Pearl Jam Review for rubyruby e-zine

The Force Unleashed

Seattle’s ‘’other band’’ play a rare club date at London’s Shepherds Bush Empire ahead of their highly anticipated UK shows at the 02 and Manchester’s MEN Arena.

People tend to forget that if Kurt Cobain hadn’t done what most twenty-seven year old celebrity manic depressives seem to do best, Nirvana may have become ‘’that other Seattle band’’ rather than the all conquering force that dominated both the airwaves and the wardrobes of lugubrious students the world over.

Instead, Cobain’s grizzly intervention ensured his own band's immortality and consigned Pearl Jam to the role of nearly men, their mojo smothered by one of Kurt’s crusty cardigans. It’s a bizarre notion when you consider that ‘’Seattle’s other band’’ has sold more than sixty-million records worldwide and is responsible for at least two albums that helped to galvanise American Rock.

Watching artists that are accustomed to playing vast arenas attempt to downsize for one off shows is always intriguing. Some make the transition with ease whilst others react like over indulged Roman Centurions who have been plucked from the Coliseum and thrown into some backwater bear pit out in the sticks.

Luckily, Pearl Jam fit the former, with mercurial front man Eddie Vedder seizing the initiative and revealing a playful side that is at odds with his typically brooding demeanour. The music isn’t half bad either, with the band mixing the usual array of hits with material from new album Backspacer (out September 20). These days Vedder, 44, bears more than a striking resemblance to Jeff Bridges’ The Dude, and whilst his trademark growl fails him on a few occasions no one seems to care as the audience carries him through, bellowing out the lyrics to anthems Alive, Even Flow and Why Go – tracks that sound more ferocious than ever in a venue as compact as this.

The new material doesn’t have quite the same profound effect, but this is down to a lack of familiarity rather than quality, and new single Fixer even hints at a lighter more pop orientated sound. Pearl Jam have always had more in common with the classic rock bands of the sixties and seventies than the doom-laden grunge acts of the early nineties, and it’s really no surprise that they should choose to cover the Bob Dylan classic All Along the Watchtower. The choice of tune may not surprise, but the sight of special guest Ronnie Wood meandering on to the stage certainly does, drawing gasps from the crowd. It’s a special moment, one that is repeated later on as Pete Townsend’s brother Simon (Townsend) joins them during the first of three encores for a blistering rendition of Who classic The Real Me.

Pearl Jam have always prided themselves on being a band for the people, refusing to take corporate sponsorship and regularly launching scathing attacks on the likes of MTV, Ticketmaster, and pretty much anyone else than the band consider to be lacking in ethics. Politics aside, they certainly give the people value for money, barely pausing for breath during a cathartic two-and-a-half-hour set that confirms what everyone inside already knew: that when it comes to live Rock n’Roll there are few, if any, then can live with them.

In Nostalgia We Trust - Review of Download for new E-zine in Scotland -http://www.myspace.com/rubyrubypromotions

Tent and toilets aside, there’s nowhere else to hide on the Sunday night as snakes and leppards are let loose at Download.

Whether or not hard rock’s commercial resurgence owes more to a depth of talent or a dearth has been a subject for hot debate at this year’s Download, especially since the major players can be easily categorised in two distinct groups: the pretenders to the throne and their poodle-haired predecessors the pantheons of rock – who if not for Download would either be sat at home or filling colostomy bags in one.

It’s worrying that the likes of Slipknot, Marilyn Manson and even Korn can still slide seamlessly into the former, passing themselves off as young pretenders standing toe-to-toe with the likes of Whitesnake , Def Leppard and Motley Crew – combined age 712. Manson and Korn go back a good fifteen years and it’s been ten since Des Moines’ finest unleashed the scariest masks seen since that dream sequence in Labyrinth. In all seriousness, whilst they may be capable of headlining, can you see Slipknot and co packing in the punters on a barmy summer’s evening in good old Blighty ten or twenty years from now?

Perhaps Trivium, or ACDC acolytes The Answer will rise to the challenge and dethrone the preening princes of androgyny, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. This line of thought would be all the more pertinent if the Pantheons had stumbled, torch flailing, only for it to be grasped at the last by the sturdy hand of youth and vitality. They didn’t! With the exception of Motley Crew – the one chink in hair metal’s spandex enhanced armour – the old timers set about reinforcing the status quo with consummate ease.

Not to be confused with something that’s been gathering dust on the shelf at your local Threshers, Whitesnake rose like a lycra-clad phoenix from Deep Purple’s toxic ashes, soaring into the eighties off the back of radio-friendly hits Here I Go Again and Guilty of Love, before hitting the jackpot with their unit shifting eighth album Whitesnake 1987.
They’re still a huge draw on the live circuit; evidence for which can be seen in the sheer volume of Whitesnake T-shirts and bandanas that adorn bodies of all shapes and ages at Donnington Park – a total that only Def Leppard can rival.

Rumours that David Coverdale’s voice has begun to whither with time prove accurate, though the extent of the damage is concealed by a carefully crafted set that ticks most of the boxes without straining the ageing rockers troublesome tonsils. Sadly, the brilliant strategist that papered over the cracks of Coverdale’s withering voice was unable to repeat the same trick on his face, as each big screen close-up reveals cavernous contours that draw gasps from the crowd, leading one young lady to nail with breathtaking simplicity what it is we are all thinking: ‘’God you’re really old’’ she surmises, head craned back as she drinks in the gargantuan image before her.

Aesthetics aside, fan favourite Here I Go Again and power ballad Is This Love are delivered with typical gusto and the crowd are more than happy to lead the band in a stripped down version of Ain’t No Love In the Heart of the City, belting out the chorus as Coverdale struts around the stage with all the subtle grace of a sex-starved peacock.

It’s a shame that their performance is marred by over elaboration. Someone backstage really should have pointed out to Whitesnake that their plan to fuse the usual medley of greatest hits with a mini instrumental set, a fifteen minute guitar duel and both bass and drum solos is not the wisest idea when you’re playing a seventy minute slot at a major festival. The decision may have been born out of a need to protect Coverdale’s voice, but it results in a display that has half-a-dozen stand out moments yet ultimately lacks the cohesion to be truly memorable.
It’s not a mistake Def Leppard make! As the sun sets behind the main stage the opening strains of God Save the Queen heralds the arrival of Sheffield’s finest, the size of Rick Savage’s blonde bouffant bettered only by the vast Union Jack that fills the screens. Joe Elliot’s one-two cry of ‘’Guitar...Drums’’ signals the band’s intent as they hit the ground running with a thumping rendition of Rocket from seminal eighties album Hysteria.

There’s no room for experimentation as the Leps stick doggedly to their own special brand of sugar coated glam rock and syrupy power ballads, delivering a sweet succession of knock out blows that include hit singles Pour Some Sugar on Me, Love Bites, Rock of Ages and Photograph. The whole thing is tighter than Elliot’s pre-ripped jeans and cheesier than the lyrics to Bring on the Heartbreak. There’s a poignant tribute to one-armed drummer Rick Allen on the 23rd anniversary of his return to action following a near fatal accident – that too was at Donnington and the tears flow freely as a quite remarkable musician takes the acclaim of his band mates. Like tabby cats let loose in a milk factory, the crowd laps it all up before begging for more – Elliot and co are happy to oblige.

here are a couple of pieces that I have done for Ink Publishing

Toulouse:

WE LOVE: Toulouse

Once a small provincial town, Toulouse is now a city bursting with opportunity. Located in the heart of the French Riviera, its large student population is second only to Paris. Rightly proud of its rich arts scene, its strong head for business and dynamic sports teams, Toulouse is enjoying a cultural revolution. Book a flight and see for yourself!

WE LOVE: any excuse for a party

Visiting in March? Dust down your maracas, clap your hands, wiggle your bits and get yourself arrested. Kidding! Toulouse loves to party and Festivals fiery spirit grips the city during the annual Flamenco Festival. But if the sultry sounds of Spanish guitar are not for you, then check out the Latin Film Fair for a more subdued if equally passionate affair.

WE LOVE: the land of rugby

If the city’s bustling streets suddenly seem a little quiet, rugby is probably to blame. The toast of the town, Toulouse are so good they’ve been crowned champions of Europe not once, not twice, but a whopping three times. Head for the impressive Stade Ernest Wallon (the stadium to you and me), or just shop in peace.

WE LOVE: powerboats and picnics

Connected to the mighty Garonne River that flows through Toulouse, the Canal du Midi’s tranquil waters offer a more soothing experience. A World Heritage site, hire a cruiser for the day or simply park your tush on a tour boat. Perfect for picnicking, enjoy a hearty lunch before a leisurely afternoon stroll along the lush riverbanks.

WE LOVE: going to church

Seriously, we do! especially when the church in question is the majestic Basilique St Sernin. Head for the crypt and check out the thorn that was supposedly taken from Christ’s Crown of Thorns – mind your fingers though! The largest Romanesque church in Europe, you don’t need to be on a coach holiday to enjoy this architectural marvel.

WE LOVE: Space, The Final Frontier

... And the final tip in our Toulouse travel guide. La Citie de le’space is one of the most popular attractions in town! Part space museum, part adventure playground, there’s enough here to keep even Captain Kirk from beaming away. Float about in a gravity free room, explore a Russian space station, and join an expedition to Mars. bmi doesn’t fly there – yet!

WE LOVE: bmi

Forget Mars! Travel to Toulouse in style with bmi from March 2009! Departing from Birmingham, Manchester and London.



WE LOVE: Almeria


Fly to the red hot city of Almeria on Spain’s south-eastern shore. With more sun and less rain than anywhere else in Europe, this is the place to top up your tan. But there’s a whole lot more to Almeria than loungers, swimming pools and sun cream.

WE LOVE: men in uniform

Brave the Tabernas Desert (twenty km north of Almeria City) and make like a startled mule for the Mini Hollywood Theme Park! Once home to Clint Eastwood’s gun-slinging anti-hero in some of them mighty fine Spaghetti Westerns, pick up a poncho, strut on down to an authentic movie set and watch greasy deadbeats bite the dust in daily shootouts.

WE LOVE: ancient palaces

With the kind of longevity that the Spanish Armada could have only dreamt about, the colossal Alcazaba fortress dominates the city skyline. Like a bug you can’t swat, it’s there whichever way you turn, so why not pay a visit? Built by the Moors before falling into Christian hands, its unique mix of Arabic and Catholic architecture are a sight to behold – seek out the ancient palace buried deep within...if you dare!

WE LOVE: bobble hats and bikinis

Despite all that sun, Europe’s southern most ski resorts are just a two hour drive from Almeria City. Travel to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountain Range! Buy a bobble hat, strap on some goggles and hit the slopes...then trudge back and get your skis. Sick of the snow? Head back to town, grab a bikini (shorts recommended for the guys) and hit the sun-kissed sands of the aptly named San Miguel beach.

WE lOVE: magical towns

Moors, Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Greeks, the yeahbaby team! Who hasn’t helped shape the magical town of Mojacar? Eighty eight kilometres from Almeria City, its Moorish influence is felt keenest. Clinging to a rocky hill side, the town is a cluster of white-washed fairytale buildings that must make Cinderella seethe with envy. Come here for the enchanting maze of cobbled streets and the spectacular mountain views.

WE LOVE: the great outdoors

Think you know a thing or two about the world outside your window? Then don’t say adios to Almeria without exploring the rugged coastline along the Cabo de Gata-Nijar Nature Reserve (43 km east of Almeria City). If near-deserted beaches, treasure troves of hidden coves and fab diving spots are your cup of tea or glass of sangria, this is the place to be.

WE LOVE: bmi! Fly in style to Almeria with bmi! Climb aboard in Birmingham, Manchester, or London, from March 2009.

a preview of the Homeless World Cup for sevenglobal.org

Homeless World Cup
Player Power
Football was seduced by big business and its wily ways long ago. Lured into bed with a sweet succession of hushed promises and a corporate carat dangling just out of reach, the two became regular playmates. But as the Homeless World Cup is proving, despite the razzmatazz, rock-star profiles and bank-busting contracts, the beautiful game can still transform the lives of mere mortals – regardless of whether you’re a wag or a wag not.

Federation Square, Melbourne’s cultural hub! Stylish bars and swanky restaurants circle the plaza, boxed in by the super-sleek architecture that draws just as many people as the vibrant nightlife. A regular live music venue, next month its sandstone floor will resonate to a different sound as the annual Homeless World Cup kicks off on December 1st. The four-a-side street tournament, now in its sixth year, has turned into a cultural phenomenon with worldwide press coverage, ambassadors that include the likes of Eric Cantona and Didier Drogba, a sponsorship deal with Nike, and even an award winning documentary, ‘kicking It,’ which premiered at this year’s Sundance Film Festival.

Hit movies are the last thing on Steve Maloney’s mind. An ex-pat, Maloney relocated to Australia from St Helens in 1998. Now a key player for the Street Socceroos, the tournament has given the ex jockey a new lease of life after years’ spent living rough on the streets of Melbourne. ‘In the past I had problems with alcohol and I had been in rehab’ says Maloney, speaking to the Homeless World Cup Foundation. Rehab proved to be his salvation, but it wasn’t the therapy that kick-started his recovery. ‘I saw a flyer (advertising Melbourne 08) saying come down and train, so I thought what the hell and went down. Everyone made me feel really welcome!’
Having been committed to the project for over eighteen months, Maloney has fought off fierce competition to make it through to the final squad of eight players – the maximum number allowed.

With just a few days to go before the big kickoff, expectation is growing and the Vice Captain is understandably buzzing. ‘It feels enormous to be playing in the Homeless World Cup! I am really looking forward to playing the game I love as well as meeting other players’. And there will be plenty of players to meet. As well as the hosts, teams from Afghanistan, Rwanda and neighbouring Uganda will be lining up against more familiar footballing nations Italy, Brazil, and England. In all, over five hundred players representing fifty six national sides – including eight female teams, will be battling it out for the six trophies on offer.

The brain child of Mel Young – co founder of Big Issue Scotland and President of the Foundation – the event has come a long way since Graz hosted the first tournament back in the summer of 2003. One hundred and forty four homeless players from eighteen competing nations made the trip to Austria in its inaugural year – the hosts won with a side made up entirely from asylum seekers.

Whilst promoting Melbourne O8, Young spoke of the high hopes that he has for this years’ tournament. ‘There is a real sense of anticipation and excitement building’ he said. ‘We invite the world to watch as the players stand proud and show us what is possible.’
It’s an event that’s guaranteed to draw thousands of spectators, and in readiness for this Federation Square has been transformed into Federation Stadium, the centre-piece being a temporary stand capable of seating over three thousand people. More than nine hundred volunteers will be on hand throughout the week, trying to keep pace with the frantic fourteen minute matches.

Many of these games will be refereed by world class officials like Kim Milton Nielson, a veteran of two World Cups, and a man England fans will remember best for sending off David Beckham in 1998. Nielsen refereed last years’ final in Copenhagen which, as unlikely as it sounds, saw Scotland crowned World Champions after thrashing a hapless Poland 9-3. Moved by what he had seen, the big Dane volunteered his services ahead of Melbourne 08. ‘I saw all the positive things it gave to the players’ said Nielson, speaking ahead of next month’s contest. ‘The whole week was a great highlight – the happiness and the way the players enjoyed the tournament was fantastic.’

Young is a man on a mission! A social entrepreneur with over fifteen years experience in working with the homeless, he also founded the International Network of Street Papers before launching a lifestyle revolution with New Consumer Magazine six years ago. But it’s the footie that has captured his imagination. ‘The Homeless World Cup is growing fast’ he said. ‘We are travelling to the far corners of the globe to engage people, to change hearts and minds, and to pioneer imaginative solutions that address this key global issue.’

During its brief tenure the tournament has changed the lives of thousands of men and women – from ex-professionals through to teenage girls fleeing a life of prostitution in some of the world’s poorest countries, the stats make impressive reading. Research carried out by the Foundation shows that 92% of participants have discovered a new zest for life through their involvement with the program, whilst 72% have gone on to play football on a regular basis.

Steve Maloney is determined to support the scheme in whatever way he can. ‘Sometimes people don’t understand when I try to explain how important football is to me’ he sighs. ‘I want to do my bit to get the message out that it’s homeless not hopeless!’ Heavily involved with the Big Issues Adopt a Team Project, he spends much of his free time working with school children in and around Melbourne, using his own experiences to help kids avoid the same pitfalls. ‘It’s such a pleasure telling children about my life’ beams Maloney. ‘I have been so surprised by how well they listen and take it all on board.'

And what of England’s chances next month? A current world ranking of twenty nine suggests that like their more illustrious namesakes, it’s all going to end in heartache. But with every player receiving a medal at the end of the week, some glory is at least guaranteed.
The Homeless World Cup kicks off on in Melbourne on December 1st. Entrance is free with matches kicking off simultaneously at 11 am and running through till 7pm. More details are available at http://www.homelsessworldcup.org/
NB: Kim Milton Neilson and Mel Young were speaking to the Homeless World Cup Foundation.

a piece of serious Film criticism...kind of

RETROSPECTIVE:
City of God

How do you sell a third-world classic-crime drama to the folks at home? You take its country of origin and tie it to the genre’s chief exponent, and arguably his most celebrated film. ‘City of God? Well, it’s a Brazilian Goodfellas, isn’t it?’ And so a new buzz word is born! A clear definition for Mum and Pops! Never mind that this kind of labelling suggests either a straight to DVD knock-off, or the latest instalment in Ross Kemp’s Gangs.

This was the careless kind of widespread punditry that awaited the mainstream release of Fernando Meirelles explosive take on Rio de Janeiro’s ‘dark-side’ back in 2003. It worked! City of God grossed over £27 million worldwide and received the kind of universal acclaim that Mr.Goodfellas himself used to dream about.

Crappy slogans aside, there are similarities between the two! Like Henry and Thomas in Goodfellas, City of God focuses on the psychological makeup of two central characters from the wrong side of town. Teenaged dreamer Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues), who uses his love of photography to forge a unique perspective on his surroundings, and the older, pyschotic Li’l Ze (Learnardo Firmino da Hora), a gangland boss who thrives off the crime and corruption festering in the favella where both men exist.

Like Scorsese, Meirelles employs stylish camera work and interwoven narratives; devices that highlight the plight of Rio’s underclass throughout City of God. The Apartment is a classic example: obscene and shamefully funny, it’s a powerful vision of a society decimated by drugs; a place where rules and ethics no longer apply. Both movies span decades and employ a central character as narrator. But whilst Goodfellas is deeply rooted in gangster mythology and Hollywood constraints (you can’t help but see Henry, Thomas, and Jimmy as anything other than caricatures) City of God transforms the genre and shatters such illusions. This is real life! This is desperate kids prepared to do anything for food and status, treating brutal ghetto shoot outs like a game of cowboys and Indians – and paying the price. Incredibly, Meirelles only used one professional actor! The rest were locals, many of whom were from the very same favella where the principal action was shot.

Goodfellas concludes with justice being served. The bad guys are either dead or in jail and Henry Hill is now a forced suburbanite. There is no such resolution to City of God! Li’l Ze may be gone – executed by the pint-sized Runts – and Rocket’s skills with a camera could lead to a job, but the closing moments bring us full circle to the grim reality of life in the Favella. The Runts – pre teens from hell – are now running the show. We are left with a perverse take on the clichéd sunset walk off as the gang disappear into the maze of dirt-tracks that serve as a home, reeling off the names of drug dealers that stand in their way. Unrelenting, cruel, often funny and always heartbreaking, Brazilian Goodfellas demands repeat viewing.

review of one of the stupidest films ever made

‘I’m not paid to believe, I’m paid to fuck things up,’ snorts Mitch Hunter (Thomas Jane) during the climax to this absurd yet intriguing sci-fi fantasy! It’s a supposed lack of faith that has got this twenty-seventh century squaddie all riled up, and not, as one could also conclude, through the result of some ill timed advice from director Simon Hunter.

Based on The Mutant Chronicles role playing game (it’s no D&D), Earth has drifted into its customary dystopian future, dominated by four global corporations, each vying for supremacy. Mitch is dug in deep on the front line when some particularly fierce fighting between his own pseudo-Capitalist brigade, the aptly named Capitol Corporation, and fierce Krautrock rivals the Bauhaus, leads to the destruction of an ancient stone seal and the release of the Machine, a demonic subterranean throwback that looks like it could have crawled out of one of your old History text books. With a penchant for extreme cosmetic surgery and a burgeoning army of Luke Goss circa Blade 2 lookalikes at its disposal, the Machine quickly sets about annihilating mankind, forcing the four corporations to unite under one banner.

Ron Pearlman co stars as Brother Samuel – seriously – the Keeper of the Chronicles for the ancient monastic order that trapped the pesky thing a few thousand years back. The cloaked Pearlman, who resembles Little Red Riding Hood after one too many ‘special’ vitamin supplements, sets out to construct an elite crew of mercenaries for a critical if not wholly unsurprising secret mission. Mitch, grieving the loss of his best bud, is the monk’s first port of call.

The Mutant Chronicles is of course staggeringly stupid. From the tired opening flashback through to John Malkovich’s thankfully short-lived role as the uber-serene leader of Pearlman’s po-faced prophesiers, the script is littered with moments of unintentional comedy and needless exposition. Jane battles manfully with the clunky script, but he’s no more convincing than the blue screen effects that look like leftovers from Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow. The finale features a near derivative lift-drop into the unknown that’s just begging for James Cameron’s Midas touch, rather than hammy histrionics from a cast suddenly required to do more than just look like props.

Yet surprisingly, despite all this, The Mutant Chronicles still has its moments. An anachronistic B-movie in which nearly everything is powered by steam makes for an intriguing world premise. There is a sense of anticipation surrounding the Machine’s grizzly primary function that is deftly handled, if ultimately unfulfilled, and the whole thing thunders along at a fair old rate. It’s easy to imagine a hyperbolic Simon Hunter, cheeks puffed out, megaphone at the ready, yelling ‘And then this happens...

Yes, it’s about as subtle as a Jonathon Ross voicemail message! Yes, the closest thing to character development is Brother Samuel’s stunning transformation from Red Riding Hood into a fat Freddy Kreuger! But to be honest, if you’re even thinking about character development then you’re watching the wrong film!

Tales from the UAE: Cinemas

In the UK a trip to the cinema is much like a trip to the morgue or a public library! Respect is the key word here. We sit, we talk quietly amongst ourselves, the lights go down and a grim reverence is observed as the story unfolds before our eyes. Sure, you may get the odd bunch of rowdy, or worse, horny teenagers, unresponsive to the polite yet dictatorial dimming of the lights, a process that puts me in mind of a giant greenhouse serving notice that it’s now time for each and every plant, or in this case patron, to adhere to Mother Nature’s cycle of time and obey the rules.

A few pointed glares and some mumbled threats are usually enough to quell any hormonal back row outbursts, but failing this, one can always rely on the heavy handed and wholly necessary approach of local law enforcement–or ushers as they are otherwise known! Who cares about rights and the abuse of power! If a team of bigger, spottier kids with a smattering of bum fluff can ease my transition into movie heaven by ejecting a bunch of smaller, bum-fluff- free mini-pizzas from the auditorium, then I’m all for it. Acceptable means? Not in a British multiplex my friend...

In the United Arab Emirates it’s a very different story! Remember Gremlins? Remember the scene where the little critters are all gathered together in the cinema, ‘enjoying’ a festive screening of Snow White? ‘No, it can’t be that bad,’ I hear you say. Well it is...worse in fact. At least in Gremlins the little beasts got their comeuppance.

In the Emirates it’s the mini-pizzas that rule the roost in the multiplexes – and they’re everywhere. Their spirit is not only found in the babbling brigade of teenage boys seated behind you, relaying the plot via their mobile phones to the people at home (a crime that could well carry a prison sentence over here); it’s also found in the old couple sat opposite, reduced to side-splitting bouts of hysteria by the most innocuous of lines, or worse still, something rather poignant. It’s found in your Emirate friend. Always impeccably well behaved, once the house lights have gone down said friend is transformed into the Tasmanian Devil, a whirling ball of energy, connecting with the movie in the same way that I connect with my Nintendo Wii – through convulsions, rage, and much flapping of the gums.

The ushers (usually Philippino) are there to serve, and serve alone. The idea of ejecting someone from the screen is utterly preposterous...particularly when you consider how easy it is to have your employment visa cancelled.

Rather than a greenhouse effect, in the UAE the dimming of the lights signals the start of a party. You can draw parallels between this and the opening moments of a rock concert back home. If like me this is one step too far into the cultural chasm, you have little choice but to thumb through the limited morning schedules and pray the locals remain a largely nocturnal species.

And they tell me it’s worse in Qatar!