Cheap Clubbing In Other People's History, And Other Stories
Dead Kenny is having ongoing problems with the space/time continuum so cast your mind back to where we left off at the previous post, as your scribe scuttled off from the play to Ramshackle at the Academy where he caught the last three songs off the set from Performance during the time it took him to get served at the bar. Not the best vantage point from which to report then, but initial thoughts were that the group seemed to have more noise and energy than actual choons. Probably worth catching again, though. Decided to stop on at Ramshackle to get my fivers' worth, and with Carling at £1.50 a pop; Clash, Buzzcocks and Jam on the turntable and the humour value of watching studes wallow in their own vomit this wasn't a bad idea. However, after being mistaken for the seventh time that evening for a drug dealer, your correspondent made his excuses and left.
Down to London the next morning for an espresso visit which was supposed to take in a West Ham game and Cat Power's gig at the Barbican. However Chan Marshall cancelled through unspecified health problems, and your correspondent nearly missed the Hammers game after struggling to find his hotel (in Central Street, as in central to a blimmin' maze, more like). By the time Dead Kenny made it in to Upton Park, some 20 minutes after kickoff ('we have started you know' the steward helpfully advised) the Hammers were already 2-1 up on Everton thanks to goals from Marlon Harewood and Dean Ashton. Unfortunately, your correspondent's entrance into proceedings seemed to herald the boys being put on the back foot for the rest of the match, Everton playing bright football and Phil Neville bossing the midfield like he's best mates with the ref (as if...). At least didn't miss The Hammerettes, who did a half-time routine where they strip to their sportsbras and your host isn't saying it was a cold old day for such manoeuvres, but you could see the goosebumps on their aureolae as high up as Row FF. Back on the football front, the second half didn't get much better for the Irons and just when it looked like we might just get away with a win, James Beattie took advantage of some soft defending to loop a crafty shot over Shaka Hislop into the net, and to be fair a draw is the least they deserved.
With Chan missing, met up with Tim and Monica, and their unspeakably pretty friend Martha, for several beers and algae-like cocktails in various bars near to Old Street station before going back off in search of my elusive hotel. Next morning had just about enough time before setting back to the homestead to pop in to the Whitechapel Gallery, where they were showing zero built a nest in my navel an exhibition by Ugo Rondinone, a Swiss artist Dead Kenny first became aware of through his multi-coloured target pictures. This latest exhibition is a more holistic affair, using a range of media and styles (eg. sculpture, maskmaking, haikus and acoustic effects) to reflect on 'the conflict between reality and a world of mirrors, dreams and artifice'. Wandering through the installation was certainly a fascinating experience, particularly memorable being the room where the looped dialogue of a disconnected couple seems to follow you around the space, centring and thus implicating you in the (anti-)drama in an unsettling manner. Popped into the theatre shop where the trendy couple serving were struggling to remember who the band is that's playing on the radio. Your correspondent smugly advised them that it was (but, of course!) 'Arcade Fire' as any opportunity to show that you are more culturally savvy than East London gallery staff should never be missed, in Dead Kenny's view.
Dead Kenny is having ongoing problems with the space/time continuum so cast your mind back to where we left off at the previous post, as your scribe scuttled off from the play to Ramshackle at the Academy where he caught the last three songs off the set from Performance during the time it took him to get served at the bar. Not the best vantage point from which to report then, but initial thoughts were that the group seemed to have more noise and energy than actual choons. Probably worth catching again, though. Decided to stop on at Ramshackle to get my fivers' worth, and with Carling at £1.50 a pop; Clash, Buzzcocks and Jam on the turntable and the humour value of watching studes wallow in their own vomit this wasn't a bad idea. However, after being mistaken for the seventh time that evening for a drug dealer, your correspondent made his excuses and left.
Down to London the next morning for an espresso visit which was supposed to take in a West Ham game and Cat Power's gig at the Barbican. However Chan Marshall cancelled through unspecified health problems, and your correspondent nearly missed the Hammers game after struggling to find his hotel (in Central Street, as in central to a blimmin' maze, more like). By the time Dead Kenny made it in to Upton Park, some 20 minutes after kickoff ('we have started you know' the steward helpfully advised) the Hammers were already 2-1 up on Everton thanks to goals from Marlon Harewood and Dean Ashton. Unfortunately, your correspondent's entrance into proceedings seemed to herald the boys being put on the back foot for the rest of the match, Everton playing bright football and Phil Neville bossing the midfield like he's best mates with the ref (as if...). At least didn't miss The Hammerettes, who did a half-time routine where they strip to their sportsbras and your host isn't saying it was a cold old day for such manoeuvres, but you could see the goosebumps on their aureolae as high up as Row FF. Back on the football front, the second half didn't get much better for the Irons and just when it looked like we might just get away with a win, James Beattie took advantage of some soft defending to loop a crafty shot over Shaka Hislop into the net, and to be fair a draw is the least they deserved.
With Chan missing, met up with Tim and Monica, and their unspeakably pretty friend Martha, for several beers and algae-like cocktails in various bars near to Old Street station before going back off in search of my elusive hotel. Next morning had just about enough time before setting back to the homestead to pop in to the Whitechapel Gallery, where they were showing zero built a nest in my navel an exhibition by Ugo Rondinone, a Swiss artist Dead Kenny first became aware of through his multi-coloured target pictures. This latest exhibition is a more holistic affair, using a range of media and styles (eg. sculpture, maskmaking, haikus and acoustic effects) to reflect on 'the conflict between reality and a world of mirrors, dreams and artifice'. Wandering through the installation was certainly a fascinating experience, particularly memorable being the room where the looped dialogue of a disconnected couple seems to follow you around the space, centring and thus implicating you in the (anti-)drama in an unsettling manner. Popped into the theatre shop where the trendy couple serving were struggling to remember who the band is that's playing on the radio. Your correspondent smugly advised them that it was (but, of course!) 'Arcade Fire' as any opportunity to show that you are more culturally savvy than East London gallery staff should never be missed, in Dead Kenny's view.
4 Comments:
There has been speculation in Graybo Towers about why the Deceased Kenneth has been Disconnected Kenneth.
Popular suggestions include:
- too much alcohol
- a woman
- someone slightly dodgy that DK met at a gig who is pretending to be a woman
- too much alcohol and a woman
- secret training for mission to improve the Hammers form in front of goal
The people at Graybo Towers have too much time on their hands :), can Dead Kenny have some of it, please, he needs all the help he can get in that dept.?
There are no huge developments as yet on the women or beer front, although there is (as ever) ongoing work in progress in both areas (with no doubt predictable and unfortunate results to follow).
Therefore, apart from the usual maxim that the more things you do that are worth blogging about the less time there actually is to blog about it, the nearest correct answer is
laziness (you see, too lazy to type procrastin- oh, you know what we mean).
As for someone slightly dodgy met at a gig pretending to be a woman that's no way to talk about Phill! Those flaxen locks are all part of his neo-Branson schtick, man!
Really like the Cat Power album, but she's notoriously bad live, isn't she? Perhaps it wasn't a bad thing she pulled the plug on the gig.
Not so much notoriously bad, Ben, as notoriously unpredictable. For every gig where she turns her back on the audience or mumbles unintelligibly throughout, there's a couple of gigs where she puts in a straightforward and stunning show. You just never know what you're gonna get, which is precisely why her shows still sell out fast.
But yes, 'The Greatest' is arguably the most complete album of the year to date, warmer and more inclusive than the cold and detached predecessor 'You Are Free'.
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