Essays

Shoegazing by no means dominated what the passed for the British ‘indie’ scene — after Madchester/Baggy, other ‘scenes’ managed to hold the attention of the nation’s music-buying public. The quirky efforts of Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine and Kingmaker were unfathomably popular for a while in the likes of the NME and Melody Maker, only to be replaced on an almost weekly basis by other bands — Pop Will Eat Itself, The Senseless Things, Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, The Wonderstuff and even Daisy Chainsaw (or as Carter USM described them in ‘The Only Living Boy in New Cross’: “the grebos, the crusties and the goths”).

From the archives. The 3:AM Guide to ‘Shoegazing’ and British Indie Music in the 1990s.

As I walked around the place I’d called home for four years, I became aware that I was heading back to the place where all this – this now, this writing, these obsessions — had begun. When I realised that I was coming full circle, I walked straight to where it was, where it had been. I discovered the place then as I’d discovered it all those years ago; hidden along a snaking, winding side-street neighbouring a church. I had believed that it had gone, torn down and away.

By Peter M. Carvill.

The Clash of Civilizations. Capitalized like that it looks even better — the two big C’s on either end give it the feel of a new Playstation game or a Star Wars sequel’s title. The word ‘clash’ is certainly more poetic, more cinematic than any comparable synonyms like ‘fight’, ‘war’, or ‘conflict’. The Battle of Civilizations sounds like a WWF match — which might be more appropriate anyway.

Jeff Gibbs wants to see Sir Salman and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad get in the ring, for the good of liberal journalism.

Everyone sang along, slammed their bodies about with reckless abandon, and repeatedly spilled forward onto the stage. From the first chords of opener “Here’s Your Future,” the floor shook under the impact of the feet that repeatedly crashed upon them. Bodies toppled forward, back, and to the sides, feeble attempts were made to steady themselves on walls, speaker cabinets, and other people.

Amanda Farah reviews The Thermals‘ recent London gig.

By the time you got to 45 in 1945 you were practically dead or destitute, and dripping in widow wear, my dear! Vanessa then started to take off her clothes pulling her t-shirt and jacket over her head bearing her breasts to the world she cried a muffled — “Naked women all look the same from the 1940’s to now so I shall come in naked and look tres 1940’s,” the free spirit said. David look ruffled, upset and distraught he held his head and said, “I’m going soft, OK let them in, but no one else after this.”

Sophie Parkin‘s latest dispatch from the frontline of Sohemia for 3:AM.

‘Comeback album’ is a phrase few bands like to hear. It’s positive, of course, but the entailment is anything but: it speaks of wilderness years, creative bankruptcy, even — whisper it — irrelevance. In short — something to come back from. As Cymru’s most outspoken politicos, Manic Street Preachers must be especially terrified by the last of those things.

Richard O’Brien applauds the Manics‘ rediscovery of their radical edge on their latest LP.

“All that glisters is not gold” as Shakespeare said, sometimes it’s a diamond or a star, on Saturday night it was both. Damien Hirst was making his massive statement, the most intrinsically expensive piece of art ever made; platinum skull encrusted with diamonds in the manner of the ancient Aztecs. ‘Beyond Belief’ is the name of his show at both White Cubes, you must have heard, otherwise where have you been?

Sophie Parkin still believes diamonds are a girl’s best friend, as does Damien Hirst, in a report from the launch party for his ‘Beyond Belief’ show.

So how had I got to be in director John Maybury’s new film all my friends want to know. Synchronicity, as simple as that. Was I going to be the next Daniel Craig? Discovered by Maybury, who played artist Francis Bacon’s boyfriend in, Love is the Devil memorably appearing naked in the bath, and currently enormously popular on YouTube.

Sophie Parkin reports from the set of the forthcoming Dylan Thomas biopic in her new column for 3:AM.

I’m not one of those emotionally shattered, shell-shocked Vets. I don’t fight a daily struggle to keep the demons of my past from crawling up to the realm of my conscious mind. When I kiss a girl, I don’t remember the heads of Iraqi soldiers turning into pink mist in my rifle’s sight. When I trudge down the hot sidewalks of Las Vegas, I don’t remember trudging across the hot sand of Al Muthanna.

By Joe Cameron.

It’s a bit like admitting you loved ELO back in the 70s. In certain circles (these ones, for instance, but not only) it treads beyond unhip into some kind of unacceptable. But to slag off Jeffrey Archer as an author is to enter into a game you can’t win. If he’s that bad, how come you’ve read him? And if you haven’t, how come you know he’s that bad? His real crime writing-wise is simply to not be trendy.

George Berger is back. And not a minute too soon!

The thing with succulents is, you have to wait for them to shrivel up after you cut them away from the mother ship, or else the stalks will rot. You might be tempted to dig them a moist hole in the soil, but you have to watch them suffer, and deflate, and it’s okay to take pleasure in that too, if it’s your thing.

By Terita Heath-Wlaz.

There is a danger when looking at mainstream music, even pop as skewed and awkward as Radiohead’s, that people can start to look for things that simply aren’t there. Footman cites the post-structuralist theory that the author is dead in order to pin some slightly questionable sociological tails on his alt-rock donkey, and in some instances a direct chat or two with Thom Yorke might have kept a couple of the wilder guesses in check. However, I don’t presume to guess at the author’s resources or intents; unlike Footman — but again, the majority of his analysis does stand on its own feet, and the logic behind it is relatively difficult to fault.

Richard O’Brien reviews Tim Footman‘s Welcome to the Machine