market to mainstage.

Last winter we found an unusually precious gem whilst rummaging through Portobello Road Market. This lucky find was no antique, however. It was Robbie Boyd. 

One year on and we found ourselves headed to hear the sounds of his guitar once more. This time we were getting the full band experience in a professional setting; violins, backing singers, mandolins, keyboard...at the O2 academy. 

'...streets where the riches of ages are stowed...'

The O2 Islington is a much more intimate space than we anticipated, crouching away in Angel almost apologetically. But small stages are awesome for various reasons - most importantly, dancing right in the front row is completely possible. When we arrived Robbie was outside greeting his fans, along with those who had come to support other acts. Three (admittedly over-used) words: down.to.earth.
 It is so wonderful to attend a performance of such talented musicians who are yet still humble enough to keep it personal and show such appreciation for their audience. I'm sure one day the sea of support will be far too vast for this...

'...Hearts melt Orion's belt is always round the corner...' 

Beginning with 'I wont let you go', the band sounded simply stunning. A love-child of London quirk and pure Originality, their live performance revealed no large nuances from the perfected efforts in the recording studio, -- except for the the added thrill of energy naturally acquired in live performance.

It is unusual to break free from the sounds of every other band on offer, to find something that makes you smile through no work of cliché and you are not half-ashamed to say, "wow, I liked that" (Katy Perry style). Don't get me wrong, their songs address the same existential questions that many others too face, - mainly concerning love. But stereotype was never a thought that arrived whilst listening to the band as they persistently entertained their audience, clearly enjoying their music as much as us. A particular favourite of ours has to be 'A London Reminition'. The melangé of recognisable, everyday places and features of the capital is intriguing and comical to any London lover as they are taken on a nippy tour all over, via the underground..

'...haggle in Portobello until the price is right...'

Robbie's characteristically husky voice belted out his [[very own]] lyrics of charm, giggle-inducing realism and wit as the band soared through a set that was over only too soon. Finishing with 'Red Queen', the crowd swayed and jiggled to the music as the strings' melodies dwindled and the fingers came to a halt.

Applause.

Despite our extreme enthrallment, it was a shame that the band were encircled by the clashing sounds of rockers pumping out heavy bass beats. The whole scene felt very high-school battle of the bands, so much so that the funky folk of The Robbie Boyd Band was a very pleasant holiday on the ear drums. Call us old fogies if you will. When the following acts took over the stage, the rhyming of "silhouette"and "cigarette" was the cue for us to pootle offwards into the London night - new R.B.B CD's in hand.

Concert: 02 Academy Islington, Thursday July 28th. Tickets, £8. (bargain)
So take a listen.

Have a click: http://www.robbie-boyd.com/

Do a bit of downloading, or better still go buy the album. No regrets in store, promise.

Incentive & Vigilance

Between the Wish and the Thing the world lies waiting.

the beauty of the physalis

I got a box of these wonderful little things in my graze box this week.
.
Mixed with orange-infused sultanas and dried strawberries, I was filled with wonderment on putting one in my mouth and tasting its bittersweet, orangey tangy flavour. A little crunchy, full of seeds and utterly undefinable.

I googled "physalis" to find out what it used to be before having all of its liquids sucked out of its very core... I found something you will more likely recognise, one of these:

I like living in squalor, it's liberating.

I'm all up for liberation, searching yourself, being free, young, foolish, carefree... But there's a reason why I pay £90 a week and its not to live like a squatter.

"I like living in squalor, it's liberating."

It culminated yesterday when my housemate said these words, and I understood it all.

He is one of those confusers who speaks in code and one must work at double the brain speed in order to fathom the meticulous thoughts being channeled in near-on Morse. That and the Brazillian layer of accent-felt that decorates the code and muffles recognizable sounds.

An intriguing kind, this one deserves a bit of explanation, not a poem. (see Girl)

He's introduced me to David Foster Wallace, a writer who I'd like to give a little more time to than sparce tube journeys and hurried bus rides. With a dissertation in the running though I always get that guilt feeling when picking up anything other than a module or dissy-related publication... Enzo talks to me about experimental writing, the beauty of books that have no punctuation and no understandable structure, and the likes of his own novel's style which he is in the process of "ripping off". It goes something like every chapter describes what will happen in the following chapter, so your always ahead of yourself yet tripping over your own feet, I guess.

Anyway, between the experimental music and writing, the quiet lady who hasn't spoken to me or even set eyes on me in days, the house looks like the sort of place Enzo would find liberating. But you know, the rest of us might not. What is to be done? An endless battle with dirt where even your fellow species wont help you fight is slightly impossible, and one ends up retreating to their section of barracks and trying to defend that, gunning down any suspicious enemies on their way out. So I guess that's what I do. Armed with antibac spray, I make my way downstairs to the kitchen when needs must, and out the door, whilst keeping my small barracks upstairs an un-invaded space.

I think its useful to pick up the dirt life sometimes sweeps in your path and throw it right back in its face. Coming back from a month at home, where my mother beautifully preserves our house and spends hours manicuring each room and each flower in the garden, its difficult to come into an abode where the only floral arrangement is drawn onto yellowing post cards on the wall and the newest member of the household is Grime.

The only way is just to laugh.

So, armed with the spray, I potter around, making piles of dirt and amusing myself with the obscenity of the things left rotting in the fridge, the way doors are anonymously slammed and the way bin bags are slowly making friends on the floor. Some days I put the bins in their proper place, the garbage shoot. Sometimes I wait to see how difficult it gets to open the kitchen door due to the amount of crap behind it before someone who put it all there decides to shift it. I am still waiting.

I think I can keep laughing as I know it wont be forever, and so long as I keep my kettle disinfected and wash everything twice with boiling water before putting food in it or eating with it, then i'm ok. Liberated as can be.

 peace and love.

Hermionemma.

Its a weird clashing of the fictional and real worlds when an iconic geeky witch becomes the face of an iconic fashion label. I say 'real' with a large handful of salt because the celebrity world is as far from real as fizzing whizbees. But still, celebrity or not, childhood witch and high fashion just don't really fit. Burberry + the one my dad used to call "Hermy-own" when reading the books with me (oh yes we did), just jars a little bit. But then Emma Watson was never really hermione, the 11 year old continues to grow up like the character in the books never could, and her screen self was only ever an attempt to portray the figure in J.K.Rowling's imagination...
 Its the end of an era when the stories you grow up with come to an end in some way. Of course the literature will always remain, the characters immortalized, but Emma on the other hand is not stuck....She said it was weird but good that small children sometimes think she is actually Hermione, but in many ways she is to many many people. Its strange when you partly wish the face that has come to represent the character to remain stuck in the literary world and not the real. I'm sure she wouldn't mind a life of chocolate frogs and innate genius...? But she will grow up --as the news seems to have suddenly become obsessed with--, she will be pretty and she will be slightly bad at acting and she will be a major star. Hollywood just couldn't help themselves all those years ago, when given the task of finding a frizzy-haired child. They couldn't help but go to Oxford and find a little budding beauty that would way outgrow her alter-frizz..

The sun makes for an immediately whimsical world. 

John Agard.

You'll be greeted

by a nice cup of coffee
 when you get to heaven
 and strains of angelic harmony.

    But wouldn't you be devastated
 if they only serve decaffeinated
 while from the percolators of hell

    your soul was assaulted
 by Satan's fresh espresso smell?

Photo taken on the South Bank.
Coffee courtesy of a lovely Italian man.

Girl.

I live with a girl who's taller than me,
and pale as pale could be,
She leaves a trail of mess -I guess its her I never see.
She doesn't like the sunlight, and doesn't like the heat,
When walking by my side I note the largeness of her feet.
She looks so pale and oh so tall when I look up to greet but then
The height my mother gave to me is no great feat to beat.

 ~x~