I get that feeling it could all go wrong in some spectacular ‘one night to end all nights’ fashion. Tonight we dress as ninjas. Once everyone has donned their ridiculous uniform, all black and red bandanas and accepted that it actually doesn’t look bad at all, Vukasin arrives. Walking down to greet us he stops dead in his tracks and says “Oh my god”. He looks like he might turn away and leave, before announcing, “you look great!” Group photo idea stolen off The Beach done, we make sure there is no vodka left and Exit. We quickly discover that tonight is much busier; it’s clear the entire town has turned up and nobody here does fancy dress. When we’re out the convoy of cars, I notice some of us getting slightly awkward as the stares and shouts of “NINJA!” come hurtling across the street. I start to think maybe we have had too much time in the hills, and then remind myself of my name, date of birth and that this is really happening. In a bar we summon some Dutch courage, bounce through the gates and security, and split up to

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reconvene on that special viewing gallery in four hours time. I watch Jamiroquai dance around, go through the motions and wear a hat. Bland, boring and probably the biggest crowd over the four days, I look around at my two mates and get the nod. It’s time to move. Ninja costumes are being dismantled in different stages on the way to the dance stage as moving is difficult. We’re packed in like sardines to the point where a line of three people is impossible to keep together. By the time we reach our spot, energy and wine in hand, we stand and look out at the chaos. It’s time to move strangely on the spot and smile.

I attempt the silent disco later and after three failures, I fail again, waking at 2.30am outside the tent. We discuss going back to the place we held for four hours the night before but I don’t want to spoil it. That’s when I remember and begin my long journey home. --

Midway through Groove Armada, I get the feeling that I’m trapped between a rock and horrible place and it only gets worse. I must get to some other place quick. I must sit down somewhere, calm down and reboot the madness. Once I’ve stopped sweating and started breathing, I venture back to my ninjas and catch the final track ‘Super Stylin’’. At this point in positive recovery mode, it becomes a pure pinnacle of happiness and chain smoking. Next up is the big man from NYC, DJ Sneak, who I am sure plays the same song for two hours but still manages to keep 40,000 rapidly flagging revellers moving until the red sun rises behind the high fortress walls. Looking around we are all one in that moment. Everyone is here and everyone is happy. Nobody cares. By the time Sunday night comes around it’s really time to go. Nick Cave & Grinderman is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen live. I’m watching a cowboy in a suit and homeless man with a guitar howling ‘No Pussy Blues’ to the sky and then the panicked faces in the crowd he repeatedly thrusts into.

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POST AND BEAM, IGNORED writer

CARLOS ELIASON -September 2011 Vhcle Magazine Issue 7, pp32-39

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;VE NEVER BEEN ONE for breaking rules, let alone breaking and entering. When taken by a group of friends to a somewhat small, abandoned and crumbling building, I was hesitant, of course, but soon the fascination kicked in and inhibitions were somewhat tossed aside. Inside, I found a place of beauty, even in its own sense, a decaying, discarded mass of leftover society. I viewed it still as somehow serene, even graceful. We delved further, pushing ourselves into the hulking ghost of a building...

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Located roughly eight miles south of Sacramento in Clarksburg, CA, the Old Sugarmill, as it stands now, was originally built sometime in March of 1935. An original sugar factory of the delta area, its carapace was brought in by rail line, with product exported in much the same way.

Another portion of the building contained a couch - not reduced to rags, but still intact and useable, if not for a good cleaning. Hard hats, old computers, even wheelbarrows, strewn about; all in newer condition, but in this place, useless, derelicts.

It was owned by several sugar companies throughout its lifetime, with use of the building ending in 1993 and subsequent abandonment occurring shortly thereafter. Today, it remains desolate, save for a small winery that currently uses several of the structures, renovated for wine production and tasting. It is amazing what only 18 years of neglect can do to a building. I was struck by what poor condition almost every piece of the structure was in. Portions of wall, crumbling away like sand, even small plants and patches of green moss spotting large areas of the floor, were common sights. Cast iron handrails rusted to red ocher tangles of mess. Navigating the upper areas of the building became alarmingly unsafe, as one could see the weathered concrete collapsing in areas, and completely gone in others. The things left behind at the building also boggled my mind. Among the items one would expect someone to leave behind were somewhat useful pieces of equipment. I noticed that in one office it seemed as though whoever had worked there, simply got up and left. A pile of jeans, several pairs of boots, a rusty loop of keys, safety goggles all in decent looking condition, except for a heavy coating of caked gray dust.

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The discarded remains of society ring a sour note within my head. Viewing this place as a sanctuary, I see it as a whimsical reminder that our strongest of structures must collapse eventually. The things we no longer need are tossed aside, even that of a building once prosperous. Too devouring of time, too demanding of money. The oddity of all things being that we would throw away an entire plot of land, complete with standing beam, glass pane and sturdy roof alike. If we are to toss this aside, what more will we discard at the flick of a wrist? --

/ POST AND BEAM, IGNORED

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/ VHCLE MAN

VHCLE MAN RECOMMENDATIONS BY

TONY BADER -September 2011 Vhcle Magazine Issue 7, pp40-43

HARDY AMIES said that “accessories should be more expensive than your basic [outfit], which, in this way, can achieve some reflected glory from them.” Few of us will ever be able to purchase a $3000+ bespoke suit, but by purchasing quality accessories you can add a layer of polish and elegance to an otherwise unremarkable outfit. By choosing items that are both stylistically dynamic as well as well-constructed, you aren’t simply making purchases, but rather investing in items that should last for years to come, not just a season or two. I try to choose items that are interesting, but not garish or overcomplicated. You want to turn heads, not stomachs. Here are some of my personal favorites that will allow you to experience the finer things in life without completely breaking your bank.

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TONY BADER A / Forage Bow ties Forage bow ties are made by hand in Philadelphia in very small quantities, so you don’t have to worry about running into someone wearing the same one as you, but you do need to snatch them up if you see one that you like.

B / Belts by Harris Looking for a belt that won’t warp and bend after wear? Look no further. These are solid, simple belts, made by hand out of quality leather in Florence. Available in a range of colors from your basic blacks and browns to more eccentric teals, blues and greys.

C / Loake Burford 2

Every guy needs a pair of wingtips. These boots in a light tan color will work with anything from a navy suit to your favorite pair of selvedge denim. Keep them polished and get them resoled when they need it and they’ll last you forever.

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D / Persol 649s Steve McQueen wore a pair of Persol’s in the Thomas Crown Affair in 1968, and they still look awesome today. These 649s look very similar to the 714s that McQueen wore, except they’re a bit bulkier and don’t fold in half.

E / Maglia umbrellas I know an umbrella isn’t exactly the first thing on most people’s shopping lists, but nothing gets my blood pumping quite like a good brolly. Maglia’s are arguably some of the best in the world. Produced by hand in Milan, they feature singlestick construction and have a range of different options for canopies and even leather handles with contrast stitching. For those of you feeling extra jaunty, they also have a bespoke option where you can select every detail yourself.

* Look out for Issue 8 featuring Vhcle Woman

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/ VHCLE Fotografía

VHCLE Fotografía -September 2011 Vhcle Magazine Issue 7, pp44-95 SISSI FW 2011 / FASHION DESIGN JOANNE O’NEILL / ILLUSTRATION RAOUL ORTEGA / PHOTOGRAPHY NICHOLAS WRAY / PHOTOGRAPHY

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