Social Whirls

One of the things I like most about living in London, (apart from the readiness of most shopworkers to dish out free booze to me, as has been on the agenda of late) is its sheer variety of bits and bobs and odds and sods on offer out there in the murky spires. If you have time to find it, that is.

I like the way people watching can become a certified skill; Old Street station on a weekend night hosts more vividly bedazzled birds of a feather than Bill Oddie could ever hope to see. I like how a wrong turn can mean unearthing some joyous architectural gem, or a fresh, green space, or a fairy-strung Love Actually paradise, like Exmouth Market. Most of all, I like the completely contrasting nights a weekend can bring. Only a few weeks ago I was gaily tearing off a pair of maroon jodphurs and flinging an oh-so '90s camouflage jacket on top whilst bartering with a man resplendent in a wedding dress over a Russian fur hat whilst a sequinned bloke beat-boxed.

The aim of the game was Swap-a-rama, and the rules were simple. Turn up dressed in clothes you scraped from some dusty corner cupboard somewhere (or Oxfam's bargain bin), and prepare to enter into an exchange more frantic than the Wall Street Stock market. Sponsored by vintage fashionista fave Beyond Retro, the smallish basement space of XYXO was liberally spread with clothes either dangling from washerwoman washlines or arranged on stage in an EVERYTHING-MUST-GO style. Even if you don't own a single sartorial bone in your body, the sight of so many textiles, fabrics, shapes and styles would have made even Simon Cowell strip off his V-neck and reach for a sailor-girl playsuit. Or maybe not.

I came, a B*Witched cast-off in a silken yellow handkerchief dress, and left a top-heavy Serbian housewife via Dickensian London, resplendent in a tweed blazer covering a multitude of fashion sins I'd acquired during the night and locks locked down with a floral scarf. A word of advice? If you want to maximise swappage, try not to stick on the beer goggles too early. Thompson #2 departed the club in a whirl of tie-dye and "really comfy jeans I put on because I was TIRED". Aforementioned jeans would not look out of place at a Texan line dance. For men.

If stripping down with complete strangers ain't quite your bag, baby, how does the magic formula of felt-tip pens, numbered sheets and women holding lots of balls sound? It's bingo, but not as we know it.

When Underground Rebel Bingo first started out a few years back, it held true to its maxims closer than it does now. No old people, no wankers, no boring people. Photos reeked with the glare of glitter and good times. When we rocked up nearly a month back for the "secret" event on South Bank (aka joining a queue stretching into King's College Student Union), the event was far more freshers than precious. However, a few tumblers of toxic KCL cocktails later and we were soaking up a rowdy atmosphere and wielding Crayola with relish. Two rounds of bingo saw prizes roll off the stage of a calibre the Generation Game could only have dreamed of: a cuddly panda, a GINORMOUS sleeping bag snuggie thing, and my dream, a boombox-sized ipod speaker. Too bad I'd managed to scrumple up my sheet in a flurry of bingo madness.

Next on my list? This bad boy

About this song? To quote Enrique, (and myself, interminably) I LIKE IT.




© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Indulgence

Chunky beats + slap-happy drums + kerazy keyboard plinks + velvety smooth vocal stylings = Bobby Brown. Ignore the heavy drug addiction, the spiralling, destructive relationship with Whitney and the sagging moobs - watch this and love.

Particular favourite arrives in the form of verse two and a vest/leggings combo Eric Prydz would give his left turntable to see in the gym.




P to the S - is Mike Tyson rivalling Seth Rogen for Americana comedic value or what?

© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Sneak Peeks

Now that I'm spending almost every waking second either doing, thinking about doing or avoiding doing shorthand, my time is regretfully being sapped away in stacks of flimsy A4 sheets tattooed with illegible scribbles.

Normally I savour hours spent trawling the web for new musical gems, idly flicking through the deepest recesses of HypeMachine or following a string of music blogs, or even checking out other people's carefully compiled Spotify playlists, but current time constraints (and the realisation that real, non humanities university courses man up for more than three hours a week), mean that I'm still listening to Gyptian from my June playlist.

My Masters course offers the opportunity to choose a specialism and in the hope of getting actual timetabled study time to indulge my melodic vice, I've got all wriggly limbs crossed in the hope that some Admin elf will choose yours truly for a programme which would span reviews, interviews and all things musically orientated in the journalism monde.

As I wait in hope for selection, take a look below at a brilliant example of a "back-stage" media platform from the delicious Phoenix. This YouTube-based expose of the Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix record began yesterday and will be continuing for the the next two weeks at the rate of nine episodes. So far both the French fancies and their producer Phillip Zdar have painstakingly taken us through the making of both ebuillent Lisztomania and the joyful 1901 in lip-smackingly velvety French with a passion for their music-making which seeps from the screen.

The viewer is guided through their rickety studio, through the complexities of the Phoneix song writing - Lisztomania is the hybrid of no less than FIVE songs - their writer's block, the bit that sounds like a "pirate attack"....Check out the Phoenix-narrated Lisztomania video below.



Head straight to http://wearephoenix.com/journal/ for the daily updates!

This Chiddy Bang choon (produced by phitty Pharrell) is shamelessly ripped from the "most popular" bit of HypeMachine but no less amazing for it.



© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Short and Sweet

A brief post to focus on the wonders of the under tens.

Example A



If Jackie Collins knows about (and loves) this song, by rights everyone should. I can't wait to see what Will's conjured up for the video, and equally how Willow's chosen to style it. Savagely addictive - and she's only 9 years old. What hope in hell do I have?

Example B: exactly why I love Katy Perry.



© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Hola Hoxton

As THIS video testified recently, I’m living in an area of London which only the following adjectives could even hope to describe (and fail miserably in doing so): trendy, edgy, cool, even, as my mum loves to say “hip, hop and happening" (cue almighty inner nausea cringe).


Does anyone else find it utterly enthralling that their parents’ 1980s wardrobe is now the epitome of urban street chic?


Round yonder where I live the streets thrum with life, and people who would get beaten up outside of Watford for wearing “vintage finds” (read. hideously expensive retro clothing/mum’s cast-offs) spill onto pavements in a tangle of artfully clipped hair.


I’ve seen more quilted jackets than at a Pony Club Rally and more Barbours than at a shoot being paraded about recently. Checked shirts, beloved of country-sports shops, now appear on every corner. Oversized floral jumpers and lurid knits sag above skin-tight leggings and beneath bed-head hair swept into a knotted headscarf. Don’t even get me started on those little brown boots being stomped about by every hipster from Hoxton to Holborn. Mum was rocking those bad boys way back in school-run time in the 1990s. Now Primark will do you a replica pair for sixteen quid. Shocking.


Thus, in true bargain hunter style, we’ve gone native. The return home was not merely an excuse to say au revoir to the parents before moving proper. It was simply a field trip to the greatest vintage emporium known to man: Mum and Dad’s wardrobe.

A quick rummage has already turned up a very-now camel blazer, aforementioned (still repulsive, sorry Mum) brown boots, delectable cotton and silk shirts from China (banned from moving) and hoards of jumpers in a rainbow of colours and spectrum of sizes.


Whilst I may be struggling to get to grips with the local fashion, delving into the nightlife hasn’t been nearly so traumatising. I can’t describe how refreshing it is not to travel by car for 40 minutes in order to find a flash of neon and a buzzing atmosphere, and the fact that our local hotspots are the main destination for many a South Easterner makes it all the more to savour.


Last week my housemates and I trundled off to see one of my favourite DJs, Alex Metric, take a break from the decks and perform with his band in a step in a new direction at the Hoxton Bar and Kitchen (doesn’t the word Kitchen make you instantly hungry?). I may have taken agin the drinks prices, but it was worth it for some awesome people watching and a soundtrack to die for – Luther Vandross, Prince and the Cure boomed out of darkened corners.


Alex Metric was headlining the Iceland Airwaves night, a precursor to the festival which happens in Iceland during October each year, and hence topped a line up of fresh, Icelandic acts. I always love any performers who enjoy interacting with the crowd, and Retro Stefson did just that, whipping the scenester crowd into an enthusiastic mass despite their tender age. Think Arcade Fire colliding with Alphabeat on a volcanic rock in the North Atlantic and you have some idea.

I think this below video might just about sum them up.



How immense is their knitwear?

In contrast, Alex Metric’s performance was more intense (that's squeezing his eyes shut and clutching the mic instead of teaching us Icelandic dance routines) it was still pretty good - especially when he shoved his indie efforts to one side and concentrated more on getting a bit ravey and danc-y.

The highlight of the night? When Metric drew the raffle for the chance to win first class flights to Iceland. The end of this blog would be a lot more interesting if I'd won it, but I didn't, and so it isn't. Soz.


© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

CYCLO

In between returning from a sunsoaked dream of a holiday and getting stuck into the juicy offerings of my MA course, I've had an odd two weeks not entirely bargained for. Next week sees me return to the green and greys of Lancashire to squeeze in some more delicious work experience (Christmas supplement! Already!), and to try and hoover up the odd pound or ten. If only my wallet wasn't barer than a baboon's bum, I would quite happily continue to potter the streets of my new hometown, mooching about art galleries like an old dear up from the country, Boots meal deals with successful, career-minded mates in the Square Mile, and pootering around on my NBF, a Boris Bike.

For those not entirely au fait with the London Transport System (can hardly say I'm an expert, to be honest), this year saw the launch of a public bicycle system in the city not unlike those in many cities worldwide. The Mayor of London, Boris Johnson (a lovable, womanising fop with a shaggy mop or a sleazebag idiot, take your pick)headed up the scheme which is entirely in keeping with his promotion of cycling across the city, leading to the completely predictable alliterative, "Boris Bike".

Boris and his gleaming array of machines.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, the scheme attracted a whole array of criticism, ranging from the unsafeness of the bikes (they are quite chunky beasties) to the unsafeness of those riding them. Wobbling into Parliament Square, sweat pouring down my back, tights torn to bits, taxi driver abuse fading into my reddened ears, I couldn't have been more of an archetypal wannabe on a bike.

It had all begun so well, worryingly so. From the safety of a room located within a skip, hop and a jump to no less than 3 bike stations, a route pored over for a good ten minutes AND written down, merrily peeking out of my well-stowed bag, it seemed things couldn't go wrong. I navigated the rush of City Road, scooted down poky sidestreets ...and then, found I wanted to go the wrong way down a one way street. You see, the Cycle Map may give you sites of the nearest docking stations (more on THAT later) but it prefers to leave the orientation of its streets a veritable mystery. Emerging from sun-dappled streets into the roaring jumble of revving motorbikes and shuddering lorries, not to mention cheeky taxis who don't give a toss who they overtake, I was sucked into the heady madness that was Smithfield Market and its inextricable one way system. I can only compare this to the sensation of white water rafting, being thrown against obstacles and heart juddering in terror, with the small beacon of hope held in a nearby docking station, evidenced on my map. Extracting myself from the tumult, I scoured the street for the neat row of bike docks.

There was no sign.

With minutes slipping away and the threat of being charged an extortionate sum of a POUND for my torture, there was nothing to do but throw myself back into the fray. Time to face the music...time for Holborn Circus.

I'd like to thank the two city slickers who skidded to a halt next to me at the thrumming traffic lights, like beauteous guardian angels, except with bulging wallets and well-cut suits. With all the confidence required for the mania of a trading floor, they skillfully navigated the clogged motorcades and swung cleanly towards Chancery Lane, yours truly following sweatily in pursuit.

The utter relief of sliding that bicycle into a dock, the light gleaming green in acceptance, cannot be underestimated.

Neither can the sher idiocy of deciding to take on Parliament Square and Birdcage Walk just a few hours later.

But that's another story...

Song of the moment - caught them after a four hour straight danceathon at LED festival and really appreciated their lushness. This song is a delectable truffle of a treat.



© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

I Like to Move It Move It

They say that the two most stressful things in life are divorce and moving. May I add to this list the trials of finding affordable property in London which doesn't resemble a crack den and isn't located in Essex?

It seemed pretty straightforward from the outset; ring a few agencies, leisurely browse Gumtree, create a Facebook group. I never imagined that the search for accommodation would result in heavily bitten nails and RSI from repeatedly refreshing email alerts from findaproperty.com, as well as a growing sense of nausea as you realise the extent of the task ahead of you. Expectations grow narrower and more cynical as you ponder the necessity of living space or access to transport links or even whether one really needs furniture in a house, all for the ultimate aim of saving a few precious pounds or even landing on somewhere vaguely suitable.

Once you've received this unpleasantly realistic wakeup call that life in the capital isn't all Notting Hill montages and cheery, ruddy-cheeked Cockneys strutting the side streets, it's time to roll up your sleeves and get stuck into property viewings, held to the mercy of whichever lettings agent you've sold your soul to. In this respect I lucked out with a sister and future flatmate already on the ground and on the prowl; just one viewing for a flatsharewith a very sweet Sri Lankan named for a Catholic hotspot proved to be less than fruitful. Located on the ninth floor of a tower block out of a Casualty castings director's dreams, ech room was crammed with Virgin Mary-shaped holy water containers, walls trimmed with flowery Biblical language, and to top it off, a Poirot boxset crowned the DVD player. Somehow, I don't think my still-very-student-lifestyle would sit compatibly with quiet Sundays spent solving murders with a flamboyant Frog.

With induction week dates looming and floods of 20-somethings invading the capital in search of somewhere to rest their heads, viewings went into lockdown. Having compiled an extensive list of all and any suitable-ish properties, our flatmate to be went once more into the breach. At the close of a day spent trawling all kinds of abodes and jostling with other groups also being whored around by the estate agents, she struck lucky with an ex-council flat in North East London with enviable secure-entry and transport links to die for. Just one obstacle stood between her obtaining the flat and hence housing heaven: a Swedish girl with an equal desire for habitation.

It came down to a coin toss.

We won.

Joy abounds.

So London life begins, a million miles away (or 2hrs3mins thank you Richard Branson) from luscious Lancashire, as evidenced by the leaflet carelessly tacked to the eeny kitchen corkboard, informing all local residents of the implementation of "Operation Crackdown" in a flat below, aka an ex crack-den.

We're not in the Ribble Valley anymore, Toto.

P to the S - have changed Spotify playlist to reflect massive move and the tensions encapsulated can only be best experienced through the joyful thuds of a Guetta beat. Soz.

© Miranda Thompson 2010.

Losing My Fringe-inity

Is it sad that the most exotic place I've travelled to this summer thus far was for work?

These last few months since the demise of university life have revolved around earning money and staycationning to the max: days spent slogging for the promise of pounds lighting up the dwindling bank account, no sooner to be deposited than to be flung towards nationalrail.co.uk or Sainsburys and their alluring alcohol offers (Jose Cuervo Margharita Mix is my find of the summer and foe of the pancreas.

I may moan about living in Preston, home to North End and once notable for the national Football Museum - until it closed down - but, without sounding like a GCSE geography student on a coursework trip, you can't fault it for its impeccable transport links.

Case Study #1: PTown to London Euston in an eeney meeny 2 hours and 3 minutes flat meant i could dash back from work oop here and still rendezvous for Happy Hour off Regents Street. It isn't however, an ideal length for trying to shake off that big-smoke hangover.

Case Study #2: To the Lake District. Bung animals, coolboxes, tents of cavernous wet weather gear into your chosen vehicle and a simple zip up the M6 later you're welcomed into the comforting green folds of Wordsworth country. Have a go if you think you're hard enough at peak-climbing and mountain biking (I did. Fail).

Case Study #3: Edinburgh. Having been sucked into the repugnant perpetual myth that all culture desists the further one gets from London's buzzing metropolis, I forget how simple and how CHEAP it is to get an express northwards to Scotland's capital. A return ticket for about £30 will secure you passage on one of the most epic train routes Western Europe has to offer: a most cliche-ridden, beautiful sight, all crumpled green velvet humps and silvery brooks.

What awaits you on arrival plops the glace cherry on the cake; never mind the glorious architecture looming over Waverly Station and Princes Street, go right ahead and soak up the stench of performance and excitement the city buzzes with during August in celebration of the one and only Edinburgh Festival.

Now in its 64th year of existence, the largest cultural event in the world dominates daily life in Edinurgh during August each year. Flat rents triple, you can't buy a pint of milk without being savagely leaflet-ed and it's fairly likely that a night out will conclude dancing to cheese in a uni exam hall for FREE at 5 am in the morning.

This year marked my first-ever Fringe, and it was as spectacularly glorious as I could have ever hoped. Days spent wandering the throngs of people cluttering the Royal Mile to watch great and not-so good street performers, the moments spent rapturously engrossed in some fantastic theatre, laughing so much tears streamed down my face at a particularly rib-tickling piece of comedy. Nights melted into a mesh of friends and faces, gin and goon-ish dancing, whether to Barry Manilow bounces in a stained glass tent or Jason Derulo in a packed-out uni building.
Somewhat wisely for the sake of my battered wallet, we tackled the myriad of shows on offer at the rate of one a day. Here is my attempt at a rundown.

Friday: Showstopper! The Improvised Musical

I think you might have got the gist of this by its very title. The premise: audience throw out suggestions for themes, music types and musical-esque numbers which these oh-so talented team of actors take and conjure into a riproaringly good musical. The theme of that night was "Ancient Eygpt", and it was with a flamenco guitar twist and inspiration from Wicked! Les Miserables and High School Musical (coughcough...) that this stupdendous group took to the stage. Worth every single penny.

Saturday: Hood! (Peculius Stage)
Ignorant idiot that I am, my theatre viewing choices have always stayed safely within the bounds of "comedy", "musical", or "Shakespeare". Thank God then, for the Peculius Stage (and invitation by the ohso talented Megan Smith!). As soon as one walks into the room it is as if one has been consumd by a forest with a fantastically eerie atmosphere embued by the players. Think Tim Burton on a crash course collision with Little Red Riding Hood with acapella vocals Simon Cowell would slay a wolf for and you're about halfway into the woods.

Sunday: A Midsummer's Night Madness (Hackney Harlem)
For my final show in this fair city, it was the irresistable combination of the Bard's 'Dream and hiphop stylings which turned my head. I wasn't disappointed. Even if you detest Shakespeare with a passion, the sheer geniuses of the Hackney Harlem Theatre Company will have you diving for any A level text upon leaving the theatre. Brilliantly reworked for a modern day audience yet threading in (and using to full effect) orginal lines, the result was a resounding sucess which really made me appreciate the comedy factor of Shakespeare's plays; the sheer comedic force of Bottom attempting to do all the parts (in the guise of a traffic warden) made me laugh my mascara off. Playing at the Hackney Empire very soon, I cannot recommend this enough.

I found a cheeky clip of the group rehearsing if you'd like a taste of their skillz.



Staycationning: the future.

© Miranda Thompson 2010.

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Here they come, the Beautiful Ones

What better, purer combination could there be than the alluring cocktail of perfectly sculpted bodies meeting delicious grooves? In my latest obsession to dominate my YouTube playlist, videos of fashion shows where Bambi legs sashay into a sea of faces and tall, dark, silent types skulk down a brightly-lit runway are often perfectly offset by a stunning soundtrack.

Music and fashion are pretty much inextricably intertwined, if not for the simple reason that every rapper and his pack of yapping dogs has a clothing line nowadays. Just as pop stars like Katy Perry express their ker-razy character through bubble-gum clothing, or more shy and retiring musos such as The xx strive to prove the exact opposite, so when it comes to the ultimate display of a designer's wares on the runway, one of the best ways to try and convey the essence of their sartorial ambition is through the banging tunes blaring from speakers.

Depending on your budget/extent of contact list, this can be achieved by either a) burning an ice-cool mix list (with the help of celeb siblings Mark and Samantha if you're Charlotte Ronson) or b) getting muso-muses in the shape of chanteuses like the Plasticines if you're Alice&Olivia at New York Spring 2010. According to Ronson, the key is the less obscure, the better. With the clothes the main focus, the last thing a designer wants is a fashion editor wracking her brains for the name of the oh-so-catchy opening number.

A quick run down then: hot/up-and-coming + instantly recognisable = a soundtrack which acts as an aural catalyst into the mind and mania of your favourite fashionista.

Here are some of my personal picks from the world wide web (beware weak attempts at fashion analysis)

Louis Vuitton 2010: "Keep It Goin' Louder" (Diplo remix.) Major Lazer feat. Nina Sky and Ricky Blaze



Fancy, flouncy furs offset by this gem of a Major Lazer remix which manages to effortlessly combine the essential factors of freshness and easy listening to not flount the runway rules. Lace cycling shorts - noted in the hope they won't be arriving at Preston Primark anytime soon.


Valentino 2010: "All For the Best" - Thom Yorke



Simply beautiful gowns in the timelessly elegant Valentino style could only be served up on a bed of minimal sophistication, and who better to call than Thom Yorke for such an occasion?


Chanel Cruise Collection: "Oh Lani" Kai Lavatai



What a sexbomb of a soundtrack! This sassy number might not be the first to spring to mind when one thinks "Chanel" and "Cruise" but if this number's anything to go by, I'm hoping Lagerfeld has room on his yacht for summer 2011.

© Miranda Thompson 2010.

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Lapsed

Far too long has elapsed since I last pressed fingertips to grubby keyboard for The Miranda's benefit: weeks of hours and minutes dissolved into a flurry of timetables and lists and arrangements and French.

There was more than simply admin and faceless pieces of paper to order about: six countries soaked up in espresso shots of time. First, Amsterdam, where grizzly grey skies contrasted sharply the fragrant florals which tumbled from market stalls along the River Amstell. Only platefuls of mouth-watering poffertjes (Dutch pancakes), thick and fluffy and laden with glistening butter, managed to soothe pavement-battered feet.

From flattened avenues weaving amongst a tangle of waterways to sharp skyscraper edges and an abundance of midnight blue spotted with golden stars: Brussels, the EU administrative capital. Chocolately aromas curled around the lace fronted shops which swaddled the Grand Place before this metropolitana melted into thickly-forested green rolls and humps of countryside: the descent into the Belgian Ardennes was akin to diving into a mossy green pool.

To Paris, a city riddled with cliches. Hand-clasped lovers swooning on bridges stretching from the Left to the Right, hordes of tourists with emblazoned t-shirts proclaiming "J'adore Paris". Stomach churning heights from the Eiffel Tower and burning thighs mounting Montmartre. Beautiful boulevards melting into a shimmering horizon. The city of lights.

The blustery Normandy beaches set the scene for solemn contemplation and remembrance; picking one's way through the pock-marked scenery where slices of metal still scar the wild grasses and thousands of white marble crosses serve up sobering thoughts in cemetery surroundings.

Six hours of shut-eye later and feet stepped onto England's green and sacred land, where fat splats of raindrops quickened a return to reality. Elbows are sharpened for the plunge amongst London's myriad of tourists and trips through time: stepping back a thousand years at Tower Hill, rubbing shoulders with royalty at Buckingham Palace, or simply getting groovy with the cast of Sister Act. A plunge into the murky depths of the Tube and the terror of being swept away with the crowd provided a nail-biting finale.

Nerves were tested in the wildest corners of Wales; teetering on the brink of a castle where the solid grey blocks tumbled away to nothingness and every nerve needed to be mustered to bounce to the ground, with eyes to the sky and damp hands clamped to rope.

And so to the finish, on the Irish coast at the point where the sea and the sky become one in a gigantic, cavernous space inhabited by the friendliest souls one could ever wish to meet. The Ring of Kerry: the absolute highlight. A morning spent snuggled on traps pulled by hardy ponies, hot soup and sandwiches filling growling tummies before drifting away an afternoon on silent waters crowded by verdant mountains.

Squeezed into less than twenty days, the whistle-stop tour still manages to cream off the very essence of each place; a taste of its soul, a touch of the identity. It's enough to make one wonder why bother galumphing off to exotic beaches half a world away when there's oh so much to savour on our doorsteps.

Naughty '90s

What do Foals and Lady Gaga have in common apart from a continual, desperate desire to prove a sense of rebellion against mainstream musicality?

Apparently, a sneaky penchant for a heavy dose of Ace of Base ( with a side of extra cheese, please).
Don't believe me?

Compare and contrast this...




with this....



Or how about...



with



In my humble opinion, it's about time more artists started taking valuable musical inspiration from these super-Swedes.

'90s music has just about reached the point where it's so bad it's bloody good: in these days of doom and gloom people are simply seeking music to theme good times, and the incessant builds of cookie-cutter drum machines and shrieking synths found in this era lend themselves well to this mentality.

Take Kele's "The Boxer" EP as a prime example of the new breed of '90s offspring; a pushier, more aggressive pop a thousand abandoned glow sticks away from the heavily accented Europop of yesteryear where just a listen will send you into a trance-induced stupor.

For something more straight to the point, Roll Deep have been surfing a wave of chart success in recent weeks with their unbearably infectious "Good Times" borrowing more than a hint of turquoise hair mascara from the '90s period: catchy hooks powered by luscious female vocals, shuddering piano synths and the all-important bassline bouncing along to its impending build. Future single Green Light looks to follow in the starbust of its predecessor with an identikit, irresistible formula.




The '90s: so much more than flag-flaunting Britpop and gunged-up grunge.

P to the S: changed up my Spotify to reflect a fresher July soundtrack. Have a look.

© Miranda Thompson 2010.

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Glee Finale!

The last few nights spent hitting the Preston rush hour have been softened greatly with the radio presence of some of the Glee cast: last night, Artie (Kevin McHale) aka Glee Radio1 superfan, appeared with Scott Mills and again at 5 today my heart turned to mush as Matthew Morrison aka Schuester graced the airwaves and let slip his solo album plans. I swear I can hear that cute crooked half-smile of his.

Of course, it's all been in aid of plugging the hard sale of Glee MP3s and promoting the season finale, shown on E4 last night which finally tied up all the questions we'd been waiting to be solved...since they'd tied them up and then unravelled again mid-way through the season. Rachel and Finn, Schue and Emma, Sue's malice, baby questions... it's like someone's just pressed a massive re-set button and we're back to the beginning.

Don't get me wrong, I bloody love Glee, and it was a fantastic end to the season; I was still mopping up the tears long after the credits rolled. However I think the scriptwriters need a bit of a shake-up. They may have sung a Journey medley last night but I found it hard to recall how much the cast have really progressed with every episode being laid out the same way: big drama, Sue vs. Schue faceoff, assignment for the week, more drama, solution through song. It would be interesting to veer away from this tried-and-tested formula and mix it up a little,although I can’t help thinking of the old adage “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.”

I often find that the storyline jumps about quickly and enormously: for instance, even though the Quinn/Queen mashup was mind-blowing (how many mothers mid-labour do you get quoting Bohemian Rhapsody lyrics ?), it was a little too far out of the realm of believability and just a little shallow - I was hoping for greater focus on the relationship between her and her baby rather than the quick-fix the Glee scriptwriters conjured up. What about the other week when Schue decided to "seduce" Sue (wrongwrongwrong)? That little diversion was over with pretty quickly. Sometimes the script romps along so merrily that it simply skims the surface of the point it's trying to make.

On another note, I hope that the next series brings greater depth to some of the characters who have been sidelined. I’m a complete Gleek (even though use of that word does make me shudder) and yet find it terrible that I still can’t remember those other two football players’ names. What happened to that hilarious whorish teacher who leapt on Schuh in the staffroom? Glee teeters on developing the other characters but when it comes to taking the plunge and making them more interesting and 3D it just can’t take bring itself to do it.

In a dream world, I'm hoping that next season not only brings greater depth and clarity to some of my favourite characters but that musically they might push the boundaries. I'm not talking thrash metal. I'm not talking Irish folk. I'm talking more of Matthew Morrison doing what he bloody does best and setting TV screens across the globe on fire with his scorching rapping and delicious dance moves. I hence prescribe a rampant recipe of Bobby Brown, Tyrese, Montell Jordan, Blackstreet et al. If there ever was a time for '90s r'n'b cheese to make a serious comeback, my belief is that Glee is the one to do it.

A cheeky taste here with the Thong Song:



Glee: its safe to say that I never will (and never have) stop believing in the magic of this show!

Originally wrote a version of this in response to Anna Pickard's article on the Glee finale

© Miranda Thompson 2010.

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Fresh and Clean

To celebrate my late spring clean on the old blog, I'm introducing French duo Jamaica and their cutesy choon, "I think I like u 2".

The lads used to go by the name Poney Poney but, like this blog, have cleaned up their acts a bit and hence the exotic rename. New name + working with Xavier offof Justice ( I MISS those guys) = amazing summery pop not a million miles away from a Phoenix soundalike.I sense great things to come from these guys.





They're also playing at Pukkelpop, a Belgian festival which I've decided looks the one for me this summer. The line up looks stronger than a slab of Stilton and includes my new must-sees Jonsi, Mumford and Sons, The XX, Deadmau5, Jakwob and The Drums. I'd probs go and see Uffie for the bant, before re-visiting GENIUSES Miike Snow whose new single is IMMENSE (even if "the rabbit" is a crapulous name for a single - although my new wish is for a giant bunny, fyi).





Sorry to resort to bunging up music videos but

a) I've been work-experiencing with this wondrous magazine and have been typing like a '60s secretary all week. I literally couldn't have asked for a better week in a magazine: they've kept me busy with all kinds of fascinating articles on local areas, I'm getting a byline AND freelance pay and the editor gave me a personal critique of my writing. I feel like I've massively improved in the space of the last few days and its really got me feeling that I'm heading down the right path.

b) The music is really good, OK?

ALL CHANGE: I've also linked in the June spotify list. Have a look, you can tell there were some serious end-of-term high jinks which have gone into the making of it (S Club whaaat?)

© Miranda Thompson 2010.


DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Let's Get It Over With

I'm just going to say it and then that will be it. World Cup starts soon. We will probably, definitely not win it - an opinion not borne simply of natural English pessimism but also because we're down Ferdinand and Beckham, and even I'm reasonably football literate enough to realise that's not so good.

Last night I spent the entire evening glued to ITV watching the footie. This wasn't just any football match, hooo nooo, this was the glorious Soccer Aid, set up by the increasingly crazy Robbie Williams in aid of Unicef.
The premise sees England take on the Rest of the World on the pitch with teams composed of football legends like Zidane and Alan Shearer alongside celebs like Mike Myers, Gordon Ramsay...and Jonathan Wilkes.

As well as 90 minutes of ball-kicking, you're completely guaranteed comedy moments, whether with the sarcastic commentaries "Great pass from Myers there, Zidane just couldn't control it" or the crapper celebs increasingly winding themselves up. Golden moments like Dominic Cooper's very girlie kicks spring to mind, or the throw-in by Heroes actor Jason Kyson Lee when it was supposed to be a corner kick. Oops.

Delicious eye candy like the elegant Damian Lewis and fuzzy-haired Michael Sheen (crush slightly ruined after Dad thought he looked like murderer Peter Sutcliffe) also helped the ticking minutes slip by until the ninetieth minute saw a 2-2 draw and the promise of a nail-biting penalty shoot-out ahead.

If you care enough I've popped the video in below, but let me tell you now that you should. The video is the epitome of increasingly hysterical celebrities stepping up to try and score in a seemingly never-ending series of penalties: the better ones go first until finally, knees knocking, the much more amateur of the bunch step up to the plate. Mike Myers rips off his trackies to have a go, that "hunk" from the Devil Wears Prada flails all over the place, and somewhat predictably, Dominic Cooper fails. What's completely shocking is the winning shot, and who takes it (clues: he first kicked a ball just 8 years ago, has been harassing kids in Battersea Park to play with him, is a massive movie star and has eyes more piercing than lasers...). Enjoy.



The imminent arrival of the World Cup means one thing for the music world: football anthems. I have to say I was bracing myself for another round of Vindaloo/Three lions laddishness. I wasn't disappointed.

Britain's' Got Talent Final was the showcase for the latest in novelty-yet-amazing choons, the probably inevitable collaboration of ultimate LADS Dizzee and Corden.
The song is a fantastic mashup of footy shouts (COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK YOU'RE HARD ENOUGH), Tears for Fears AND Blackstreets's ayo ayo ayo ayooo riff offof No Diggity. Dizzee's lyrics are to die for:
"Come on England we need to sort it out,
Put the champs down,
Pull your finger out,
Leave the wags alone,
Set aside your ego,
We're tired of bragging about 40 odd years ago,
We need a victory, quick, fast!"

Put simply, it's bloody brilliant and exactly the kind of song this country's going to love to get pumped up to.


In other football-anthem-related news, I spotted this pic posted on Twitter of We Are Scientists in the studio recording their piss-take tune Goal England!



Originally recorded for Zane Lowe on Radio One, this is an indie romp which sounds like a manic game of football and the irresistibly catchy GOAL GOAL GOAL refrain. Top marks for making the effort lads.

COME ON ENGLAND!!!


© Miranda Thompson 2010.

We Are Scientists photo from Twitter account.

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Cumbria 02/06/10

May I first begin by expressing my utter shock and horror regarding the brutal murders of 12 innocent Cumbrians by a man driven to unimaginable extremes of sanity. All my sympathy and wishes go out to the victims, the bereaved and those affected.

News broke on a carefree post-exam trip skipping between chocolate-box Dartmoor villages sheltering from a brilliant blue sky beneath waxy green leaves, these rural idylls in the shape of those Western Cumbrian hamlets and communities shaken to the core. Just this morning I had recieved a family phone call from the car heading to the Lake District for an afternoon of sunshine and smiles on board beat-up boats and pursuing the incessantly energetic dog. A feeling of security turned to one of stomach-churning dread as the radio blared facts and figures impossible to digest: a frantic phone call restored some semblance of calm, but the despair remained.

In no way am I trying to say that I can identify or emphasise with those who have been affected by the disaster: however, it was not just the events of this afternoon but of my home life which makes it all seem terrifyingly close to home.

Rural life is my home life: five miles along twisting single-track lanes to civilisation and certain isolation in the freezing winter makes for a more solitary lifestyle lacking in twenty-four hour shopping, Chinese take-aways and efficient transport links. However, there would be few who would welcome the exchange of bird song for bus beeps, of tractor convoys for roads blocked by lorries, of fluffy lambkins for pointy-nosed ratties.

The violence in the countryside is all the more shocking becuase it ruptures a context which seems completely at odds with the incident. Mass random shootings seem from another world; occurrences consigned to crazed American students, perhaps, or else copycat Chinese crazies.

"Countryside" conjures images of peace, beauty, stillness, broken by the squwak of a pheasant or the clanging of a vehicle over a cattle-grid. Gunshots and bodies slumped on pavements belong to grey inner city shoot-outs. Not any more.

It is saddeningly time to realise that the rural world is one no longer protected by its connotations of peace, beauty and community: it is one so removed from violence and its effects that I fear wounds will run even deeper. Unlike violence in the big city context, which may act more as a pause button on the hustle and bustle of life as knife crime incidents jostle for newspaper space, I worry that incidents such as the Cumbrian murders will bring rural communities to a shuddering, empty, hopeless halt. The sparseness and peacefulness of country life may only serve to amplify the awfulness of the incidents.
I pray that it won't.

Weekenders

Tenuous linkage between weekend (read.mid-week) mini break in Holland and Vampire Weekend's addition to forthcoming R-Patz/Smacked-face-Stewart's latest efforts in Eclipse.

We finished exams. We went to the Netherlands. We had a TOP time.





So much enjoyment of bridges and lamposts in Amsterdam.





















Living the dream with an actual windmill.

Having a rave in our fluorescent fleamarket finds whilst attempting to demonstrate dubstept to the Dutch.

Cheese-tastic at the squeaky clean supermarket. Gouda times.

To top it off, the soundtrack for Eclipse has been officially named and it's a veritable treasure chest of the great and the good: Muse, Florence and the Machine, Metric, The Dead Weather....and The Bravery. Even though I'm definitely not anywhere near a Twi-Hard (I feel the Twilight saga lacks the positivity and optimism enshrined in the High School Musical series), I very much appreciate the immenseness of the music which has been released in accordance with the film.

One track in particular stood out for me and it's not just because of the hilarity contained in the mere fact that a band called Vampire Weeekend has written a song for a film about blood-suckers. "Jonathan Low" is instantly recognisable as a Vampire Weekend number, resplendent with rhythmic drums and anguished vocals, but to my mind there seems to be a greater sense of melancholia dancing in amongst the chirpiness. What do you reckon? At any rate, it's about as delicious as Bella's blood (massive cringeing as I wrote that).





© Miranda Thompson 2010 (all photos my own).

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Witness the Fitness

One of the most beautiful collaborations I've caught in a while. Perennial favourite Ellie Goulding snuggles up with new kid on the block Lissie, described by the Guardian as a "guitar toting Americana lovechild who belongs in the 1970s" to duet on Lissie's achy-breaky ballad Everywhere I Go in a mash of soaring vocals and tumbling vanilla locks.




I suppose that one of the reasons for posting this is also to celebrate the fact that FINALLY I'm going to see Ellie in Briz this weekend as a part of the immense Dot to Dot festival, (held also in Notthingham and Manchester over the Bank Holiday) a city-centre music festival where you trek between each of the city's varying venues. I went back in 2008 ith the main intent of tracking down French-synt-anglo-wannabes The Teenagers (mission accomplished after hot pursuit of the bassist resulted in a signed French grammar book) and had a banger of a day which was rounded off by the ever fabuolous Mystery Jets, who are also down to finish the live music section, before legends like Jakwob and Doorly take to the decks. Cannot. Actually. Wait.

© Miranda Thompson 2010

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Jeals

Let me set the scene: half empty students' union, barely sticky dance-floor, several litres of Pimms sloshing throught the veins and this banger of a tune comes on. (It's only one of my favourite labels, Cash Money, with their Cash Money "Heroes" blasting some solidly immense r'n'b with Lil' Wayne, Jay Sean, Birdman and an extremly a musty-looking Kevin Rudolf. ) Point being, it's another vaguely shit hip-hop-pop collaboration which inspires me to bring out my best pop-and-lock. Holllla.

Despite hailing from rural Lancashire, I've always been a fan of street dance and hip hop, from shunning Step Up 2 on the internet to view it on the big screen in an empty cinema, to awkwardly shuffling about to Justin Timberlake et al in university classes, to ultimately embarking on a hip hop course in Grenoble where I learnt the basics of breakdancing and have been playing on it as my party trick ever since.

I'd like to pay tribute to some of the most amazing dance routines I've been lucky enough to set eyes on and have inspired me to attempt more moves than drawing a Christmas tree or buttering bread. Nothing too ground breaking, but all immense.

The finale from Step Up 2 (The Streets) Soggy yet spine-tingling - Timberland's Bounce provides the perfect showcase for splashy, showy moves and cardiac arrest move is one i'm still endeavouring to emulate.



Picked this one up off Facebook - deliciously slick with a sick soundtrack.



The most hilarious under-5 I think I've ever seen. I want to track this little guy down and have a dance-off even though instinct is screaming that he'd completely do me in...



© Miranda Thompson 2010

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

International Jukebox

I’ve been a bit lazy this week with exams and all that (on the blog front anyhoo – in library time it’s been a solid 8am-6pm for the last week or so). And whilst my mental muscles ache I thought it would be time to hand the reins over to some people who I would trust with collating my music collection. A little twist: they’re all from different countries.

I suppose the general aim of this blog is to demonstrate the wonders of the World Wide Web, that you can have an online conversation about the latest, freshest beats tearing up American clubs, or even the latest “Swedelicious” offerings and instantaneously check them out via Youtube or Spotify. I love that the exchange of music is so quick-fire and rapid, that the democratisation of music availability means that it’s now so easy to fall in love with new sounds from all corners of the globe.

Thanks mainly to my year abroad, Facebook and Skype means ready access to a few legends with better taste in music than SJP has in shoes, and so via a general thread I grilled them on what their current choons on repeat were. Several pages of music-swappage later, I’ve finally got them down to my personal picks of the crop. If you want to see the most comprehensive list of their offerings, click on the spotify link on the right hand panel. Too good, I know.
From urban North America to rural Wales, The Miranda goes on tour....

We’re kicking off this world tour with what’s caliente down in Madrid. ¡VAMOS!

Ines (Madrid/ Geneva)

Ines offered up a delectable pick n’mix of treasures from Yeah Yeah Yeahs to Passion Pit, but after much deliberation I thought this would be a sweet inclusion. Two minutes and eighteen seconds of trickling-acoustic immenseness by The Weepies, with an adorable video to boot. Gracias chica!!





Emma (Monmouthshire, Wales)

Emma was actually at school with Marina (offof the Diamonds) although she hastens to assure me that her choice was not borne of nepotistic favouritism, and can reveal that leg-warmers and dancing were more her scene at school than bawling out melodies. In Emma’s opinion, the ”whole scenario (of her being famous and having a Selfridges store window) is rather laughable and bizarre”.




Made me think of Regina Spektor just a wee bit, though i suppose that’s par for the course when you’re a throaty, STRONG woman.

Falk (Malmo, Sweden)

I think the blogosphere is missing a new star. Falk’s list to me was so comprehensive that it would take a fair few posts to do it justice!

He went for the new Radio Department (which I’m loving as well), Bombay Bicycle Club and The New Pornographers among others but it was his description of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Shadow’s Keeper” as one of the songs on their new record “with several distinct sounds brought close to perfection” which caught my eye. Laddish and lairy, it’s pretty bloody good.





Chris (Brooklyn, US)

Zooming across the Atlantic now, it’s on to Chris’s folk-tastic list: crammed with exactly the type of music necessary for summer road trips and lazy-barbecue days. Specifically, he recommended this Brett Dennen tune which I’m in complete agreement with, not least for the cheeky Mandy Moore video cameo and Dennen’s beautiful barnet.




Last, and by no means least...


Pascal (Ottawa, Canada)

Pascal is officially THE go-to for the latest and greatest in club anthems and their remixes, as well as the best moves to serve up to them. A shout out from P-dawg to “all the coloured gays in Canada” for this record: five minutes of frolics and fierceness in outfits I would sell my mother for.




Massive thanks to all for their contributions and don't forget to check out the entire list over on spotify (link in panel!).

© Miranda Thompson 2010

DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Food for the Brain

My mind has turned to absolute mush; obscure facts about Nazi occurrences in 1941 and the subsequent historical debates drip out of my chaotic grey mass. Never one to miss out on the fun, my eye has also decided to swell up to what I perceive to be elpahantine proportions (slight exaggeration) and I fear my movements around the darkened corners of the library are akin to Quasimodo's lurking in Notre Dame.

A quick post then before I get back to the delights of academia. When it comes to revision, music is absolutely crucial, especially if you need it turned up loud so as to drown out the yibber-yabber of your next door neighbour's raconteuring of last night shennaniganS. Come next Thursday here's hoping I can embrace some of my own raving and misbehaving, especially with the likes of a post-exam trip to Amsterdam which was booked last night....

Currently on repeat in order of chronological Ipod rotation and seriously recommended to help you through twelve hours of revision doom, let's go.

Morning wake-up call:



Sliding into the long day ahead with the ambient mix of enthralling pop and Lil Wayne spluttering.

Mid-morning stretch between bookshelves:



Mumford and Sons help quell my hunger pangs. Fact.

Post lunch slump:



Banging Outkast rampage helps stave off the everincreasing urge to bury my head among the piles of pointless papers and snooze.

Helping me get to the end of the day: generally anything naughty and nineties. Soothing and introspective acoustics do nothing to kill off fatigue.



Bobby Brown = too good.

As always, I have endeavoured to the best of Spotify's ability to pop them on my playlist; hope you enjoy! Recommendations for any of your own revision/study aids would be massively appreciated!

© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.

D is for DONE (nearly)

Typed it, printed it, bound it. The dissertation is DONE and will be handed in as soon as Bank Holiday rolls away with these disgustingly dark rainclouds. Let's take a minute to celebrate.



10,000 words on the interiors and material culture of eighteenth century country house leads inevitably to this song. I genuinely think that I may be one of a few who could talk with (no) authority and (little) confidence on fashionable furnishings and where to put your servants in your luxury country pile. Can't help but think my interest might have waned a bit later had Damian Hirst been involved and I'd had Alex James to look at. That's actually a bit of a lie: from trawling through musty, dust covered papers untouched for hundreds of years, to spending hours transcribing ant-sized letters accompanied by bowls of tea and bags of e numbers, to finally locking myself in a darkened room and bashing away at a keyboard for weeks on end, there has been a seam of enjoyment somewhere amongst the chaos.

Emerging out of the other end somewhat heavier and of a duller, pasty complexion, I've even discovered a new must-read. No word of a lie, ex Country Life architectural editor Jeremy Musson has penned a fantastic history of servants in the country house, nattily titled Up and Downstairs: The History of the Country House Servant."



There's definetly a film or two to be made out of some of the scandalous snippets included in here, the raunch factor of which rivals Jilly Cooper on a bonkbuster marathon. One that springs to mind was the valet who had "intimate relations" with not only his lady and her young daughter but the lord as well.
Gosford Park's got nothing on this.

Spending long days tapping away on the computer means that my mind has wondered to other places rather than dusty damask coverings, and the discovery of the Pretty Much Amazing music blog is getting very close to knocking old favourite Jeffmix from pride of place as my most cherished music go-to. I check up on PMA on a daily basis and store up the deliciousness of Jeff every month for his dose of genius music selection: got to say that PMA has been boshing out treat upon aural treats recently which showered like snowdrops upon the dank February of academic life. Treats like this bad boy; Kele offof Bloc Party's solo effort.



It's a complete departure from Bloc Party of yore: screaming club night, banging out electo fabulousness and definetly not meant for standing emotionally in a dark corner. Can't wait to see what the rest of the forthcoming LP "The Boxer" has in store.

About a month ago PMA linked to Delorean, a Spanish (Basque) alt. band and their chooon Stay Close from new album Subiza. Althoug I liked this song on first listen for all its jazzy mixing of synths and plaintive vocals, it's grown and grown on me like creeping ivy.



I included this song on my April playlist and (cue casual linkage)have popped it on again on my brand spanking new May spotfy list, avaliable as always from the link on the right of the blog. It's a new month which means a whole new playlist: at this very moment in time just four songs have made it on, including the new Jason Derulo whose lyrics make me think even more happily of life without the diss.

'm feeling like a star, you can't stop my shine,
I'm loving cloud nine, my head's in the sky,
I'm solo, I'm riding solo,
I'm riding solo, I'm ridin solo, sooloooo.
Yeah, I'm feeling good tonight, finally doing me and it feels so right, oh,
Time to do the things I like,

Ahem.

I can also promise you loads of 90s anthems to get loaded up on there: currently listening to 90's Floorfiller Classics which I've been sent to review and joyously rediscovering all kinds of greats. Bobby Brown is a god. For another post, another time, perhaps...

Also sorted out my comments boxes so if you want to leave your thoughts on my posts you no longer have to belong to the google network to do so. hollllaa.

© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.

Feeling Frisky?

It sounds like Pass Out's slightly glam, sassy little sister, complete with mad-fer-it drum and bass breaking it down in the final seconds. It's just a bit amazing. God of Grime Tinie Tempah comes up trumps again with Frisky on another collaboration with Labrinth after their Stylo efforts. I see this not only dominating dancefloors nation wide but probably definetly popping up on some solid remixes: will keep you posted.



Lyric du jour is surely the oh so British prioritising with "Would you risk it for a chocolate biscuit?".


© Miranda Thompson 2010
Comments much appreciated!
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Hungry Like a Wolf

...for good music.
Meant to blog this yonks and yonks ago (aka the last seven days) but with the Big D dominating most trains of thought excepting eating (I swear I go to sleep counting inventories not sheep), though of course, I didn't.

New Mystery Jets. It's truly really very good: following along the lines of their stonking second album Twenty One "Flash a Hungry Smile" jangles along on a summer's breeze, all backing wooos and boshing drums. Cheekily cute lyrics abound:Have you heard the birds and bees/have all caught STD's?

New album's called Serotonin and judging by the sound of Hungry Smile, levels should be shooting through the roof upon listening to this. And that sentence is probably definetly what the Mystery Jets want all muso-journos to be saying. Oh well, 'tis true.



The good news? You can download this track for the princely sum of 0p just by clicking onto their website, here. What a'99 sized summer treat that is.

© Miranda Thompson 2010
Comments much appreciated!
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog

Babas

Warning: complete and utter self indulgence ahead.

Did you like Charlie and his bitten finger? Are you a fan of oh so slightly epic easy listening treasures? Fancy seeing a goat and a small Mongolian tussle in a plastic water bucket? Alright then....



Whilst planning a cinema trip and hence ploughing through hours of trailers to make the selection we stumbled across this documentary. I doubt "Babies" is going to be the next box office sell out but you can't really get much simpler and sweeter than the story of four wee cherubs from different corners of the world taking their first steps and babbling their streams of childish inanities.The inclusion of folk-indie-artiste Sufjan Steven's "The Perpetual Self", found by Fizz after ploughing through the internet, only serves to make me love this even more.

© Miranda Thompson 2010
Comments much appreciated!
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.

500 Days of Summer

Finally, FINALLY managed to watch this in the few hours snatched between hectic Sunday lunch shift and couple-y Sunday night shift. Local Spar doesn't really "do" artsy unrequited love stories (yet manages to fill every other shelf with inane Jim Carrey/Adam Sandler/freaky horror flicks for the apparently massive local fan population of the undead) so obtaining this prized copy probably was a highlight of a Sunday filled with taking food in and out of a kitchen.

Story? Boy meets girl. Boy falls head over heels. Girl...doesn't. Starring the edible Joseph Gordon Levitt, he of bashful 10 Things I Hate About You and 3rd Rock From the Sun fame and Zooey Deschanel, surefire candidate for Katy Perry twinship and all round rosy-cheeked, twinkly eyed cupcake, the script is played out through numbers flicking from 1-500, tracing the days Summer (Deschanel) has been in Tom's (Gordon Levitt) life. Not to mention muted bluesy greens colours dappling the cinematography, seriously covetable clothing and of course, a soundtrack to die for.

It's all about the music: Tom and Summer bond over the Smiths' "There is a Light that never goes out" booming out of his headphones, get drunk and sing raucous karaoke (Tom, a deliciously raw Pixies attempt, Summer, Nancy Sinatra's Sugar Town) and all the while, through the ecstatic highs and deep lows thrown up by their relationship, a haunting soundtrack keeps an emotive pace. As the film is the debut feature effort from music video director Marc Webb, music plays just as important a part as any of the actors.

Even though the Smiths would realistically take home the Oscar for Best Actor for their centrality to the whole shebang, the soundtrack is stuffed with gems. Not content with just bawling to backing tracks in dingy LA bars, Zooey Deschanel is a real life, genuine pop star as part of folky duo She&Him, consisting of she and country artist M.Ward, him. Their USP focuses on jangly, breathy, vintage pop, and their album Volume 1 isn't a million miles away from the Carpenters. They've managed to snag a spot on the soundtrack with an ebbing, plaintive cover of (who else), the Smiths' Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.



If you fancy something a bit more upbeat, but just as endearing, try recent single In The Sun.



Doesn't she just look a doll in this? No wonder Death Cab for Cutie's Ben Gibbard snapped her up. Personally, am inclined to think he may be batting above his average here...

The album plays host to really sneaky songs, of the type that creep up on you and bear you away with their epic-ness. Exhibit#1: Mumm-Ra's She's Got You High



Back in the murky mists of time during my first term at uni, I can vaguely recall bopping about to these lads at the NME tour when it graced the biggest venue uni had to offer. Of course, now I wish my memory was better. Bloody wine.

Exhibit #2 Sarko's laydee friend/wife/hot piece of patisserie. LOOK! Her face MOVES! WOW! Never did I think I would be featuring the Gallic first lady on these virtual pages but she more than deserves buckets of praise for this dreamy piece. Vachement bien.
(is that sarko's love rival at the window?)



Exhibit #3 Temper Trap's Sweet Disposition. I know, I thought it had fallen victim to serious over exposure via radio waves but hearing it juxtaposed to the sweetest loves scenes and joyous pin pricks of Tom and Summer's relationship made me want to put it on constant replay. It's pretty hard to get tired of perfection.



I can't really put the whole album on here but I can tell you to check the rest of it out. We're talking regina spektor, Simon and garfunkel, Fiest and Wolfmother. Spotify it here

For now, I'm going to play you out on what is possibly predictably my all time favourite scene in the film. There's dancing, fountains spurting and tweeting birds alighting on shoulders. Could it get any better? It's only bloody set to You Make My Dreams Come True.




© Miranda Thompson 2010
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog.