The song opens with the galloping pulse of a heartbeat. One bar after that, a softly-muted bassline begins to march along. With a gentle hand, it ushers in the final pieces of the composition; a sweet arpeggiated guitar line shorn of treble and Anja's breezy vocals, announcing:

"I've lost my pride. 
I've been through paradise and out the other side."

( Read more... )

The Testimonies of George Galaxy

In the autumn of 2005 I spent a brief stint of time at the Academy of Stars, an isolated music school flung out far in the Northumberland countryside. I had been sent there by my local paper with instructions to write a flattery-piece on the young music personalities of the ( Read more... )

MIA is streaming her entire album Kala (due out on the 20th August) on her MySpace page. From what I've heard so far (up to track 5) it sounds absolutely amazing - like on of the most vital things I've heard this year. Bamboo Banga, Boyz, Jimmy and Mango Pickle; slinky kaleidoscopes of technicolour beats, samples and raps. I'm not really qualified ( Read more... )

Sunday night and Monday morning I stayed up to watch the peak of the Perseid meteor shower. Its been passing through the Earth's atmosphere for the past week or so, and will continue for a few more days until it disappears until next July. I was unaware of the Perseids until my dad mentioned he'd heard about them on the radio when he got back from ( Read more... )

I watched Channel 4's feature-length drama on contemporary society's tolerance of and reactions towards gay lifestyles, Clapham Junction, which was on last night at 10pm. I came away from it quite disappointed, and I'll explain why, but first I think it would be best if I were to quote the producer of the show on the writer's intentions:

'Kevin ( Read more... )

Robert Frank in Astor Place ( Read more... )

For Stephen Proctor
on seeing his exhibitions of forms in glass
by Frances Horovitz.

Perfected whiteness
- a stellar littoral, bright
beyond bone or pearl.

Spiral chambers sing of 
sea’s breath, the curve
and fall of flowers.

Cave within a cave
of quiet, thought becomes music;
litanies of light resolve

in gathering trance.
A whorl of shadow
trembles, brims.

Oh ( Read more... )

Mr. Swim

His plans are puddles in summer,
and the month of July is smeared 
across the calendar - 
so how to pass the time?
Find solace in the public baths; 
butterfly strokes and goggle-eyes - 
the skin harbouring
a whiff of chlorine.

Shrugging the changing rooms, he jumps
a passenger bus for Salford,
ascending the steps
to the overrun top-deck 
where his ( Read more... )

I've been trying to write a little piece about Shary Boyle for a week now, and all my attempts seem to have ended in a rather tedious list of achievements, none of which have really described why I like her work so much - so I will let her images do the talking and try and muddle some kind of footnote to underpin them.


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