Dear You

Paris. City of light, love .. uh.. divas, pastry, cheese and wine. I spent a few days there recently with a friend who was on a mission to see Mylene Farmer at multiple shows on her Monkey Me tour.

Personally, I've never shown quite so much dedication to single musician before. Sure, I saw Ryan Adams twice on one tour but even that felt rather indulgent though thoroughly enjoyable. Like Ryan Adams, Mylene seems to garner a whole troop of super-fans. The promise of being in a stadium full of tearful, shrieking devotees promised to be an experience all on its own. A man I know once said that he would hate to go to a Stereophonics gig because he'd wind up getting swept up by the atmosphere at a show and enjoy himself despite the music. In the end the show was good fun - my eardrums were duly battered by piercing screams from the audience and Mylene herself was captivating in her J-P Gaultier designed costumes. A good time seemed to be had by all and we capped it off with the stinkiest cheese sandwiches and a Magnum ice cream. Perfect.

The star of the trip for me, however, was Paris itself. I know many people don't like the idea of returning to cities they know well, but for me the thrill is taking in the atmosphere of a city rather than ticking off a random list of "must see" sights. Luckily my friend felt the same way. So I found my own breakfast of rocket-fuel grade coffee and an almond croissant at a little patisserie in Daumesnil, wandered through a street festival and took in the inviting Klezmer music played by a rather foxy looking band, strolled down the Seine, bought a magazine featuring the truly stunning Lea Seydoux (latest girlcrush), wandered through parks, browsed through markets, drank too much, ate too much, set the world to right and laughed a whole lot.

I even found the time to wander into a relatively new world for me .. the second hand record shop. In Montmartre I found Le Rideau de Fer and set about hunting for a Françoise Hardy 45" single for a certain gentleman who knows a thing or two about FH, record shops and the 45". I even approached the owner for tips on what single to buy (my only requirement being that it was Francoise Hardy and would impress the gentleman in question) and he kindly guided me through their collection and also made other recommendations. Far from being an intimidating experience (I feared being treated disdainfully for my relatively poor language skills and clear lack of knowledge of FH), I was welcomed with warm arms. He was rather handsome too which was .. well .. nice. This wasn't High Fidelity for which I am grateful.

I'll have to report another time on the outcome of my purchase. He'll either love it or it will find itself in a London-based second hand record shop. Hopefully to be passed on with as much care to another girl hoping to impress a boy .. who will have more luck than me.

x

Dear You

Since I last wrote you I've questioned the reliability of my musical premonitions (short? really? long, please?) and am resigned to the reality that talking is better than dissecting dreams. The experience, however, has made me think a lot about those songs or albums that come to mind when you are feeling vulnerable and actually question their "medicinal" properties. For example, I assure you that Tunnel Of Love will NOT make you feel better .. unless you are this guy.

What did make me feel better? An "old fashioned" text, some good news at work, a good hard sweaty run and booking tickets to see Roddy Frame play the entirety of Aztec Camera's "High Land, Hard Rain".

I love that line where he says ".. I see you crying and I want to kill your friends ..". Yeah, that's the kind of boyfriend I want.

Love,
Stephanie
x

Dear You

Over a year later ..

- I still say stupid stuff. Mainly on dates and to my boss (the two are mutually exclusive, by the way)

- I still go to Field Day and feel old with all of the young 'uns (stop flippin' pushing in to me!)

- I still get reminded of the past through music (a date last month caused a month-long obsession with all things Haligonian from Sloan to donairs)

Now, music seems to predict my future. Recently a song has come to mind with much urgency at moments of insecurity, fear and doubt. At first I couldn't place it and it frustrated me. All I knew was that it was the soundtrack to this horrible feeling I had. Those nights when I leave my light on and hold the pillow close and cling to it. The music, however, wasn't that of a horror movie. It was beautiful and tender and at those moments it felt like a comfort blanket. And then I remembered it. I'd been listening to the original for ages, but it was a cover version which consoled me.

I'm not a die-hard Jose Gonzalez fan so the need to hear this song struck me as mildly odd. Thinking that there must be a reason for it I read the lyrics. A short-lived love affair. And then it made sense.

I've been an unreliable penfriend. So sorry..

Love,

Stephanie

Dear You

We've no doubt all been in the situation of having said something rather stupid only to grasp the full stupidity of it all within moments. Louis CK, for example, has a funny spiel about it in his show. But what about those times when the realisation of your own stupidity comes a year or two later? It's too late by that point to call up the friend and say "You know when I said yada yada yada? Yeah, I didn't mean it" because they've unlikely forgotten all about it. Unless, of course, you confessed to murder/sleeping with their partner/having abnormally shaped genitals etc..

My stupid comment wasn't that I'd killed anyone (thankfully), or that I've slept with anyone's partner (that's just plain old wrong) or that my genitals are weird in any way (all good down there, thank you very much). What I said was "I don't really like female singers". WTF? How can a sane person say that? Well, I found it quite easy to let those words pass my lips when discussing the merits of Paloma Faith with a friend. What I should have said is that I don't like the fact that we are encouraged to believe that it's a "good thing" that so many women are topping the charts here and in the US when the music they make is bland, beige and boring. The suggestion is that my feelings of sisterhood should override musical taste and .. well .. they don't. If women's contribution to modern popular music is going to be summed up by Paloma Faith, Adele and Katy Perry then I despair!

This came back to me recently when chatting with a proper feminist and former punk rocket friend about the BBC series Punk Britannia. I really enjoyed the series and how it put punk (and what came after) into context. I assumed that she would feel the same, but what she highlighted was the glaring omission of women from the show. Siouxie Sioux and The Slits got brief mentions and was it. Rewritten out of history.

This conversation, and memories of my earlier "I don't like female singers" comment got me thinking so I sat down and made a list. Not a full list, but a quick list of women in music (past and present) who I think deserve a bit more celebrating:

Annie, Kate Bush,  Neko Case, Patsy Cline, Bethany Cosentino (Best Coast), Kim Deal, Julie Doiron, Kathleen Edwards, Elastica, EMA, Feist, Aretha Franklin, Liz Fraser, Kim Gordon, Grimes, Emily Haines (Metric and Broken Social Scene), Debbie Harry, PJ Harvey,Gladys Knight, Victoria Legrand (Beach House),  Lykke Li, Karen Oh (Yeah Yeah Yeahs), Peaches, Ruth Radelet (Chromatics), Robyn, Frankie Rose, Santigold, Sleater Kinney, Nina Simone, Siouxie Suoux, The Slits, Patti Smith, Regina Spektor, Dusty Springfield, St Vincent, Katie Stelmanis (Austra), Vivian Girls, Martha Wainwright, Zola Jesus..

And to Becky: You know when I said that I didn't like female singers? Yeah, I didn't mean it. And when you tire of Paloma you might want to give Kate a try.

Love,
Stephanie

Dear You

Me again. Yes, I know. Not much and then two posts in relatively short succession. I guess I'm unpredictable that way.

I write with regards to the "lovely" Field Day festival. This year marked my first trip to the festival and my first festival in a long time. Perhaps that was a mistake - make my long awaited foray into festivals with one so incredibly cool when I've become progressively uncool. What do you bring to a festival in Hackney brimming with those too cool for school?!? What do you wear?!? I entertained the notion of buying some skinny jeans (or leggings in Aztec print?) and wearing my glasses (with a fake beard?) to blend in and then realised that was one of my more asinine ideas. I settled for something that would keep me warm, dry, wouldn't give me a camel toe and be able to see in the rain. Sensible.

So, dressed in normal jeans, vest, scarf and sweater I made the long journey from SW to E London by train and tube. From Mile End I followed the trail of hipsters to Victoria Park. Did they think I was lost on my way to Sainsbury's or did they know that I too was excited at the prospect of a day brimming with good music?!? I kind of felt like I'd gone undercover like Drew Barrymore in Never Been Kissed (a somewhat underrated movie IMHO). So far so good but then I saw the queues. Everyone was terribly polite and good spirited about it, but it did seem a bit excessive and undermanned. Also, why bother confiscating apples?!? Was there someone inside selling apples at £2 a pop?!? Ahem.. You see? I am getting old and grumpy.

Once inside, however, I felt like a kid in a candy shop. Literally. A wide array of food stalls (Japanese? Mexican? Portuguese? Creole?) and tents to suit all tastes. I had a strict timetable of bands I was keen to see, but there were enough gaps to walk around between shows to take in the atmosphere. It didn't take long before I had assured myself that coming along that day was a very good idea indeed.

High points of the day:

• Django Django who were better than I expected and a real delight.
• Afrocubism who might have spent ages setting up, but were worth the wait for the horns alone. Definitely the highlight of the day.
• Chicken katsu curry. Yummmm...
• The Men who were testosterone personified. Much as I love a bit of jingle jangle guitar it is nice to properly rock out occasionally.
• The gentleman in the toilet queue who let a very desperate lady go ahead of him. I commented on his gentlemanliness and did my best to distract him from his own desperation.
• Rich at the Beirut show who shared a non-flaying (see below) dance with me.
• Austra who entertained me while I queued for a hot cup of tea in the cold rain.
• Changing in to warm PJs and fuzzy socks when I eventually got home.

Low points:

• £5 for a festival map/guide!?!?
• Being crushed and shoved at the Grimes show. Who knew that Grimes fans would be as fanatical as those of Justin Beiber. I felt very old and curmudgeonly. My efforts to keep upright distracted me from the music, but she was impressive and terribly cute. Were she and Justin separated at birth?!?
• Elbowed in the breast by some knob at the Beirut show. Who would have thought that beautiful gentle music would inspire clumsy and inconsiderate dance?! A lot of hipsters got in on the swaying and flaying and I was not the only one unimpressed. The people behind me commented, loudly, that they hoped "they would break their fake glasses". I also note that the Guardian reviewer felt much the same.
• The rain. Although I was prepared with a rain mac it meant that all under-tent performances were oversubscribed by the end of the night. I tried to listen to the lovely Mazzy Star but as I was surrounded by people chatting/keeping dry it was a bit of a lost cause.
• Shivering the whole way home. Sweater wasn't that warm and jeans were VERY wet.

Verdict? A good day out. There is something special about festivals where everyone is there for a common cause - a love of music. Perhaps that's why it's upsetting when your enjoyment is spoiled by others for whom the music is secondary (tertiary? less?). In an ideal world festivals would be run by people following the ethos of the old Luminaire in Kilburn who had their own gig version of the Kermode and Mayo Moviegoers Code of Conduct. Of course, I can imagine that only 5 people would turn up at such a festival and I would have been denied the little dance to Beirut. I guess you take the rough with the smooth. The sweet with the sour.

Until next time!

x

Dear You

Like a lot of people I associate music with certain key moments/people in my life. The memory often takes on more relevance than the song itself. In many cases, this is for the best. For example, I have fond memories of dancing around the spare room at my grandmother's house mouthing the words to Stacey Q's Two of Hearts. I must have been around 8 years old so, let's face it, I had no clue what young Stacey Q was singing about. What I did know was that the repetition of "two of hearts" was catchy and alone with my little walkman and This Is 198? cassette I was in a world of my own. Listening back to Two of Hearts now doesn't make me wonder what ever happened to Ms Q (suffocated from Ellenet fumes?), but it does make me smile and wonder if my grandmother knew what a nincompoop I was being while jumping around in the spare room. Given the rickety floorboards I suspect she had a good sense of my idiocy.

But what about when the song in question forms the soundtrack to a shitty/painful memory? How sad to lose out on the greatness of Intergalactic Planetary because it reminds you of dancing around an ex's kitchen like an idiot seemingly moments before he broke your heart or the sweetness of the Go Betweens because another ex introduced you to the band in a Mao-style musical education programme which you tried to rebel against in quasi-teenage angst? Ahem..

So, in an act of Eternal Sunshine-esque subterfuge, you do your best to let go of the sad memories. Invariably this doesn't work and isn't entirely desirable (you've seen the flick). Best alternative? Replace the old memories with new ones. Like the sense of delight and surprise when you hear an acoustic version of Batchelor Kisses and all you can think of is how perfectly beautiful the song is.



I still have songs to clear from the decks, but how wonderful to get this one back for myself!

Love,

Stephanie

Dear You

Is it a sign of coolness or desperation when a Pitchfork review promising "freaky sleaze" looks appealing? Either way, I'm checking out Mac DeMarco if only for the sleaze. Let me know what you think.

x

Update 13/05/2012: Decidedly meh.