A Picture Says It All

So, the BBC have been running this competition for the best photograph taken in 20 years of The Premier League as we know and love (or hate, if you're West Ham) it. Of all the pictures entered, this one stood out to me by a mile: Almost the perfect encapsulation of life as a premier league superstar in one simple frame. Brilliant.

JB.

Lyrics To Live By

"I wanna see through all the lies of society, 
To the reality, happiness is at stake.
I wanna hold up my head with dignity,
Proud of a life where to give means more than to take
I want to live beyond the modern mentality,
Where paper is all that you're really taught to create"


"Oxygen" by Willy Mason  ('Where The Humans Eat' 2004)

A Young, Hip, Sweaty, Desert Extravaganza

So here is my Coachella 2012 in a nutshell. It went as follows:

Friday - Hey, it's 105 degrees outside? I know what I'll do, drink heavily. Sod hydration. Beer tent. Expensive but needed. Met lovely older couple from Texas. Been invited to their house already, marvelous. Feel very pissed. Oh look, it's the Arctic Monkeys! Sweet. I'll pogo around like a loon despite feeling a bit worse for wear. Starting to turn. Don't feel good. "R U Mine?" is an absolute tune. Where are my friends? Where is anyone? I'm freaking out badly and now have a pounding migraine. My phone's dead. How do I get home? When will this nightmare end?! Oh, Pulp are on stage. Nice. I think I'm dying. Oh well, it's been a fun ride. I need my phone back and running. Mobile Charging Station = Hell on Earth. Massive amounts of heatstroke have kicked in. Awful feeling. Oi, 16 year-old, give me your phone charger now! Ahhh finally in a cab. Cabbie laughs at me and says "Coachella kick your ass, huh?" I want to kill him. Ahhh finally home. God, it's only half nine, I must be getting too old for all this. Shit, I missed The Black Keys. I feel sick....(Vomit noises for 32 minutes approx)....my throat hurts. I hate festivals. Sleep.

Saturday - Can one actually die from heat stroke? I need breakfast. Scared it will come straight back out. Kept breakfast down. Result. Nap time. Shit, gonna be late for the Head and the Heart. Made it to the Head and the Heart. Solid band. Fun as always. Andrew Bird is an actual living, breathing genius - makes me feel quite inferior in every way. Time to try a beer...first sip good. Second sip, not so good. Shit. Water it is. What's this, a speakeasy? You need a password to get in? Pretty sure I heard some drunken knobhead shout it out. "When Bulls Fly". We're in. Fuuuuuuuck this is amazing! A hidden bar. A rockin' swing band called The BoomBoomBoom. Insanity all around. I want this to never end. 15 minutes later, it does. The Shins? Not that good live really are they? I find Feist oddly attractive, and she's rocking the house far more than I thought possible. Up the front for Bon Iver. If I stay here I'll be VERY close for Radiohead. "Skinny Love" - beautiful song. "Calgary" - beautiful song. Massive push forward. Waiting for Radiohead....don't think I've ever been hotter. OH MY GOD they're on! "Bloom" sounds f**king amazing live. All other (great) acts I've seen today suddenly seem like absolute child's play. "Lotus Flower" is rocking my world. Yorke is god. Watching Thom sing "we hope that you choke" to a field of hipsters puts a huge grin on my face. Paranoid Android. The band cracks up during the "raaaaain doowwwwwn" bit. The end. Spectacular show. Friends have all gone home. Three hour wait for a cab. Must walk. Blisters. Agony. Get picked up by a Mexican gangbanger. He gets on the phone, says the following: "I got one. I'm on 52nd, heading towards the cemetery, meet me over there". I shit my pants and start hoping there is a god. At the next red, I throw twenty dollars at him and bolt. When bolting, a blister bursts. Agony again. Shoe removal. Walk a mile and a half barefoot. Bed. 3.45AM. Can't sleep.

Sunday - Praise the lord, I'm alive. Alive but knackered. Back to bed. Up late. Off to festival. Finally it's a bit cooler, or is it simply that anything is cooler than being up the front for Radiohead last night? Back to the speakeasy, not as good this time. Always the way isn't it? Still can't drink. The Hives sound absolutely brilliant. Too hot for all that though. Blimey, Gotye is really fecking good. I had no clue. Mass clear-out after "Somebody That I Used to Know", Gotye watches in disappointment before declaring "people aren't so nice". Those who stay to the end show extra loud support (myself included) and are treated to an incredible final song, which I'm still trying to find online. Calvin Harris? No, I think I'll stay here and contemplate my existence instead. Surrounded by weirdos. Excessive amounts of neon. Why do people keep asking me for drugs? Specifically "Molly" which I google to find out it's street slang for pain killers. I've never felt so un-hip. Beirut are amazing live. Very nice to hear trumpets and accordians on a Sunday night. Great vibe in the tent, everyone dancing and having a grand old time. They finish with "Nantes" which is positively joyous. FOOD. Florence and the Machine - quality act. Makes everyone jump around and go mental. Snoop and Dr. Dre are in front of me...amazing. "Deep Cover" baby....'cos it's 1-8-7 on an undercover cop! So much weed being smoked around me. I'm catching a contact. "Caaaaaaaalifornia Loooooove". Oh look, 50 Cent. Oh look, Eminem. Oh look, 2Pac! He looks real and I'm pretty sure he just said "what's up coachella?" Weirdest thing I've ever seen. "Hail Mary". He's disappeared. I got chills, they're multiplying. Not sure how I feel about resurrecting the dead. Rappers are very aggressive with the crowd, it's hilarious. I am definitely high. "Still D.R.E." The end. Normal journey home for the first time all weekend. Pizza. Tea. Bed. 

JB.

Moving

Well folks it has finally happened. I now no longer reside in the chaos that is Koreatown. I wish I could say I'll miss the not-so-subtle threat of violence hanging in the air, or indeed the local psycho(s) shouting and pointing finger guns at anyone who happens to cross his demented path, but I can't. I could not be happier to be out of that shithole.

Especially as now I am in an extremely hip, not to mention celeb-filled, area called Franklin Village. At first I was dubious, thinking that once off the main strip of shops it would be just another horrible LA filthhole. That and the fact that the Scientology Celebrity Centre sits right in the middle of the hood. However, so far - and to my pleasant surprise - it has been wonderful. Only this morning I went for a walk around the area and rather than be greeted by mentalists, poo and broken couches on the street, I was instead treated to smiling faces and trees. Actual trees. And of course it's nice to see the old Hollywood sign looming overhead. Maybe this move represents some sort of allegory for my career, gradually getting closer to that sign and all the success it represents....then again, maybe not.

One more thing that should be noted here is a word of warning to any and all. NEVER underestimate what a colossal pain in the arse it is to move house. I thought "I'm in a studio, I haven't got much stuff, how hard can it be?" Well, after about a thousand stair trips and multiple instances of me lifting things well beyond my puny limits, the answer is: Fecking hard. For the past two days I have been walking around in stiff agony, which, contrary to how it might sound, is not a kinky sex game.

Still, I'm in now and life is good. Life promises to get even better this weekend when I head to Coachella (for the first time since 2007) - a place where Radiohead and the Arctic Monkeys are playing in the same weekend. Expect tears of joy to be shed. The only downside being that I will no doubt be surrounded by vaguely interested 15 year-olds, sporting neon shades and muttering "who's Thom Yorke?". Cest La Vie. Someone's gotta do it I suppose.

Peace and love,

John.

Henri, The Existential Cat

Brilliant.



JB.

Great Reads: Fear & Loathing On The Campaign Trail '72

This book charts the election year of 1972 here in the good old US of A. From the democratic primaries to the presidential campaign everything is documented. Sounds like an absolute yawn-fest I'm sure. However, when told through the eyes of Hunter S. Thompson, this book becomes something altogether more interesting.

For any fans of that other "Fear and Loathing" book, let me start by saying that you should not go into this book expecting to read about continual psychoactive mayhem. There's some of that, of course, as Thompson seems unable to function unless engaging in at least medium-level debauchery, and Christ knows you'd probably need to be off your tits to deal with some of these people, however the one thing that often gets lost in the Hunter S. Thompson legend is what a humanitarian the man was. That and the fact that he was an absolutely brilliant writer.

What makes this book such a fascinating read is that it is U.S. politics from the outsider looking in. The average, rational-thinking man wondering what on earth the circus before him all means. Every page oozes empathy and a, some would argue, deluded hope for the people. As the ill-fated John McGovern pits his wits against king reptile Richard Nixon, it becomes a classic tale of good vs evil which is hard not to get caught up in. Now, at the time of printing this might have been considered propaganda as the book obviously favours McGovern, however in light of what became of Richard Nixon's presidency, most of it is instead eerily prophetic.

It also goes to show what an absolutely monumental, confusing, and thoroughly thankless task it is for a man of any shred of integrity to go against the machine. By the time you've shook all the hands, given all the speeches, dusted off the slander, climbed every mountain only to get pounded by some slabbering, vacuous non-human in front of the world's media, it's enough to wonder why anyone ever bothers at all.

If you've got any interest at all in what goes on behind the scenes during that time those odd, sharp-suited, shiny-toothed bellends are all over your TV screen (i.e. right now) then I cannot recommend this book highly enough.

"If the current polls are reliable, Nixon will be re-elected by a huge majority of Americans who feel he is not only more honest and trustworthy than George McGovern, but also more likely to end the war in Vietnam. The polls also indicate that Nixon will get a comfortable majority of the youth vote. And that he might carry all 50 states. This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it - that we are really just a nation of 220 million used car salesman with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody in the world who makes us feel uncomfortable. The tragedy of all this is that George McGovern, for all his mistakes, understands what a fantastic monument to all the best instincts of the human race this country might have been if we could have kept it out of the hands of greedy little hustlers like Richard Nixon. McGovern made some stupid mistakes, but in context they seem almost frivolous compared to the things Richard Nixon does every day of his life, on purpose. Jesus! Where will it end? How low do you have to stoop in this country to become president?"

(Excerpt from "September, 1972")

Peace and love,

JB.

A Trip Down Memory Lane

Anyone who grew up in England in the 80's/90's must remember this tune. I can remember going to our local cinema in Brentwood (a giant two-screen megaplex) and once you saw this state-of-the art ad coming your way, you knew the film was imminent and you were about to be swept away. Few things, odd as it might sound, make me more nostalgic.

JB.

Hard Drive Hell

Friends, let me tell you something...a technophile I am certainly not. More often than not I tolerate technology as the natural advancement of our species continues but honestly my interest goes no further than that. I couldn't care less about the latest ipod, nanobot, natural wind fueled solar paneled toaster, whatever they bring out next. It's just not something that interests me, and probably never will. While I admit it's nice having all my music in one cigarette box sized place, I'm still a sucker for sitting down and actually putting on an album, allowing it to play from start to finish. I'm old fashioned, I know.

All of this cute nostalgia seeking, however, is well and good unless one plans on entering the world of indie film-making, where my Neo-Luddism (real thing, look it up) is as useless as a chocolate fireguard.

In my naivety, I somehow assumed that shooting things in digital would be an altogether easier, cost-effective, less time consuming process than shooting on, say, film. Indeed I have no doubt that for most people, as in people who actually have a grasp of the technology, it is precisely all of those things - I'm sure for them the process is simple as a soft fart on a warm summer's eve. However for simpleton's like myself, it is a bloody nightmare.

My problem of late has been hard-drives. You see, if planning on shooting anything of substance, a solid external hard drive is essential. This I learned very quickly after my fisher-price, bargin basement model crashed a month after filming, subsequently wiping all of my precious raw footage. To say I was a little disheartened would be understating it a bit. In fact, it was at that precise moment when I questioned whether God wanted me not only to not succeed as a film-maker, but to actually die instead. Thankfully, in true "Trainspotting" style, I chose life and as luck would have it my DP had everything backed up on his hard drive. Bullet dodged.

However, did I learn my lesson and invest in a new hard drive? Did I balls. I decided to plough on with my geriatric machine in the vein hope that all would somehow be well. (What was it that's said about the definition of insanity being 'doing the same thing twice and expecting different results'?.....I digress.) Remarkably, for a while at least, everything was well. Until yesterday when finally it crashed. And I mean crashed. A spectacular meltdown sending all of my hard-earned work into cyber oblivion and leaving me once again with a bible in one hand, a gun in the other.

Seriously, I don't know, nor would I ever care to know, the difference between at 7200 bit-rate firewire device and 48 tagentagen double piledriver foreskin USB drive. I didn't sign up for this. All I want to do is make films, make some people laugh, and go home and watch Lord of The Rings. It's not much to ask, is it? The last thing I consider "fun" is sitting, as I am right this second, watching the hours tick by as my destroyed files restore themselves on my new (THIRD) hard drive. Last count - 3 hours to go. However, in this day and age, it is apparently essential to doing things on the cheap so I have had to sit through many embarrassing sessions with people far more savvy than myself, gawping out things like "What's a codec?" to some very worried faces. It has certainly been the least appealing part of the film-making process but one I am at labour to learn. I'm sure all of this shite will be useful at some point in the future. Yet I can't help but hope I get successful enough that people will handle all of this for me and I can go back to dicking around and telling mildly amusing stories. What a pleasant dream.

I suppose times like this call for an inspirational quote from someone far more successful than yourself. In the absence of said quote however, I will settle for something funny:

"Weaseling out of things is an important life lesson. It's what separates us from the animals....except the weasel."

Homer J. Simpson

Must...plough...on......career in the arts worth striving for....even though destitute and on verge of breakdown.....technology is not the enemy....technology is not the enemy.....technology is not......the enemy....

Peace.

JB.

P.S - My newest hard drive looks alarmingly similar to HAL9000 from 2001: A Space Odyssey. I can only hope it isn't reading this and tries to kill me in the night. Fingers crossed.

Monkey Madness

A quite brilliant video. I'm still trying to work out how you'd do something like this. Homework for the day.

JB.