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Hipsters: Use Side Door
Aug. 12th, 2013 11:35 amDavid's birthday week. On Wednesday, we went up the SHARD, to see Alpha Papa and then beer and pizza in the evening. My reviews: 1) Impressive views, but I would have liked to poke around the Shard itself, look at the angled architecture a bit more, 2) Good plot, good lines, good Bruno Brookes joke, but Alan was too happy, there were no dark thoughts à la his exotic dancing in the TV series and, unfortunately, he grew as a character, going from selfish to bully-quasher and new step-dad to two teenage boys. Partridge must remain a static character; it's not funny if you start to sympathise with him. Also, I wondered if anyone under 25 would find it amusing or get any of the references. 3) The pizza lasted me til Saturday!
London, toy town:
Friday, we went to newly gentrified pub, The Crooked Billet in Clapton, once a place you'd scurry past on the way to the train station, now craft beer, ping pong, decking in the garden (née car park) and £9 for a (not very good) burger. When we saw Mark Thomas in May he said: "I prefer being middle class, the food and conversation is better," and the pub is now a helluva lot nicer, but outside, a gang of priced out Hackney-ites, sat on an estate wall and drank cans. The Pembury Tavern down in Hackney Downs, once an estate pub, then "ours", quickly sequestered by hipsters, is empty again as the nouveau E8-sters move north along Lower, and now Upper Clapton road.
At half past twelve, we decided to go onto Great Big Kiss, unfortunately the last bus to Highbury had gone and I ended up wandering round Blackstock Road at 1 in the morning, thinking that I really should go home, but instead trying to find any bus that would take me anywhere. Finally got to the Buffalo Bar and did some hardcore frugging to Edwin Starr, The Supremes, Otis Redding et al as well as this slice of Elvis-y rock n roll. There's something about black American soul music that takes me over like techno. It must be the beat. After shots of toffee vodka, we left at 3 and, eschewing a taxi, decided to walk home, which seemed like a good idea until about half way, at which point it's too hard to renege. Got home at 4, like we were 25, not 40.
Unfortunately, waking up at 10 meant that I hadn't had enough sleep and was not in the right mood to go to a hipster festival in London Fields, which wasn't in London Fields. I had Visions (geddit) of sitting in the park in the sunshine, ignoring the bands, but the festival took place in three different venues, one of which was in Cambridge Heath, E2. 60% of the day was spent walking up and down Cambridge Heath Road between venues, each of which confiscated my bottle of water before I went in, even when we were just picking up wristbands from the fucking booking office (I felt like I was being released from prison when I left, no-one to say: don't go there, move up there, moe down there, don't do that, show me your wristband, show me your bag, you can't take water in there. Hipsters mingled with each other, comparing glitter make-up, shouting down their iPhone about their coke consumption, or ate not very good burgers. None of the bands were my thing: doomy drone, ambient Japanese laptop stuff, loud post-rock or unbearable noise-mongers. There was no pop-pop-pop pop music. I enjoyed chk chk chk's schtick (tight funk fronted by a dancing man who was half pre-heroin Michael Hutchence and half Napoleon Dynamite), but all the songs sounded the same.
I did enjoy sitting on the top of Netil House looking at the view and on the balcony of the Oval Space looking at the gas holders, and in London Fields brewery drinking beer.
London, toy town:
Friday, we went to newly gentrified pub, The Crooked Billet in Clapton, once a place you'd scurry past on the way to the train station, now craft beer, ping pong, decking in the garden (née car park) and £9 for a (not very good) burger. When we saw Mark Thomas in May he said: "I prefer being middle class, the food and conversation is better," and the pub is now a helluva lot nicer, but outside, a gang of priced out Hackney-ites, sat on an estate wall and drank cans. The Pembury Tavern down in Hackney Downs, once an estate pub, then "ours", quickly sequestered by hipsters, is empty again as the nouveau E8-sters move north along Lower, and now Upper Clapton road.
At half past twelve, we decided to go onto Great Big Kiss, unfortunately the last bus to Highbury had gone and I ended up wandering round Blackstock Road at 1 in the morning, thinking that I really should go home, but instead trying to find any bus that would take me anywhere. Finally got to the Buffalo Bar and did some hardcore frugging to Edwin Starr, The Supremes, Otis Redding et al as well as this slice of Elvis-y rock n roll. There's something about black American soul music that takes me over like techno. It must be the beat. After shots of toffee vodka, we left at 3 and, eschewing a taxi, decided to walk home, which seemed like a good idea until about half way, at which point it's too hard to renege. Got home at 4, like we were 25, not 40.
Unfortunately, waking up at 10 meant that I hadn't had enough sleep and was not in the right mood to go to a hipster festival in London Fields, which wasn't in London Fields. I had Visions (geddit) of sitting in the park in the sunshine, ignoring the bands, but the festival took place in three different venues, one of which was in Cambridge Heath, E2. 60% of the day was spent walking up and down Cambridge Heath Road between venues, each of which confiscated my bottle of water before I went in, even when we were just picking up wristbands from the fucking booking office (I felt like I was being released from prison when I left, no-one to say: don't go there, move up there, moe down there, don't do that, show me your wristband, show me your bag, you can't take water in there. Hipsters mingled with each other, comparing glitter make-up, shouting down their iPhone about their coke consumption, or ate not very good burgers. None of the bands were my thing: doomy drone, ambient Japanese laptop stuff, loud post-rock or unbearable noise-mongers. There was no pop-pop-pop pop music. I enjoyed chk chk chk's schtick (tight funk fronted by a dancing man who was half pre-heroin Michael Hutchence and half Napoleon Dynamite), but all the songs sounded the same.
I did enjoy sitting on the top of Netil House looking at the view and on the balcony of the Oval Space looking at the gas holders, and in London Fields brewery drinking beer.
