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.