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Art and music
Jun. 7th, 2013 05:46 pmLast Saturday we went, as people used to say in the 80s, up west to drink coffee and eat ice-cream. And take in a little bit of kultur, namely the Deutche Börse prize exhibition at The Photographers Gallery, and George Bellows at the Royal Academy. The photography prize exhibition comprised four artists: Miska Henner, with photos of prostitutes on Google streetview, which seemed more like an idea for a Tumblr than a photography exhibition, Broomberg & Chanerin, with vile pictures from the Iraq/Afghanistan wars that I couldn't look at, the entertaining Afronauts by Christina de Midel: a project on Zambia's space race ambitions, and the best, Chris Killip, who photographed Tyne- and Wearside from 1970-1990. It was a landscape that looked familiar; it hadn't changed much when I lived there. I loved this one, a bleak beach scne with no palm trees:
I was a little underwhelmed by George Bellows; I enjoyed his impressionistic New York paintings (especially as he was more interested in the urban than the rural), but his jumping around in different styles, from the art deco-y Two Women, to the American Gothic as painted by David Hockney, Mr and Mrs Phillip Wase, and A Day in June, which felt like Manet mixed with Seurat, became a bit tiring. Not so much an innovator as a dilettante.
Yesterday, I went to see Camera Obscura at Heaven, a late birthday present from Other Dave. Camera Obscura's post-Echo Falls demographic has changed from girls in cardigans and the boys who love them to women in American apparel (spray-on gold jeggings), who don't know any of the songs "except the navy one", and men whose last gig was Mumford And Sons. This is the downside of your song orchestrating Come Dine With Me, I suppose, although I can still listen to French Navy, unlike the whistling song by Peter, Björn and B&Q. The band themselves still look like they met at a joint symposium for accountants and librarians.
I remember why I don't go to gigs much anymore; there's nowhere to sit and after two hours of standing up, my old bones creak, my knees, feet and back hurt. And everyone in my vicinity has the ultimate aim of driving me to over-priced drink with their horrendosity. The girl who hit me with her bag, the "guys" who "bantered" about stag nights, the couple who kept kissing, blocking my view, the people who walked in and out, in and out, the man texting constantly. The first time I saw the latter happen at a performance was at the ballet, and I was shocked, but I don't think it's anything to do with young people or the increase in technology, so much as the rich. If something's not a treat, then you don't need to give it your full attention.
The band do all the hits (except Eighties Fan), and several slow ones from their new album, which is a lot more country, filled with slide guitars and hammond. No break-out pop hits, not on first listen anyway. The stag night blokes make a tedious gender assumption, mentioning "the girl at the back who does nothing but play tambourine". The "girl" is quite clearly a man: CO have always had a boy percussionist.
But what can you expect from someone, who when challenged about his talking ("we're here to hear the band"), replied "Yeah, but mate, I'm here to chaaaaaat". God, I hate people. I try to be happy, but it isn't easy:
I was a little underwhelmed by George Bellows; I enjoyed his impressionistic New York paintings (especially as he was more interested in the urban than the rural), but his jumping around in different styles, from the art deco-y Two Women, to the American Gothic as painted by David Hockney, Mr and Mrs Phillip Wase, and A Day in June, which felt like Manet mixed with Seurat, became a bit tiring. Not so much an innovator as a dilettante.
Yesterday, I went to see Camera Obscura at Heaven, a late birthday present from Other Dave. Camera Obscura's post-Echo Falls demographic has changed from girls in cardigans and the boys who love them to women in American apparel (spray-on gold jeggings), who don't know any of the songs "except the navy one", and men whose last gig was Mumford And Sons. This is the downside of your song orchestrating Come Dine With Me, I suppose, although I can still listen to French Navy, unlike the whistling song by Peter, Björn and B&Q. The band themselves still look like they met at a joint symposium for accountants and librarians.
I remember why I don't go to gigs much anymore; there's nowhere to sit and after two hours of standing up, my old bones creak, my knees, feet and back hurt. And everyone in my vicinity has the ultimate aim of driving me to over-priced drink with their horrendosity. The girl who hit me with her bag, the "guys" who "bantered" about stag nights, the couple who kept kissing, blocking my view, the people who walked in and out, in and out, the man texting constantly. The first time I saw the latter happen at a performance was at the ballet, and I was shocked, but I don't think it's anything to do with young people or the increase in technology, so much as the rich. If something's not a treat, then you don't need to give it your full attention.
The band do all the hits (except Eighties Fan), and several slow ones from their new album, which is a lot more country, filled with slide guitars and hammond. No break-out pop hits, not on first listen anyway. The stag night blokes make a tedious gender assumption, mentioning "the girl at the back who does nothing but play tambourine". The "girl" is quite clearly a man: CO have always had a boy percussionist.
But what can you expect from someone, who when challenged about his talking ("we're here to hear the band"), replied "Yeah, but mate, I'm here to chaaaaaat". God, I hate people. I try to be happy, but it isn't easy:
