That Was The Weekend Round-Up That Was
Apologies for the brief gap in transmission. Where was I? Ah yes, Friday night. Which is of course eviction night in the Big Brother household. Friday just gone saw the back of Justine (well for those with widescreen telly, anyway). A few days have passed and I can't think of anything interesting to say about Justine, which I think says more about her than it does me. However, I'm sure we'll be hearing much more from her soon. Ringing us up from a call centre trying to persuade us to remortgage quite possibly.
Saturday I popped down to London for a quick daytrip but ended up staying the night to catch Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds at the Hammersmith Apollo. It was my first time at the venue which is an all-seater with a sloping floor so I had a cracking view of what was a pretty tremendous performance. Cave comes over sometimes as a bit of a dour personality on record but he seemed relaxed and witty on stage and really worked the crowd with his edgy, dramatic dancing.
You may be able to witness it for yourselves soon, as we were warned beforehand the show was being filmed for an upcoming DVD release. If you so desire to look out for me, I'm the one with the red face and the white hooded top.
Earlier in the day I had a look round the new Saatchi Gallery which has rather wisely moved from its earlier incarnation in the middle of a housing estate to the former GLC building at County Hall just to give Tate Modern a bit of competition in the tourist mecca states. Although the new location is preferable I did kind of hanker for the wide white warehouse space of the old venue which seemed to suit the modern art on display rather more than this fusty old building.
Not that I would put off anyone from going. It's worth paying a visit just for the initial arresting sight of Damien Hirst's multi-dotted Mini placed dramatically halfway down the main staircase. Saatchi being the Alex Ferguson of the art world all the usual YBA suspects that Maggie's money can buy were on show - Tracey Emin, Sarah Lucas, Chris Ofili, Gavin Turk et al alongside pretty much all of Hirst's iconic works.
But just as the British music scene is still recovering from the hangover from Britpop, maybe these over-familiar images (Emin's bed; Lucas' fried eggs t-shirt, Turk as Sid as Elvis) are too iconic for their own good. They may register recognition in the same way you might find flicking through old record sleeves, but do they still retain the power to make you think and reassess?
The answer is yes in perhaps the most surprising case - Ron Mueck's Mask. This fascinating over-sized fibre-glass rendition of a man's head might be questionable as art to some people but it was the one piece of work on show that had the capacity to instil shock and awe - feeling intense admiration for the craftmanship involved and yet making me take time out to consider what it is to be human. That's art in my book.
And talking of books, on the train journey down to London I finished reading Bodies by Jed Mercurio. Mercurio was the man behind the heart-stopping 90s medical TV series Cardiac Arrest (which brought Helen Baxendale to prominence) and if you remember that series you won't be surprised to hear that the novel is scalpel-edge in its visceral depiction of the modern day National Health Service, where overworked, underprepared doctors; oversexed nurses and mendacious, corrupt consultants are the order of the day.
Not that Bodies isn't an enjoyable read, written as it is with a bloodshot eye for gory detail and gallows humour as black as a goth funeral at midnight. Throw in some lusty bouts of frantically-snatched sex between medical professionals and what you're left with is an entertaining rendition of Carry On Doctor as written by Franz Kafka. Not for the squeamish or hypochondriacal, mind.
Apologies for the brief gap in transmission. Where was I? Ah yes, Friday night. Which is of course eviction night in the Big Brother household. Friday just gone saw the back of Justine (well for those with widescreen telly, anyway). A few days have passed and I can't think of anything interesting to say about Justine, which I think says more about her than it does me. However, I'm sure we'll be hearing much more from her soon. Ringing us up from a call centre trying to persuade us to remortgage quite possibly.
Saturday I popped down to London for a quick daytrip but ended up staying the night to catch Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds at the Hammersmith Apollo. It was my first time at the venue which is an all-seater with a sloping floor so I had a cracking view of what was a pretty tremendous performance. Cave comes over sometimes as a bit of a dour personality on record but he seemed relaxed and witty on stage and really worked the crowd with his edgy, dramatic dancing.
You may be able to witness it for yourselves soon, as we were warned beforehand the show was being filmed for an upcoming DVD release. If you so desire to look out for me, I'm the one with the red face and the white hooded top.
Earlier in the day I had a look round the new Saatchi Gallery which has rather wisely moved from its earlier incarnation in the middle of a housing estate to the former GLC building at County Hall just to give Tate Modern a bit of competition in the tourist mecca states. Although the new location is preferable I did kind of hanker for the wide white warehouse space of the old venue which seemed to suit the modern art on display rather more than this fusty old building.
Not that I would put off anyone from going. It's worth paying a visit just for the initial arresting sight of Damien Hirst's multi-dotted Mini placed dramatically halfway down the main staircase. Saatchi being the Alex Ferguson of the art world all the usual YBA suspects that Maggie's money can buy were on show - Tracey Emin, Sarah Lucas, Chris Ofili, Gavin Turk et al alongside pretty much all of Hirst's iconic works.
But just as the British music scene is still recovering from the hangover from Britpop, maybe these over-familiar images (Emin's bed; Lucas' fried eggs t-shirt, Turk as Sid as Elvis) are too iconic for their own good. They may register recognition in the same way you might find flicking through old record sleeves, but do they still retain the power to make you think and reassess?
The answer is yes in perhaps the most surprising case - Ron Mueck's Mask. This fascinating over-sized fibre-glass rendition of a man's head might be questionable as art to some people but it was the one piece of work on show that had the capacity to instil shock and awe - feeling intense admiration for the craftmanship involved and yet making me take time out to consider what it is to be human. That's art in my book.
And talking of books, on the train journey down to London I finished reading Bodies by Jed Mercurio. Mercurio was the man behind the heart-stopping 90s medical TV series Cardiac Arrest (which brought Helen Baxendale to prominence) and if you remember that series you won't be surprised to hear that the novel is scalpel-edge in its visceral depiction of the modern day National Health Service, where overworked, underprepared doctors; oversexed nurses and mendacious, corrupt consultants are the order of the day.
Not that Bodies isn't an enjoyable read, written as it is with a bloodshot eye for gory detail and gallows humour as black as a goth funeral at midnight. Throw in some lusty bouts of frantically-snatched sex between medical professionals and what you're left with is an entertaining rendition of Carry On Doctor as written by Franz Kafka. Not for the squeamish or hypochondriacal, mind.
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