I'm going to see the wondrous Miike Snow at the Bristol Thekla this weekend and to celebrate, I’m dedicating this post to the sheer amazingness of the Swedish collective's electropop output. Not only are the group magicians of music themselves, their songs have been subject to some serious remixing by such legends as Caspa, Mark Ronson and Crookers, and I’ve picked the cream of the crop to share right here with you.
Eschewing the more well known faces who’ve remixed the eponymous “Animal” like Crookers and the Ronson, I’ve gone for fellow Swedes Peter Bjorn and John on this one. As well as being amongst my 2009 favourites with a midday Glastonbury slot to remember, I’m always a fan of the smashingly good drums that their songs mould themselves around, showcased in the lolloping “Nothing to Worry About”. They’ve banged the nail on the head here with a fantastic, spaced out, happy-clappy remastering.
Next up, “Black and Blue”. I faced a bit of a Sophie’s Choice on this one, with the fast-paced intensity of the Netsky remix being edged out by this Caspa dubstep treatment. Once again, it came down to the percussion, and I think the slightly sloppy, casual Caspa version just oozed that bit more sophistication than Netsky’s hyperactive attempt.
The big beat rules supreme. Emalkay’s reworking of the haunting “Silvia” is sublime. It radiates sunsets and twilight with ebbing vocals and undulating synths. If you fancy something a bit more static and in-your-face, give the Robotberget mix a go.
Sunday cannot come quickly enough.
© 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.
Thursday 28 January 2010
Monday 25 January 2010
Just Because
I feel like sharing some absolute tunes I can’t get enough of at the moment. Just because.
Ellie Goulding’s Starry Eyed is dominating radiowaves and my head with her deliciously sparky futuristic pop. Her voice is mesmerising, veering from the delicately gravelled-y to soaringly sweet and just dances over this swirling combination of languid pianos and relentlessly frenetic beats. It’s a bloody fit video as well; I’m a more than a bit in love with all the blue and gold and stars and lights, not to mention Goulding’s enviably flawless flicks of eyeliner. I can’t wait for her album to come out enough – 1 March is too far away.
Another piano heavy beauty is “Daylight” by utter sweethearts Matt and Kim. I’ve dug this out of my summer Spotify playlist with the sole intention of brightening up late January essay deadlines. A properly stripped back pop song with lots of fortissimo piano chuntering, it is actually impossible not to listen to this song and not feel a trickle of a ray of some golden sunshine smoothing off the winter’s stress and strains.
And finally, because I am a complete goon and can’t get enough of the boybands – the recent Acafellas episode of Glee nearly finished me off – here is some melodramatic early Noughties cheese. Point Break are proper lads. They like bumping and grinding and wearing their hair in lairy dreadlocks or centre parted curtains. In this slightly melodramatic video for slightly melodramatic song ‘You” (think slowly bashed drums and soaring vocals redolent of footy supporters) the boys mix in a detective trail around the bleak surroundings of New York slash stalking a vaguely fit girl with some truly epic dance routines. We’re talking pointing at the camera, stomping around AND spinning on toes. The move where they pretend to zip their trousers up will probably remain indelibly printed in your mind. Sorry.
Sorry this final, fabulous video's quality is so dire - am sure that the amazingness of the content will more than compensate - Glee shows the others how it's done. I heart Matthew Morrison.
© 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.
Ellie Goulding’s Starry Eyed is dominating radiowaves and my head with her deliciously sparky futuristic pop. Her voice is mesmerising, veering from the delicately gravelled-y to soaringly sweet and just dances over this swirling combination of languid pianos and relentlessly frenetic beats. It’s a bloody fit video as well; I’m a more than a bit in love with all the blue and gold and stars and lights, not to mention Goulding’s enviably flawless flicks of eyeliner. I can’t wait for her album to come out enough – 1 March is too far away.
Another piano heavy beauty is “Daylight” by utter sweethearts Matt and Kim. I’ve dug this out of my summer Spotify playlist with the sole intention of brightening up late January essay deadlines. A properly stripped back pop song with lots of fortissimo piano chuntering, it is actually impossible not to listen to this song and not feel a trickle of a ray of some golden sunshine smoothing off the winter’s stress and strains.
And finally, because I am a complete goon and can’t get enough of the boybands – the recent Acafellas episode of Glee nearly finished me off – here is some melodramatic early Noughties cheese. Point Break are proper lads. They like bumping and grinding and wearing their hair in lairy dreadlocks or centre parted curtains. In this slightly melodramatic video for slightly melodramatic song ‘You” (think slowly bashed drums and soaring vocals redolent of footy supporters) the boys mix in a detective trail around the bleak surroundings of New York slash stalking a vaguely fit girl with some truly epic dance routines. We’re talking pointing at the camera, stomping around AND spinning on toes. The move where they pretend to zip their trousers up will probably remain indelibly printed in your mind. Sorry.
Sorry this final, fabulous video's quality is so dire - am sure that the amazingness of the content will more than compensate - Glee shows the others how it's done. I heart Matthew Morrison.
© 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.
Wednesday 20 January 2010
New Love of My Life: Jersey Shore
The latest and greatest obsession of mine since my devotion to Glee concluded with the coming of the Christmas snow is about as far away as you can get from leg kicking numbers, Sue Slvyester witticisms and fit fit fit Finn.
The name of the game, ladies and gentlemen, is Jersey Shore (BITCH), aka the American equivalent to a stag do in Blackpool. It’s the ultimate reality scenario; MTV plonks 8 twenty-somethings in summertime chav capital “Jersey Shore’, aka the coastline of New Jersey. These aren’t just any young bright things though, we’re talking the uniquely All American subculture of perma-tanned, greasy haired “Guidos’ and “Guidettes’.
Take 4 men and 4 women of Italian-American descent, bake them until they’re a uniform walnut colour, apply liberal hair gel, pump up the boobs and bodies and deck out the whole shebang in diamante Ed Hardy shirts or booty shorts and you’ve got yourself a rowdy, randy set of Guidos. Mixed in with Jacuzzis a go go, all the shots you can muster, a touch of misogynistic violence and MTV have hit the reality spot again with a lethal cocktail ripe with the finest drama since the Spencer/Lauren standoff.
Probably the best bit about the whole thing is the amazing nicknames the cast have bestowed on themselves; dig among the wholly unimaginitive lads Pauly D, Ronnie and Vinny to find Mike, aka “The Situation.” Just one viewing of Jersey Shore makes sure you will never view this phrase in the same light (especially if shown in conjunction with the legendary drinking game http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=250449738638#/group.php?gid=222464180990&ref=ts ), as Mike entraps all females with an IQ of well below par in the Jersey Shore area with the resounding phrase “it’s the situation”, whether referring to his abs, his charm or little Mike. Ahem.
On the girl’s team, you’ve got to love boob-jobbed preying mantis “after I have sex with a guy, I bite their heads off” JWOWW, Sammi “Sweetheart” “aka the sweetest bitch you’ll ever meet“ and the legend that is Snooki, aka “Snickers” a pint sized bundle of boobs who looks like a cross between an Italian grandmother hooker and a hamster. She also acts as the punchbag; in one memorable episode a rowdy meathead punches her in the face after she tells him off for stealing her shot, in another, she gets charged by 3 hefty girls brought back by the ever sleazy "Situation". Unsurprisingly, MTV has faced a storm of controversy over the incident,and despite choosing not to show the punch on the show, type "Jersey Shore fight" into Youtube and the sickening incident is up for all to see.
MTV has also been ripped for perpetuating negative connotations about Italian Americans by encouraging the characters to live up to the expectations of their culture in a house decorated with red, white and green paraphernalia, However, let's be honest, this highly sexed, highly strung group aren't ever going to be the pin ups for youth culture. Personally I think it's a refreshing look at how young people actually live in America. I couldn't give a rat's arse anymore about the sterile lives of squeaky clean teens such as the Jonas brothers or Taylor Swift. Give me Jersey Shore's bedswapping and bitchslapping over celibacy rings and cookies anyday of the week.
I think there's a lot of people out there who agree, and one such example in particular caught my eye. Some legend has created this dedication to the sheer awesomeness of Snooki and unashamedly ripped IYAZ’s “Replay” at the same time.
It's so good, in fact, that to excuse the pun, I've got it on continual REPLAY at the moment.
Whilst I was scouring the web for all things Jersey Shore related, I also found this; bumbling alt teen idol Michael Cera voluntarily submitting himself for a Guido style makeover. Fan-bloody-tastic.
If, by this point, you haven't already succumbed to the succulent delights of the Shore, I urge you to get involved immediately.
Why?
Simple, really. It’s the Jersey Shore, BITTTTTCH!
© 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.
The name of the game, ladies and gentlemen, is Jersey Shore (BITCH), aka the American equivalent to a stag do in Blackpool. It’s the ultimate reality scenario; MTV plonks 8 twenty-somethings in summertime chav capital “Jersey Shore’, aka the coastline of New Jersey. These aren’t just any young bright things though, we’re talking the uniquely All American subculture of perma-tanned, greasy haired “Guidos’ and “Guidettes’.
Take 4 men and 4 women of Italian-American descent, bake them until they’re a uniform walnut colour, apply liberal hair gel, pump up the boobs and bodies and deck out the whole shebang in diamante Ed Hardy shirts or booty shorts and you’ve got yourself a rowdy, randy set of Guidos. Mixed in with Jacuzzis a go go, all the shots you can muster, a touch of misogynistic violence and MTV have hit the reality spot again with a lethal cocktail ripe with the finest drama since the Spencer/Lauren standoff.
Probably the best bit about the whole thing is the amazing nicknames the cast have bestowed on themselves; dig among the wholly unimaginitive lads Pauly D, Ronnie and Vinny to find Mike, aka “The Situation.” Just one viewing of Jersey Shore makes sure you will never view this phrase in the same light (especially if shown in conjunction with the legendary drinking game http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=250449738638#/group.php?gid=222464180990&ref=ts ), as Mike entraps all females with an IQ of well below par in the Jersey Shore area with the resounding phrase “it’s the situation”, whether referring to his abs, his charm or little Mike. Ahem.
On the girl’s team, you’ve got to love boob-jobbed preying mantis “after I have sex with a guy, I bite their heads off” JWOWW, Sammi “Sweetheart” “aka the sweetest bitch you’ll ever meet“ and the legend that is Snooki, aka “Snickers” a pint sized bundle of boobs who looks like a cross between an Italian grandmother hooker and a hamster. She also acts as the punchbag; in one memorable episode a rowdy meathead punches her in the face after she tells him off for stealing her shot, in another, she gets charged by 3 hefty girls brought back by the ever sleazy "Situation". Unsurprisingly, MTV has faced a storm of controversy over the incident,and despite choosing not to show the punch on the show, type "Jersey Shore fight" into Youtube and the sickening incident is up for all to see.
MTV has also been ripped for perpetuating negative connotations about Italian Americans by encouraging the characters to live up to the expectations of their culture in a house decorated with red, white and green paraphernalia, However, let's be honest, this highly sexed, highly strung group aren't ever going to be the pin ups for youth culture. Personally I think it's a refreshing look at how young people actually live in America. I couldn't give a rat's arse anymore about the sterile lives of squeaky clean teens such as the Jonas brothers or Taylor Swift. Give me Jersey Shore's bedswapping and bitchslapping over celibacy rings and cookies anyday of the week.
I think there's a lot of people out there who agree, and one such example in particular caught my eye. Some legend has created this dedication to the sheer awesomeness of Snooki and unashamedly ripped IYAZ’s “Replay” at the same time.
It's so good, in fact, that to excuse the pun, I've got it on continual REPLAY at the moment.
Whilst I was scouring the web for all things Jersey Shore related, I also found this; bumbling alt teen idol Michael Cera voluntarily submitting himself for a Guido style makeover. Fan-bloody-tastic.
If, by this point, you haven't already succumbed to the succulent delights of the Shore, I urge you to get involved immediately.
Why?
Simple, really. It’s the Jersey Shore, BITTTTTCH!
© 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.
Monday 18 January 2010
Welcome to the Block
Something which both my sister and I feel about very, very strongly, save organic lemonade rations and Glee, is the 2008/9 comeback of 80s boyband New Kids on the Block. You might know them from their unbearably punchy anthems such as “Hangin’ Tough” (because they’re “ROUGH”), or “You Got It (The Right Stuff), which pop up on Greatest Boybands of All Time Lists or on VH1, punctuated with suh-weet bashy drums, enough acid denim to actually hurt your eyes and some kind of subconscious demand that you start swinging your arms from side to side like a deranged AIDs monkey.
You might have thought that when the 80s crashed and burned in a bonfire of John Hughes films, hairspray and power suits, so did the “Kids”. Did they heck as like. A few years ago, the GENIOUS idea of their reform arrived on the scene. Was it because Donnie and co were gagging to get back in the spotlight, or because the coffers plumped out by 80 million record sales were starting to get flabby? Whatever the reasons, the outcome was good. Magical, even.
NKOTB (as they shall be thus known), dropped the new album August 2008, imaginatively titled “the Block”. With such a masculine, concrete title, you’re automatically distracted from visions of paunchy thirty year old men trying to breakdance in double denim. HOOO NOOO. This record is jampacked with classically sleazy soft r’n’b, done only as the Americans can with more gloss and polish than a national dusting competition. But no worries, for those who like their NKOTB old-skool, there’s still plenty of “hood’ references and opportunities to fling your limbs.
Despite the album apparently topping the Billboard Chart in the
I plan to take you “Step by Step” (bad reference to other NKOTB tune there…sorry.) through the highlights of this hidden gem, each with their own ghetto story to tell. From preying on lonely girls at bars to listing camera makes, they should really market this to wannabe gangstas on the prowl. You’ll thank me later, promise.
Track One: “Click Click Click”
Blog fans might have already encountered this little beauty of a low key album opener, named not after snapping fingers to some epic beats as might be thought, but rather repeated clicks of a camera manhandled by a Kid. Yes, the boys just want to take a photo of you getting ready for your big night out together. He’s been waiting bloody ages whilst you trowl on another layer of fake tan, and all he can think about is DOING IT. It’s all about stocking up the wank bank in this little ditty.
Track Two: Single (featuring Ne-Yo)
In essence, the intended “mama” (read: prey) has been stood up by her man. Lucky for her New Kids and Ne yo happen to be in the same club and they’re keen to sort the situation.What sane female could resist the combined cries of the boys hollering that she “don’t got to be alone…I’ll be your boyfriend”? One who respects the grammatical rules as laid out in the English language, that’s who.
Track 3: Big Girl Now (featuring Lady Gaga)
The collaborations just keep coming; for this romper stomper of a song the Gaga herself’s been roped in to lend a bit of gravitas to the situation. Or not. It’s all about yet another tasteful theme here, more than possibly linked to the fact that the screaming fans of the 80s are now slightly maturer ladies, where the Kids appreciate the fact that Gaga’s matured from a hormone laden “little girl” to a sassy young lady demanding that someone “beat me/ spank me daddy, come on touch my body”. The Kids sum up their appreciation of this scenario by collectively announcing that “with a body like that, you’ve got a grown man ready to blow.” Lovely.
Track 4: Summertime
A shocker this one. The outrageous sexual connotations have been suspiciously replaced with a reminiscnent Block pondering a hot summer romance of days gone by. Best bits? The hooooo bits in the background.
Just a really really good arm swinging pop song. Although the video featuring a host of “models” shipped in from the sidewalks of LA is disturbing for the boys rubbing themselves up against what are essentially bits of plastic with frozen fish faces attached.
Track 5: 2 in the Morning
OHHHHH MY GODDDD… SOOOO MUCH DRAAAAMA! There’s been a fight in the Block house; it’s two in the morning and things still haven’t been resolved. She’s not even wearing her “favourite pair of boxers which make you look so hot girl.” For god’s sake woman, he wants to know “if you’re mad at me before Gray’s Anatomy.” You can tell where the priorities lie here; no wonder she’s having a hissy fit.
“Musically”, Donnie’s continual repetition of “tick tick tock” in the background is unnerving to say the least.
Track 7: Dirty Dancing
The tempo’s been pimped out and pumped up; throw in some creepy tinkling on the invories on repeat and it's all about impressing the laydeez with the film buff knowledge. What better way to impress a woman than referencing classic 80s dance extravaganza “Dirty Dancing” and inferring some juicy roleplay by declaring that “its so crazy; she’s like Baby, I’m like Swayze”?
I’m not going lie; for the first 50 listens of this tune I didn’t get the gist at all and thought they were singing “swayzee” which was presumably some hot Yank lingo. It’s not, and I was wrong. Perfect for drinking games and excellent lubrication for a night out after playing on repeat; boys go on “Dirty” and “Swayze” girls on “Dancing” and “Baby”.
Plus, the video is absolutely, unbelivably, completely immense. Ageing boyband meets medieval Germany = music video perfection.
Track 12: Put It On My Tab (featuring Akon)
Probably my favourite off the album; a pulasating, slightly dirty number, grubbed up even more with the presence of sexobessed Akon. The boys strip themselves down to show that ultimately, they don’t care about material possessions and its not all about being up in a girl’s face “asking if I can know your name, your sign, what’s on your mind?” The general consensus is that she’s had a “long day” and she doesn’t need to be bothered by sleazeballs. Hell nizzo; they don’t even want to get her drunk. Akon’s ordered her a drink, popped it on his tab (because he’s got money to burn as if it grows on trees), both appreciating her fatigued demeanour and recognising that getting her crunked at this precise moment wouldn’t be appropriate. So that’s a “pina colada, hold the alcohol please.” What nice boys they are.
And there you have it. What better way to end this taster of the NKOTB comeback album with a chirpy tune about buying a woman a drink, sandwiched between those saturated with what are essentially creepy expressions of ageing middle-aged men’s sexual urges.
Why it wasn’t bigger, I just don’t know.
© 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.
Thursday 14 January 2010
SOLID
“Not a lot of people get a second chance….The Solid Team is back.”
Hear ye, hear ye, all those who mourn the demise of Mis-teeq, Artful Dodger, Sweet Female Attitude… (I could go on, but I won’t), you can stop dusting off the Craig David posters. The crew that were and are the most solid around have returned with this tune I can only describe as bangin’, bruv. Romeo ain’t dunn.
Kicking off 2010 with a bang bigger than knife crime levels, So Solid Crew have brought it back to the old skoool…which they never really left. Since You Went Away is big, juicy melange of classic mid tempo garage tunes which dominated the charts in the early Noughties; some sarf
Top marks to them on the video. If I were in a garage crew, I’d defs be picturing a High School Musical opening sequence remake. It’s an oh so typical example of a low budget Brit attempt to emulate their much richer American counterparts. If this was some kind Wu Tang Clan ting you can bet yo ass there would be Bentleys and bitches all up in the scene. As it is, you get Brixton Community Centre and a few cheerleaders who can’t even be bothered to strip below pulling their tops up a bit and miming at the camera. Let’s not even mention the dodgy interlude where the acting exudes more cringe factor than a year’s worth of fart stories from Sugar magazine.
Masssssssssssive props have to go to my girl Lisa Maffia for not only rocking the 2 foot circumference hoop earrings (bling is back fyi) but dusting out the Kylie style hot pants and insouciant attitude. Love. It.
Good fare from the Crew though. Not quite as edgy as 21 Seconds (t t t), but then again, aside from a triangle, what is?
© 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.
Tuesday 5 January 2010
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DAMIAN HIRST
This Christmas was probably the best conclusion to a year I’ve ever remembered; thick layers of snow coating the surrounding countryside (let’s ignore the transport implications and general ASBO effects frost has on rural Britain), the visit of my 2 year old cousin who helped rejuvenate Christmas back to the old school magic seen through the eyes of a toddler and a pillowcase packed with all manner of things I wanted but didn’t know I did. My ultimate Christmas present, however, was undoubtedly the unique, once-in-a-lifetime “gift” of becoming a legitimate work of art under the auspices of Damian Hirst at the Tate Modern along with my twin sister.
On paper, it sounds an activity not a million miles away from slave labour. Sitting for four hours at a time in a windowless box patrolled by uniformed assistants whilst strangers gawp at you probably isn’t the typical pre Christmas mini break. And what is modern art anyway? Being pickled in formaldehyde and hung up alongside any farmyard of assorted creatures? However, having become dedicated followers of BBC’s The Apprentice-Does-Art “School of Saatchi” and subscribing heavily to the theory that twins are natural attention seekers (something to do with the amount of gawping attracted by any activity done in tandem), my twin Fizz and I were more than up for the challenge of being exhibited for 4 hours at a time over 2 days.
The whole business revolved around the Pop Life Exhibition held at the Tate Modern from the 1st October 2009 to the 17th January 2010, a conglomeration all of the biggest and brashest names in Pop Art and of course, Young British Artists. Jeff Koon’s iconic bunny sculpture rubbed shoulders with Warhol’s Factory relics, and in our very own section of the gallery, following from Koon’s strictly over 18, strictly eye-watering room of life sized sex sculptures, we were back to back with Hirst’s “Golden Calf” (another formaldehyde jobby) and face to face with a rambling, gigantic quilt courtesy of Tracy Emin. All of this was soundtracked to booming 80s and 90s dance cheese classic, which, playlisted on repeat, ensured slight nausea occurring to the opening bars of “I Wanna Have Sex” by the end of our total 8 hour stint. It had actually been on visiting the exhibition way back in October, sandwiched neatly between appearing on This Morning commenting on Stephen Gately’s death and indulging in the guilty pleasure of 3 hours in the company of Piers Morgan as he filmed his chatshow, that Fizz and I discovered the potential to put our twinship on display. Having badgered the then twins on display for contact info, a campaign alternating between pleas and demands zapped between Fizz’s inbox and the Tate’s. Getting the precious email was the single greatest thing to occur at the end of a November dominated by essay deadlines
I really should explain what our whole piece was about, as best I can without sounding too abstract-y or with modern art-esque pretension. The premise was that a set of twins, dressed the same, doing the same thing at the same time, be seated beneath two iconic Hirst spot paintings in an effort to make a comment on individuality. From a distance, the paintings look the same, but up close, you can see how the paint is ordered differently, and I suppose that the same thought was to be applied to the twins as well, an idea that I completely support; even though we look the same, we ARE different. There was also some subtext in there about being Nature’s attempt at mass production, but I’m not so much a fan of that interpretation. The fantastic part to it was that the title of the piece was subjective according to which twins were participating at the time, and so during our stint “Felicity, Miranda”, Damian Hirst (1992), composed of “gloss household paint on wall, chairs and twins” hung proudly on the wall of the Tate. The date 1992 managed to perplex many, including us, until it was explained that that was when the “piece” was first shown. Even so, it elicited confused questions from punters, wanting to know if we had been sat in the room since 1992, and were therefore professionals at twin installation art or whether it was simply our birth date.
I had no idea of what to expect before Fizz and I took our places beneath the paintings at the beginning of our first shift, decked out in matching clothes for the first time since our late toddler-dom of the early ‘90s. I certainly didn’t expect a safety warning from our “twin co-ordinator” on what to do if any admiring visitor got too close or inappropriate, leaving me generally glaring at anyone who came within 5 feet for the next hour or so; whilst interaction with the public was encouraged, there was a definite limit! Since we had to do the same thing at the same time, for the sake of not getting too complicated we’d chosen a selection of publications to simultaneously flick through, making sure that we were on the same page too. A great way of ruining a read, I can tell you now. However, once being absorbed into the magazine, any thought of being on display in a public art gallery completely fled my thoughts, leading to a complete mind-fuck on lifting my head from Q’s 50 Biggest Stars of the Century. On the second day of exhibition, we’d splashed out on Battleships to spice up what was beginning to become quite a mundane experience, raising lots of questions from art-goers on who was winning. The realisation that being on display was beginning to be bog standard was also, dare I say it, thought provoking. In the same way that people sometimes LOVE meeting a set of twins, Fizz and I tend to be quite immune to our twin-ness, and our extreme excitement about being in the Tate was itself fading into casual acceptance. It really did make me think that that which someone might take for granted is actually something which should be prized more.
The highlight of the exhibition though, was definitely the interaction with all kinds of visitors, from friends and family proudly grouped near us like best in show at Crufts (and a certain “mate” confusing all visitors by winding them up that we were Damian Hirst’s children) to both kids and adults who were either spellbound or completely unimpressed by our presence. The period in residence ran like a series of peaks and troughs; high points pinpointed where massive groups crowded round for some sometimes rowdy Q&A or getting into deep and meaningful conversations with foreign tourists on the finer points of sitting on a chair in a room. The latter actually meant that I ended up regularly rolling out the rusting French, in possibly one of the more bizarre places in life where I’ve practised my oral froggy skills. Practically everyone we spoke to shared our opinion that it was a fabulous opportunity to be involved in, with one woman declaring that seeing us was “the first time Damian Hirst’s made me smile”. We were even proclaimed to be one keen bean’s “favourite set of twins” on her fourth visit to the exhibition, but then again she was a Californian and probably has different excitement levels to the rest of the world. Of course, there were those who blithely ignored our purpose as art exhibits, either asking us questions because they thought we were gallery assistants or else craning over us to look at the paintings because they thought we were just sitting down.
Not so great bits? When, despite best teeth baring and smiley eyes, people scuttled past avoiding eye contact and you had to resort to rereading a piece in Marie Claire about body brushing or some similar stimulating subject. Also, without sounding like a sanctimonious arse, the whole part of offering yourself up to inspection by people to compare and contrast between us, never mine or Fizz’s favourite part of having the twin factor picked over. I think that is only in being a twin that people seem to legitimise this practice without realising the annoyance it causes; who’s the cleverer one, who’s the more fun, even who has more spots? Yet the exhibition wasn’t full of people loudly listing what they perceived as our differences, though I did cringe in anticipation when a four year old girl, prodded by her mum loudly announced she knew the difference between us. You can imagine my relief when she pointed at me and shouted “That one has darker hair!”
What was it like to actually be a piece of art? Completely and utterly bizarre, although the people-watching opportunities were like no other (literally being a fly on the wall) as was the opportunity to have a good old chinwag with hundreds of random, interested people. Consider it Modern Art speed-dating.
Without sounding too schmaltzy, the exhibition gave us an opportunity to re-evaluate my own sense of identity; I can’t say that I had a gap year in India type revelation where I “found myself”, but it made me realise that being a twin isn’t always the burden that I perceive it to be. In fact, it’s incredibly special.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
On paper, it sounds an activity not a million miles away from slave labour. Sitting for four hours at a time in a windowless box patrolled by uniformed assistants whilst strangers gawp at you probably isn’t the typical pre Christmas mini break. And what is modern art anyway? Being pickled in formaldehyde and hung up alongside any farmyard of assorted creatures? However, having become dedicated followers of BBC’s The Apprentice-Does-Art “School of Saatchi” and subscribing heavily to the theory that twins are natural attention seekers (something to do with the amount of gawping attracted by any activity done in tandem), my twin Fizz and I were more than up for the challenge of being exhibited for 4 hours at a time over 2 days.
The whole business revolved around the Pop Life Exhibition held at the Tate Modern from the 1st October 2009 to the 17th January 2010, a conglomeration all of the biggest and brashest names in Pop Art and of course, Young British Artists. Jeff Koon’s iconic bunny sculpture rubbed shoulders with Warhol’s Factory relics, and in our very own section of the gallery, following from Koon’s strictly over 18, strictly eye-watering room of life sized sex sculptures, we were back to back with Hirst’s “Golden Calf” (another formaldehyde jobby) and face to face with a rambling, gigantic quilt courtesy of Tracy Emin. All of this was soundtracked to booming 80s and 90s dance cheese classic, which, playlisted on repeat, ensured slight nausea occurring to the opening bars of “I Wanna Have Sex” by the end of our total 8 hour stint. It had actually been on visiting the exhibition way back in October, sandwiched neatly between appearing on This Morning commenting on Stephen Gately’s death and indulging in the guilty pleasure of 3 hours in the company of Piers Morgan as he filmed his chatshow, that Fizz and I discovered the potential to put our twinship on display. Having badgered the then twins on display for contact info, a campaign alternating between pleas and demands zapped between Fizz’s inbox and the Tate’s. Getting the precious email was the single greatest thing to occur at the end of a November dominated by essay deadlines
I really should explain what our whole piece was about, as best I can without sounding too abstract-y or with modern art-esque pretension. The premise was that a set of twins, dressed the same, doing the same thing at the same time, be seated beneath two iconic Hirst spot paintings in an effort to make a comment on individuality. From a distance, the paintings look the same, but up close, you can see how the paint is ordered differently, and I suppose that the same thought was to be applied to the twins as well, an idea that I completely support; even though we look the same, we ARE different. There was also some subtext in there about being Nature’s attempt at mass production, but I’m not so much a fan of that interpretation. The fantastic part to it was that the title of the piece was subjective according to which twins were participating at the time, and so during our stint “Felicity, Miranda”, Damian Hirst (1992), composed of “gloss household paint on wall, chairs and twins” hung proudly on the wall of the Tate. The date 1992 managed to perplex many, including us, until it was explained that that was when the “piece” was first shown. Even so, it elicited confused questions from punters, wanting to know if we had been sat in the room since 1992, and were therefore professionals at twin installation art or whether it was simply our birth date.
I had no idea of what to expect before Fizz and I took our places beneath the paintings at the beginning of our first shift, decked out in matching clothes for the first time since our late toddler-dom of the early ‘90s. I certainly didn’t expect a safety warning from our “twin co-ordinator” on what to do if any admiring visitor got too close or inappropriate, leaving me generally glaring at anyone who came within 5 feet for the next hour or so; whilst interaction with the public was encouraged, there was a definite limit! Since we had to do the same thing at the same time, for the sake of not getting too complicated we’d chosen a selection of publications to simultaneously flick through, making sure that we were on the same page too. A great way of ruining a read, I can tell you now. However, once being absorbed into the magazine, any thought of being on display in a public art gallery completely fled my thoughts, leading to a complete mind-fuck on lifting my head from Q’s 50 Biggest Stars of the Century. On the second day of exhibition, we’d splashed out on Battleships to spice up what was beginning to become quite a mundane experience, raising lots of questions from art-goers on who was winning. The realisation that being on display was beginning to be bog standard was also, dare I say it, thought provoking. In the same way that people sometimes LOVE meeting a set of twins, Fizz and I tend to be quite immune to our twin-ness, and our extreme excitement about being in the Tate was itself fading into casual acceptance. It really did make me think that that which someone might take for granted is actually something which should be prized more.
The highlight of the exhibition though, was definitely the interaction with all kinds of visitors, from friends and family proudly grouped near us like best in show at Crufts (and a certain “mate” confusing all visitors by winding them up that we were Damian Hirst’s children) to both kids and adults who were either spellbound or completely unimpressed by our presence. The period in residence ran like a series of peaks and troughs; high points pinpointed where massive groups crowded round for some sometimes rowdy Q&A or getting into deep and meaningful conversations with foreign tourists on the finer points of sitting on a chair in a room. The latter actually meant that I ended up regularly rolling out the rusting French, in possibly one of the more bizarre places in life where I’ve practised my oral froggy skills. Practically everyone we spoke to shared our opinion that it was a fabulous opportunity to be involved in, with one woman declaring that seeing us was “the first time Damian Hirst’s made me smile”. We were even proclaimed to be one keen bean’s “favourite set of twins” on her fourth visit to the exhibition, but then again she was a Californian and probably has different excitement levels to the rest of the world. Of course, there were those who blithely ignored our purpose as art exhibits, either asking us questions because they thought we were gallery assistants or else craning over us to look at the paintings because they thought we were just sitting down.
Not so great bits? When, despite best teeth baring and smiley eyes, people scuttled past avoiding eye contact and you had to resort to rereading a piece in Marie Claire about body brushing or some similar stimulating subject. Also, without sounding like a sanctimonious arse, the whole part of offering yourself up to inspection by people to compare and contrast between us, never mine or Fizz’s favourite part of having the twin factor picked over. I think that is only in being a twin that people seem to legitimise this practice without realising the annoyance it causes; who’s the cleverer one, who’s the more fun, even who has more spots? Yet the exhibition wasn’t full of people loudly listing what they perceived as our differences, though I did cringe in anticipation when a four year old girl, prodded by her mum loudly announced she knew the difference between us. You can imagine my relief when she pointed at me and shouted “That one has darker hair!”
What was it like to actually be a piece of art? Completely and utterly bizarre, although the people-watching opportunities were like no other (literally being a fly on the wall) as was the opportunity to have a good old chinwag with hundreds of random, interested people. Consider it Modern Art speed-dating.
Without sounding too schmaltzy, the exhibition gave us an opportunity to re-evaluate my own sense of identity; I can’t say that I had a gap year in India type revelation where I “found myself”, but it made me realise that being a twin isn’t always the burden that I perceive it to be. In fact, it’s incredibly special.
© Miranda Thompson 2010
Monday 4 January 2010
xxtra, xxtra
One of my new year's resolutions is to tend to this here baba of a blog more and what better way to nourish it with some good old TLC than this little gem. This darling of a tune was one of my favourite songs which accompanied the close of the decade and has been splashed all over WATCH OUT FOR IN 2010 lists in just about every Sunday supplement with style.
If, like me, your idea of a top ten night in involves some late night-ish Grimmy booming out of your radio box via Auntie Beeb's airwaves, this song is already going to be seeped well into your subconscious. Even though I personally believe that You've Got the Love has been killed more times than goldfish being flushed down toilet bends, this version by the xx is a sneaky remix of a cover by the indomitable Florence. And its just bloody gorgeous. Even the slightest hint of a honk from old Flo is soothed over with the musical equivalent of thick pouring cream, pepped up with perky drum beats and all in all a delicious, tummy warming delight.
© 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.
If, like me, your idea of a top ten night in involves some late night-ish Grimmy booming out of your radio box via Auntie Beeb's airwaves, this song is already going to be seeped well into your subconscious. Even though I personally believe that You've Got the Love has been killed more times than goldfish being flushed down toilet bends, this version by the xx is a sneaky remix of a cover by the indomitable Florence. And its just bloody gorgeous. Even the slightest hint of a honk from old Flo is soothed over with the musical equivalent of thick pouring cream, pepped up with perky drum beats and all in all a delicious, tummy warming delight.
© 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.
Friday 1 January 2010
Looking Back Over My Shoulder: 2009
Looking back over the swarm of pictures and memories that made up this past year, I’ve self indulged as one can only do on a blog in looking back on all the brand spanking new things I got up to. It turned out to be quite a heck of a lot. Here’s my take on being a 21 year old in 2009…
Suggested music to accompany perusals:
OR
1) Spending my 21st birthday on the slopes overlooking Grenoble dressed in pyjamas.
2) Concluding said epic 21st celebrations with even more epic twin fight after ensuring that no Erasmus in the residential area exited my building conscious or coherent.
3) Passing an exam on the European Union by repeating exactly the same guff twice (and getting in some truly damning Daily Mail quotes on lightbulbs annoying the English along the way).
4) Drinking along to pretty much any song that repeated key words every ten seconds. Highlights: Dirty Dancing by New Kids on the Block. Low point. Hit me Baby One More Time (and yes, drink on Baby. Byebye Baby Chris.)
5) Making it on the infamous “Adults weekend” skiing with parents and assorted “ladz”. Nothing x rated at all about unless you count the calories consumed gorging on tariflette and vin chaud.
6) Discovering Maximator. The killer can of beer with a 10 per cent alcohol content. Cue pole dancing every road sign between my bedroom and the bar.
7) Doing the epic chocolate trail around gorgeous Turin. Probably the only legitimate outing where stuffing your faces with delectable Italian delights for three hours is permissible.
8) Seeing marmots emerging from their snug hibernation whilst on a chairlift at Deux Alpes on the very last day of the ski season.
9) Living the high life on the French Riviera; Nicoise ice creams mingled with petrol fumes at the Monaco Grand Prix warm up and the waft of decadence and celebrity at Cannes Film Festival. Let’s not talk about the jellyfish-meets-bikini-bottoms incident.
10) Getting Germ-y not once but twice this year. A Berlin beerfest with Rabotiens was followed by hot summer days on the Rhine with Roles in Mainz for just 2 poundS return airfare. German Karaoke is officially one of my “interests”.
11) Glastonbury-ing! From the nine hour bus journey slash immense cider pub crawl from Bristol to wellies, sunshine and pear cider surrounding the soundtrack of the summer. Dizzee, NERD, Passion Pit, Prodigy, Metronomy, Friendly Fires, Tom bloody Jones…even Gaga helped ease the rentre back on British ground. Not to mention two and a half hours of The Boss.
12) Having another 21st birthday six months after my actual anniversaire and hence hosting the hordes in rural Lancashire. Wonderful speeches and impressive efforts from all. Fab.
13) CANADA BABY. First time visiting North America and so first time for everything; from beaver tails to barrel racing, Tim Hortons to traipsing through the wilderness of the Great Lakes. Seeing raccoons. Cottaging (Canada styles). The CN Tower. Niagara. Toronto/Ottawa/Montreal/Quebec. Grenoblois reunions. The Beer Store.
14) Having probably the best lecture of my life when teacher decides to play 90s rave tunes to get us in the amphetamine spirit. Course subject? History of Drugs, natch.
15) Stopping drinking post pancreas trauma. Whilst irrational anger and late night kebab stops have ceased, immature behaviour in social situations and dancing like the best of drug addled 80s kids however, has not.
16) Becoming a work of art with the twin under the name of Damian Hirst. 8 hours of identical identities at the Pop Life Exhibition, Tate Modern, and a whole host of encounters with inquisitive art lovers/children.
17) Discovering “I’m On A Boat”. And consequently appling it to every situation possible. Actually getting on a boat in boiling Annecy in June was jizztastic to say the least.
18) Making it to the Crit final with the IEP Grenoble girl’s basketball team and being popped on in a consolatory gesture in the closing minutes. Level of carnability (that legendary combination of carnage colliding with liability levels) at Crit = immense.
19) Bouncing like some freaky puppet on strings whilst rub a dub dubbing to Loefah.
20) Commencing media domination with the start of this here blog, Twitter updates (mainly consisting of what exercise I am doing and what I am eating, suppose it is more a food diary than insightful excerpts from daily life) and began radio presenter training in the hope that one day I may become master of the fader.
© 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.
Suggested music to accompany perusals:
OR
1) Spending my 21st birthday on the slopes overlooking Grenoble dressed in pyjamas.
2) Concluding said epic 21st celebrations with even more epic twin fight after ensuring that no Erasmus in the residential area exited my building conscious or coherent.
3) Passing an exam on the European Union by repeating exactly the same guff twice (and getting in some truly damning Daily Mail quotes on lightbulbs annoying the English along the way).
4) Drinking along to pretty much any song that repeated key words every ten seconds. Highlights: Dirty Dancing by New Kids on the Block. Low point. Hit me Baby One More Time (and yes, drink on Baby. Byebye Baby Chris.)
5) Making it on the infamous “Adults weekend” skiing with parents and assorted “ladz”. Nothing x rated at all about unless you count the calories consumed gorging on tariflette and vin chaud.
6) Discovering Maximator. The killer can of beer with a 10 per cent alcohol content. Cue pole dancing every road sign between my bedroom and the bar.
7) Doing the epic chocolate trail around gorgeous Turin. Probably the only legitimate outing where stuffing your faces with delectable Italian delights for three hours is permissible.
8) Seeing marmots emerging from their snug hibernation whilst on a chairlift at Deux Alpes on the very last day of the ski season.
9) Living the high life on the French Riviera; Nicoise ice creams mingled with petrol fumes at the Monaco Grand Prix warm up and the waft of decadence and celebrity at Cannes Film Festival. Let’s not talk about the jellyfish-meets-bikini-bottoms incident.
10) Getting Germ-y not once but twice this year. A Berlin beerfest with Rabotiens was followed by hot summer days on the Rhine with Roles in Mainz for just 2 poundS return airfare. German Karaoke is officially one of my “interests”.
11) Glastonbury-ing! From the nine hour bus journey slash immense cider pub crawl from Bristol to wellies, sunshine and pear cider surrounding the soundtrack of the summer. Dizzee, NERD, Passion Pit, Prodigy, Metronomy, Friendly Fires, Tom bloody Jones…even Gaga helped ease the rentre back on British ground. Not to mention two and a half hours of The Boss.
12) Having another 21st birthday six months after my actual anniversaire and hence hosting the hordes in rural Lancashire. Wonderful speeches and impressive efforts from all. Fab.
13) CANADA BABY. First time visiting North America and so first time for everything; from beaver tails to barrel racing, Tim Hortons to traipsing through the wilderness of the Great Lakes. Seeing raccoons. Cottaging (Canada styles). The CN Tower. Niagara. Toronto/Ottawa/Montreal/Quebec. Grenoblois reunions. The Beer Store.
14) Having probably the best lecture of my life when teacher decides to play 90s rave tunes to get us in the amphetamine spirit. Course subject? History of Drugs, natch.
15) Stopping drinking post pancreas trauma. Whilst irrational anger and late night kebab stops have ceased, immature behaviour in social situations and dancing like the best of drug addled 80s kids however, has not.
16) Becoming a work of art with the twin under the name of Damian Hirst. 8 hours of identical identities at the Pop Life Exhibition, Tate Modern, and a whole host of encounters with inquisitive art lovers/children.
17) Discovering “I’m On A Boat”. And consequently appling it to every situation possible. Actually getting on a boat in boiling Annecy in June was jizztastic to say the least.
18) Making it to the Crit final with the IEP Grenoble girl’s basketball team and being popped on in a consolatory gesture in the closing minutes. Level of carnability (that legendary combination of carnage colliding with liability levels) at Crit = immense.
19) Bouncing like some freaky puppet on strings whilst rub a dub dubbing to Loefah.
20) Commencing media domination with the start of this here blog, Twitter updates (mainly consisting of what exercise I am doing and what I am eating, suppose it is more a food diary than insightful excerpts from daily life) and began radio presenter training in the hope that one day I may become master of the fader.
© 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.
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