An article by John B. Breslin in the April 17 edition of the U.S. Catholic magazine America contrasts the two different approaches to writing about Jesus adopted in two recent novels. Jesus: A Novel, by Walter Wangerin Jr., succeeds, Breslin says, largely because Wangerin has remained faithful to the contours of the Gospel genre, and also because he is an exceptional writer. In contrast, Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt, by Anne Rice, is necessarily largely fabrication, due to the miniscule amount of New Testament material. There are some powerful passages in Rice's novel, he points out, but 90 percent of it has no basis whatsoever in the Gospels and can therefore only be called fantasy.
Hmm. I believe J.G. Ballard doesn't like excessive accuracy and attention to detail in novel writing either.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Is That a Recommendation, Then?
The opening line to a review of the musical version of The Color Purple in the March 20 issue of Jet magazine:
"From laughter and tears to resentment and fear, the engaging Broadway production of The Color Purple stirs up all kinds of emotions."
The fear being, presumably, "They're never going to let us out of this theatre."
"From laughter and tears to resentment and fear, the engaging Broadway production of The Color Purple stirs up all kinds of emotions."
The fear being, presumably, "They're never going to let us out of this theatre."
While Manuel Estimulo Is Indisposed
There's an interesting piece over at Backseat Drivers, by Diana Pérez García, commenting on the interview in El País Sunday’s supplement with Manuel Fraga Iribarne, Franco’s minister and founder of PP. The conclusion in particular is worth reading.
Monday, May 15, 2006
When Someone Has Done Something Good, Then Perhaps That Good Deed Becomes the Eye of a Bird
Featured in the latest edition of Harper's:
From a “protocol,” dated April 18, 1931, by Fritz Fränkel, a friend of Walter Benjamin’s, detailing an experiment of Benjamin’s with hashish. The notes, translated by Howard Eiland, are included in On Hashish, published this month by Belknap/Harvard University Press. The Latin phrase below, from Horace, means “Mountains will labor; a funny little mouse will be born.”
11:00 P.M. Walter Benjamin, 1.0 gram.
12:00 A.M. SUDDEN LAUGHTER; repeated short bursts of laughter.
“I’d like to be transformed into a mouse mountain.” (Naturally: “Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.”)
Subject notices a crumpled piece of paper lying next to a bottle on a little table, and in a delighted tone he designates it “little monkey” and also “stereoscope monkey,” “little stereoscope.”
It is a sign of the very bright and friendly character of the intoxication that the subject’s pleasurable relation to his own existence does not manifest itself here, as it usually does, in arrogance and distance. His exultation is put to use in an opposite direction—namely, as tenderness toward things and, above all, toward words. The play with the words “stereoscope monkey” is wholly characteristic of the way the hashish intoxication sets going a volatilization of ideas into word aromas, so much so that, for example, the proper ideational substance of the word—the root idea “monkey”—ends up completely evaporating.
The room we’re in is said to be “lacking charm.” The subject explains that “oriental palaces belong here. I am not thinking of describing them, although that might suit the palaces.” Then the subject says he would like “to see something beautiful.”
Subject picks up a newspaper and makes a serious attempt to read it—is therefore not really occupied with any inner visions brought on by intoxication. Of course, for whatever reason, physical or mental, the reading attempt fails. (Presumably, the cause is physical and mental.) The subject finds himself inexplicably amused by the dullest political slogans.
At this point, the test subject crosses the threshold of intoxication (properly speaking).
“All colors take their rise from the snow—you must have regard for the colors.”
As in earlier experiments, the subject raises his right arm, supported at the elbow, to a vertical position, with the index finger pointing upward. “Perhaps my hand will slowly turn into a little branch.”
Test subject occupies himself again with the room, this time in a friendlier spirit than before, calling it “little room” and addressing it in the familiar: “Little room, I’d like to say something beautiful to you.”
The test subject turns to colors again, uttering the word “green” in a long, singing tone (held for about twenty seconds), and then he says, “Green is also yellow.”
So far as this last remark is concerned, it surely means what it says, hut also presumably more than what it says. Fundamentally, there is the experience of a representation of something yellow next to that of something green. These representations can be circumscribed most readily by the image of a luxuriant meadow whose border spills yellow sand. The lengthened vowel in the word “green” implies that the voice is being drawn out by the sound, just as the idea of green has appertaining to it something attractive, enticing, something that draws one ever further into the distance. The voice wanders in pursuit of the sound, and the inner eye in pursuit of things.
The deepest stage of the intoxication begins, it would seem. Introduced with much ado, the proclamation of secrets begins. Unfortunately, the second of these secrets cannot be recovered, since at this point the compiler of the protocol was very energetically prohibited from taking notes. This behavior speaks for the depth of the intoxication, for at shallower stages the vanity of the intoxicated man is gratified by the fact that his words are being noted down. The first of these secrets: “It is a law: There is a hashish effect only when one speaks about the hashish.”
The test subject urgently requests that the window be shut. I close the window, and my action is greeted with a lively show of gratitude. In this context arises a speculation: “When someone has done something good, then perhaps that good deed becomes the eye of a bird.”
The test subject claims to be feeling “an exceedingly strong effect, combined with the most powerful things I’ve ever felt with hashish.” The character of the intoxication seems to him now “indescribably festive.” At this point the second secret made its appearance.
Test subject expresses the wish that the protocol writer not address him in the familiar as “du.” The reason for this: “I am not I; I am the hashish at certain moments.” Physical manifestations are also particularly strong at this stage:
“My legs as though tied together.”
The following sentence—”Important thoughts must be put to sleep for a long time”—may relate to the process of deferment in the expression of a thought, that hesitation which can sometimes lead to total suppression of the thought. There follows, in a “deep phase, in which I descend almost at will, and to a mighty depth,” the third “great” secret. This is in fact a crystallization of the basic character of this particular intoxication. It is designated the “secret of wandering.” What defines wandering is not purposeful movement, not a spontaneity, but an unfathomable being-drawn. Wandering may be understood in reference to the clouds, if one were prepared to follow their drift with the feeling that they are not moving on their own but are being drawn.
“No one will be able to understand this intoxication; the will to awaken has died.”
Some chocolate offered to the subject is declined with the words: “Eating belongs to another world.” He is “separated from food by a glass wall.”
The mood suddenly shifts. Test subject calls out abruptly: “New turn in the intoxication!” and, laughing repeatedly, says he’s now “suddenly in an operetta mood.” The subject’s consciousness of the strength of the intoxication is demonstrated by his comment that “the intoxication could last thirty hours.”
Test subject suddenly falls asleep (1:15 A.M.).
From a “protocol,” dated April 18, 1931, by Fritz Fränkel, a friend of Walter Benjamin’s, detailing an experiment of Benjamin’s with hashish. The notes, translated by Howard Eiland, are included in On Hashish, published this month by Belknap/Harvard University Press. The Latin phrase below, from Horace, means “Mountains will labor; a funny little mouse will be born.”
11:00 P.M. Walter Benjamin, 1.0 gram.
12:00 A.M. SUDDEN LAUGHTER; repeated short bursts of laughter.
“I’d like to be transformed into a mouse mountain.” (Naturally: “Parturiunt montes, nascetur ridiculus mus.”)
Subject notices a crumpled piece of paper lying next to a bottle on a little table, and in a delighted tone he designates it “little monkey” and also “stereoscope monkey,” “little stereoscope.”
It is a sign of the very bright and friendly character of the intoxication that the subject’s pleasurable relation to his own existence does not manifest itself here, as it usually does, in arrogance and distance. His exultation is put to use in an opposite direction—namely, as tenderness toward things and, above all, toward words. The play with the words “stereoscope monkey” is wholly characteristic of the way the hashish intoxication sets going a volatilization of ideas into word aromas, so much so that, for example, the proper ideational substance of the word—the root idea “monkey”—ends up completely evaporating.
The room we’re in is said to be “lacking charm.” The subject explains that “oriental palaces belong here. I am not thinking of describing them, although that might suit the palaces.” Then the subject says he would like “to see something beautiful.”
Subject picks up a newspaper and makes a serious attempt to read it—is therefore not really occupied with any inner visions brought on by intoxication. Of course, for whatever reason, physical or mental, the reading attempt fails. (Presumably, the cause is physical and mental.) The subject finds himself inexplicably amused by the dullest political slogans.
At this point, the test subject crosses the threshold of intoxication (properly speaking).
“All colors take their rise from the snow—you must have regard for the colors.”
As in earlier experiments, the subject raises his right arm, supported at the elbow, to a vertical position, with the index finger pointing upward. “Perhaps my hand will slowly turn into a little branch.”
Test subject occupies himself again with the room, this time in a friendlier spirit than before, calling it “little room” and addressing it in the familiar: “Little room, I’d like to say something beautiful to you.”
The test subject turns to colors again, uttering the word “green” in a long, singing tone (held for about twenty seconds), and then he says, “Green is also yellow.”
So far as this last remark is concerned, it surely means what it says, hut also presumably more than what it says. Fundamentally, there is the experience of a representation of something yellow next to that of something green. These representations can be circumscribed most readily by the image of a luxuriant meadow whose border spills yellow sand. The lengthened vowel in the word “green” implies that the voice is being drawn out by the sound, just as the idea of green has appertaining to it something attractive, enticing, something that draws one ever further into the distance. The voice wanders in pursuit of the sound, and the inner eye in pursuit of things.
The deepest stage of the intoxication begins, it would seem. Introduced with much ado, the proclamation of secrets begins. Unfortunately, the second of these secrets cannot be recovered, since at this point the compiler of the protocol was very energetically prohibited from taking notes. This behavior speaks for the depth of the intoxication, for at shallower stages the vanity of the intoxicated man is gratified by the fact that his words are being noted down. The first of these secrets: “It is a law: There is a hashish effect only when one speaks about the hashish.”
The test subject urgently requests that the window be shut. I close the window, and my action is greeted with a lively show of gratitude. In this context arises a speculation: “When someone has done something good, then perhaps that good deed becomes the eye of a bird.”
The test subject claims to be feeling “an exceedingly strong effect, combined with the most powerful things I’ve ever felt with hashish.” The character of the intoxication seems to him now “indescribably festive.” At this point the second secret made its appearance.
Test subject expresses the wish that the protocol writer not address him in the familiar as “du.” The reason for this: “I am not I; I am the hashish at certain moments.” Physical manifestations are also particularly strong at this stage:
“My legs as though tied together.”
The following sentence—”Important thoughts must be put to sleep for a long time”—may relate to the process of deferment in the expression of a thought, that hesitation which can sometimes lead to total suppression of the thought. There follows, in a “deep phase, in which I descend almost at will, and to a mighty depth,” the third “great” secret. This is in fact a crystallization of the basic character of this particular intoxication. It is designated the “secret of wandering.” What defines wandering is not purposeful movement, not a spontaneity, but an unfathomable being-drawn. Wandering may be understood in reference to the clouds, if one were prepared to follow their drift with the feeling that they are not moving on their own but are being drawn.
“No one will be able to understand this intoxication; the will to awaken has died.”
Some chocolate offered to the subject is declined with the words: “Eating belongs to another world.” He is “separated from food by a glass wall.”
The mood suddenly shifts. Test subject calls out abruptly: “New turn in the intoxication!” and, laughing repeatedly, says he’s now “suddenly in an operetta mood.” The subject’s consciousness of the strength of the intoxication is demonstrated by his comment that “the intoxication could last thirty hours.”
Test subject suddenly falls asleep (1:15 A.M.).
Sunday, May 14, 2006
First as Tragedy, then as Farce
Friday, May 12, 2006
Oh Fuck
| You Belong in Amsterdam |
 A little old fashioned, a little modern - you're the best of both worlds. And so is Amsterdam. Whether you want to be a squatter graffiti artist or a great novelist, Amsterdam has all that you want in Europe (in one small city). |
Thursday, May 11, 2006
A Future in Need of an Update
For English white boys of a particular vintage and reticence, the novels of J.G. Ballard were as close as we got to pornography in our early teenage years (indeed, for some of us, it was as close as we got to women at all). Quite what impact the clinical descriptions of Elizabeth Taylor's armpit and Jackie Kennedy's left orbit had on our collective sexual development is difficult to say, although I suspect early exposure to H&E magazine, swapped in Mell Square for a packet of 10 Park Drive, was more likely to deprave us (and perhaps the fags would have depraved us still more).
Sadly, none of that obsessive attention to the fetishistic is apparent in A User's Guide to the Millennium: Essays and Reviews. Despite the first half of the title, this collection already feels severely dated, leading one to wonder which particular millennium Ballard had in mind. Indeed, a number of these pieces date back to the early 70s, when some of us were just getting to grips with Crash and The Atrocity Exhibition and looking for more of the same (maybe "getting to grips with" is an inappropriate metaphor to use here!).
Unless you're interested in inaccurate predictions about the future of science fiction or the shape of cities and automobiles to come, there isn't much in here that will grab you. Some of Ballard's reflections on Shanghai may be of passing note, but much of it has been covered elsewhere in his oeuvre. Only the final piece, a "Project for a Glossary of the Twentieth Century," held my attention, and then perhaps only because its central idea was stolen from Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary. Here's a quick sample:
The Warren Commission Report: The novelization of the Zapruder film.
Lysenkoism: A forlorn attempt not merely to colonize the botanical kingdom, but to instil a proper sense of the puritan work ethic and the merits of self-improvement.
Telephone: A shrine to the desperate hope that one day the world will listen to us.
Typewriter: It types us, encoding its own linear bias across the free space of the imagination.
Hallucinogenic drugs: The kaleidoscope's view of the eye.
and last but most humourously
Automobile: All the millions of cars on this planet are stationary, and their apparent motion constitutes mankind's greatest collective dream.
Sadly, none of that obsessive attention to the fetishistic is apparent in A User's Guide to the Millennium: Essays and Reviews. Despite the first half of the title, this collection already feels severely dated, leading one to wonder which particular millennium Ballard had in mind. Indeed, a number of these pieces date back to the early 70s, when some of us were just getting to grips with Crash and The Atrocity Exhibition and looking for more of the same (maybe "getting to grips with" is an inappropriate metaphor to use here!).
Unless you're interested in inaccurate predictions about the future of science fiction or the shape of cities and automobiles to come, there isn't much in here that will grab you. Some of Ballard's reflections on Shanghai may be of passing note, but much of it has been covered elsewhere in his oeuvre. Only the final piece, a "Project for a Glossary of the Twentieth Century," held my attention, and then perhaps only because its central idea was stolen from Ambrose Bierce's Devil's Dictionary. Here's a quick sample:
The Warren Commission Report: The novelization of the Zapruder film.
Lysenkoism: A forlorn attempt not merely to colonize the botanical kingdom, but to instil a proper sense of the puritan work ethic and the merits of self-improvement.
Telephone: A shrine to the desperate hope that one day the world will listen to us.
Typewriter: It types us, encoding its own linear bias across the free space of the imagination.
Hallucinogenic drugs: The kaleidoscope's view of the eye.
and last but most humourously
Automobile: All the millions of cars on this planet are stationary, and their apparent motion constitutes mankind's greatest collective dream.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Robin Hood: Trying to Make Crime Fun
Gang of anarchists dressed as superheroes robbing food from posh restaurants in Hamburg and giving it to the unemployed.
. . . they left a note behind saying: "Without the abilities of the superheroes to help them, it would be impossible for ordinary people to survive in the city of the millionaires."
. . . they left a note behind saying: "Without the abilities of the superheroes to help them, it would be impossible for ordinary people to survive in the city of the millionaires."
Album Art
A nice post by Tom over at The Bad Rash presents some of his favourite album covers in celebration of the forthcoming show at MACBA, the Museu d'Art Contemporani de Barcelona. Happily, the show will still be on while we're there for Primavera, and MACBA's one of my favourite places in the city. Besides, I need to replace my MACBA sweat shirt, which, for no apparent reason, shrunk after a stint in the dryer.
Oh yeah, that was it.
Oh yeah, that was it.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Rest in Peace, Grant McLennan
sometime on saturday 6 may, grant mclennan, one half of the marvelous songwriting team that was the go-betweens, passed away in his sleep.
mclennan met robert forster at university in brisbane in the late seventies, thus beginning an on-off partnership that lasted for nearly thirty years and producing many marvelous songs that never got anywhere near the recognition they deserved.
despite widespread critical acclaim, the go-bies' sales were never more than minimal in their first incarnation in the eighties and they eventually threw in the towel towards the end of that decade. mclennan and forster both released several solo records in the nineties before reforming the go-betweens and, with the backing of sleater-kinnie, releasing the universally lauded the friends of rachel worth. the equally excellent bright yellow, bright orange followed a few years later and last year they released what mojo magazine deemed the "instant classic" oceans apart.
a year earlier, i had seen them for the first time, performing a greatest hits set at the barbican in celebration of the release of the remastered versions of their eighties output. rarely have i seen such a large audience revere a band so much. it was - to those in the know, at least - a triumph, of sorts, and every face that left that concert beamed like a baby with a new rattle.
despite burgeoning recognition in the UK and their native australia, they remained all but unknown in the USA and a friend of mine saw them play a 400 capacity venue in new york city only last year.
mclennan was, it seems, an affable, modest, literate man - something which comes through in many of his wonderful songs.
doubly sad is the fact that he died, at only 48, with seemingly many more great songs in his power.
he will not be missed nearly as much as he should be but those who do feel his loss feel it so keenly that it numbs the soul.
(a memorial thread has been put in place on the go-betweens message boards. amongst those posting are pat nevin, norman blake, gerard love and edwyn collins)
mclennan met robert forster at university in brisbane in the late seventies, thus beginning an on-off partnership that lasted for nearly thirty years and producing many marvelous songs that never got anywhere near the recognition they deserved.
despite widespread critical acclaim, the go-bies' sales were never more than minimal in their first incarnation in the eighties and they eventually threw in the towel towards the end of that decade. mclennan and forster both released several solo records in the nineties before reforming the go-betweens and, with the backing of sleater-kinnie, releasing the universally lauded the friends of rachel worth. the equally excellent bright yellow, bright orange followed a few years later and last year they released what mojo magazine deemed the "instant classic" oceans apart.
a year earlier, i had seen them for the first time, performing a greatest hits set at the barbican in celebration of the release of the remastered versions of their eighties output. rarely have i seen such a large audience revere a band so much. it was - to those in the know, at least - a triumph, of sorts, and every face that left that concert beamed like a baby with a new rattle.
despite burgeoning recognition in the UK and their native australia, they remained all but unknown in the USA and a friend of mine saw them play a 400 capacity venue in new york city only last year.
mclennan was, it seems, an affable, modest, literate man - something which comes through in many of his wonderful songs.
doubly sad is the fact that he died, at only 48, with seemingly many more great songs in his power.
he will not be missed nearly as much as he should be but those who do feel his loss feel it so keenly that it numbs the soul.
(a memorial thread has been put in place on the go-betweens message boards. amongst those posting are pat nevin, norman blake, gerard love and edwyn collins)
Sunday, May 07, 2006
In which Tony Wilson gets it wrong...again
In his column in this month's Uncut, Anthony H. refers to Morrissey as "the miserable twat from Altrincham" overlooking the facts that:
a) Mozza was born and bred in Stretford
b) Ian Brown is on the cover of said magazine, a more fitting candidate for the moniker and
3) there are lots of miserable twats in Altrincham
a) Mozza was born and bred in Stretford
b) Ian Brown is on the cover of said magazine, a more fitting candidate for the moniker and
3) there are lots of miserable twats in Altrincham
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Rebels to the End
Today's New York Times has a report on the opening night of the "AngloMania" exhibition of British fashion organized by Vogue's Anna Wintour at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
" . . . the Anglo-Irish crowd must have felt there was something stiflingly unreal in the hedges and pub food, an Englishness that was merely for show. Anyway, by dinnertime, the grumbling had started.
"Can you believe they're giving us pies?" a British model said when a lamb pie was put in front of her.
When John Lydon, the former Sex Pistol known as Johnny Rotten, found his seat — the last at a long table and arguably one of the least desirable in the highly orchestrated seating plan — he was visibly upset. Which was funny: You wouldn't expect a punk to attend a society dinner, much less be aggrieved by his placement. Mr. Lydon stormed out twice, cursing museum workers. Eventually he took his seat, and Ms. Wintour came by to mollify him.
As glamorous and fun as the party was, as it is every year, you had a feeling that the British impulse toward anarchy — a desire to take the stuffing out of everything — had to prevail. Even the Americans could no longer contain themselves. At one point, the socialite Lauren Davis, sitting with Camilla al-Fayed, Ms. Cole and the designer Lazaro Hernandez, tapped Ms. Lohan on the shoulder.
"Tell me the next time you go to the ladies' room," Ms. Davis said. "I want to have a cigarette."
"I'm smoking at the table," Ms. Lohan said.
"I am, too," Ms. Davis answered. "But I just feel awful about it."
Well, really. Where will it end?
I'm only disappointed they didn't invite Johnny Vegas.
" . . . the Anglo-Irish crowd must have felt there was something stiflingly unreal in the hedges and pub food, an Englishness that was merely for show. Anyway, by dinnertime, the grumbling had started.
"Can you believe they're giving us pies?" a British model said when a lamb pie was put in front of her.
When John Lydon, the former Sex Pistol known as Johnny Rotten, found his seat — the last at a long table and arguably one of the least desirable in the highly orchestrated seating plan — he was visibly upset. Which was funny: You wouldn't expect a punk to attend a society dinner, much less be aggrieved by his placement. Mr. Lydon stormed out twice, cursing museum workers. Eventually he took his seat, and Ms. Wintour came by to mollify him.
As glamorous and fun as the party was, as it is every year, you had a feeling that the British impulse toward anarchy — a desire to take the stuffing out of everything — had to prevail. Even the Americans could no longer contain themselves. At one point, the socialite Lauren Davis, sitting with Camilla al-Fayed, Ms. Cole and the designer Lazaro Hernandez, tapped Ms. Lohan on the shoulder.
"Tell me the next time you go to the ladies' room," Ms. Davis said. "I want to have a cigarette."
"I'm smoking at the table," Ms. Lohan said.
"I am, too," Ms. Davis answered. "But I just feel awful about it."
Well, really. Where will it end?
I'm only disappointed they didn't invite Johnny Vegas.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
I Don't Believe Anyone Appears in Carlow Deliberately
From the Carlow People:
"Supermodels, movie stars, helicopters swirling in the skies over Carlow and, most of all, bad boy rock stars.
There was more than a little frisson of excitement around Tullow Street, Carlow, last Monday night, when Babyshambles hit the stage in The Music Factory.
The band, whose lead singer Pete Doherty is infamous for living the rock and roll lifestyle, played to a house packed with enthusiastic fans.
Not only was there quite a number of people surprised that Pete Doherty and Co. even showed up for the gig - the band had postponed their only Dublin show the previous week - others were amazed to hear that the infamous rock star turned up in Carlow bright and early on Monday morning.
So early did the boys from Babyshambles arrive at The Music Factory that they had breakfast with staff before Pete himself helped one of the cleaning women with the hoovering!
'Never judge a book by its cover,' Eamonn Tucker, General Manager of The Music Factory, told the Carlow People.
'We were expecting a tyrant but he was lovely, he didn't live up to his reputation at all.
'He was an absolute gentleman. The band hung out here all day, watching videos, eating, doing the sound checks and meeting their fans.'
While Babyshambles blew the audience away with their edgy rock sound, alleged sightings of Pete's ex-girlfriend, Kate Moss, circulated around the venue. Someone else swore that they'd spotted movie-star, Keanu Reeves, arriving by helicopter but most were just happy to worship at the altar of Babyshambles.
Having hung out in The Music Factory for the day, Pete confessed to Eamonn that the Carlow gig was their favourite and even vowed to return to play an acoustic set in a few week's time.
Who knows, if Babyshambles do reappear on a stage near you, he might even be sporting the Carlow jersey he was presented with by his fans here."
"Supermodels, movie stars, helicopters swirling in the skies over Carlow and, most of all, bad boy rock stars.
There was more than a little frisson of excitement around Tullow Street, Carlow, last Monday night, when Babyshambles hit the stage in The Music Factory.
The band, whose lead singer Pete Doherty is infamous for living the rock and roll lifestyle, played to a house packed with enthusiastic fans.
Not only was there quite a number of people surprised that Pete Doherty and Co. even showed up for the gig - the band had postponed their only Dublin show the previous week - others were amazed to hear that the infamous rock star turned up in Carlow bright and early on Monday morning.
So early did the boys from Babyshambles arrive at The Music Factory that they had breakfast with staff before Pete himself helped one of the cleaning women with the hoovering!
'Never judge a book by its cover,' Eamonn Tucker, General Manager of The Music Factory, told the Carlow People.
'We were expecting a tyrant but he was lovely, he didn't live up to his reputation at all.
'He was an absolute gentleman. The band hung out here all day, watching videos, eating, doing the sound checks and meeting their fans.'
While Babyshambles blew the audience away with their edgy rock sound, alleged sightings of Pete's ex-girlfriend, Kate Moss, circulated around the venue. Someone else swore that they'd spotted movie-star, Keanu Reeves, arriving by helicopter but most were just happy to worship at the altar of Babyshambles.
Having hung out in The Music Factory for the day, Pete confessed to Eamonn that the Carlow gig was their favourite and even vowed to return to play an acoustic set in a few week's time.
Who knows, if Babyshambles do reappear on a stage near you, he might even be sporting the Carlow jersey he was presented with by his fans here."
Monday, May 01, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
