I experienced a very odd sensation the first time I walked into the centre of Harrogate, my hometown, since landing back from my adventure in America. Walking around, I found myself feeling like I had become strangely elongated in some way, that my proportions were no longer appropriate for my surroundings, almost like a giant interloper within a Lilliputian town.
The same familiar streets seemed to have shrivelled away in size and length, as though the whole town had found itself needing to drastically de-scale itself in light of the harsh economic climate. Shopping streets now appeared little more than atrophied cul-de-sacs, the cenotaph like a concrete pine cone trying to retain its sense of pride in the centre of the town. As far as I could tell, cuts in council funding had apparently resulted in superfluous storeys being swiped off of buildings and unnecessarily wide roads forced to undergo drastic reductive surgery.
Was it really that much of a surprise though, the vast inflating of my mind towards geographical scale since America? After being dwarfed in New York City, and after 3 months in Los Angeles - less a city, more a gigantic urban Sahara - it was surely inevitable that returning to the modest English spa town of Harrogate would feel akin to suddenly marching around a rather quaint model village.
I remember as a young boy being intimidated, and often frustrated, at the seemingly never-ending road on which my family and I lived. The junction at the end of the road seemed like a distant light signalling the end of a tunnel that never appeared to get any closer, like a mirage on the horizon that may or may not be translated into a physical reality, you just had to persevere along the pavement and see what happened. The grass field along which the road ran parallel seemed, to my younger self, like a colossal green ocean across which it felt a great risk to set sail in case a Christmas or birthday might go by before you made it safely back again. Now I traverse along and across both expanses in a matter of minutes, barely in the time of a single song on my iPod; and so I lament the death of my sense of childhood scale - whatever indeed was left of it, perhaps only as nostalgic residue - which has now become so permenently engorged by America.
Instead of going to America and gaining any physical weight due to burgers, fries and donuts; my scale perception has instead become obese through an over-indulgence on skyscrapers, freeways and urban sprawl.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Monday, 21 November 2011
In the Jobscentre
So this is what it looks like from the inside. The local jobscentre, where I now find myself sat, legs and arms crossed in a self-contained embrace on a cold Monday morning. This is the kind of morning to inspire suicide; the sky outside is a water-surface reflection of the ennui surging within me, close to breaching the levees of my self-respect. If only every single Monday morning like this could be amassed together, swept up like a dropped deck of cards, if only it were possible to trade them in for something more appealing; a desperate haggle at the marketplace of time.
Indeed this must be one of the most depressing places I've ever found myself inside. It is a place of migraine-bright lights, un-ironed shirts, grainy coffee in styrofoam cups, and dog-eared posters tacked to walls advertising minimum wage hospitality jobs. The automatic doors give way to another lumbering layabout who slobs in, hands plumbing the depths of jeans pockets and scowling at the very presence of the day.
The jobless and the staff are separated by a discreet yet tangible barrier; those without jobs are shepherded to a central atrium of cheap furniture - a holding pen around which is wrapped a ring of staff desks. These desks are cluttered with a liberal array of bureaucratic paraphenalia, almost as if an attempt were being made to further highlight the gulf between those in the room.
The staff laugh with frugal economy at the occasional joke made by a colleague, the kind of mirthless banter exchanged to try and mask the crushing Monday morning depression that all are labouring under. All the while keeping their glances orbiting around the perimeter of the holding pen lest they should meet the gaze of someone languishing inside, thereby provoking some kind of dormant rage, the nature of which is most unwelcome on such a dismal morning. There's nothing like a random outburst of pent-up violence to irreparably ruin someone's day.
The jobless sit stubborn-faced on the sofas; stranded survivors on an island of their own circumstance, cut off from the rest of civilised society, able to view it through protracted lens but unable to play any meaningful or useful role in it. Each one works harder than is their want in order to avoid catching the eye of anyone else in the group, as though by ignoring all others the fact of their own presence in such a place can be allowed to slink by unacknowledged. Its easier to remain silent and aloof in such a place, or else you might begin to find an identity within it. No one here knows you outside of this environment, therefore - to them - you belong here, in the same sense that you associate them with this place and nowhere else. This is no place for making friends or seeking to inspire comradry. One man in his late-forties stares at the tips of his dirty shoes with the intensity of an aggressive drunk squaring up for a pub brawl. A young woman to my left appears edgy and agitated, hands shaking slightly as she grips her mobile phone in the grim hope that it might somehow teleport her into some other reality.
As I drift in and out of my own musings, I realise that the reason there appears to be such a division between the staff and jobless is because the holding pen is set into the floor by almost a couple of metres, like a swimming pool drained of all water. This had previously escaped my notice due to an ingenius lighting-and-mirror trick which no doubt councils up and down the country spent months and considerable funds in the pursuit of its inception.
As the staff begin to congregate around the rim of the shallow pit, a bell is sounded and the tension finally begin to ratchet to a head amongst those contained. Whilst before they would have sooner stabbed out their eyes with the pens held on desk-leashes than catch the gaze of another, now each man realises the situation that has been subtlely manufactured and the staring-down between them now begins, seeing the others as real opponents for the first time. The 5 or 6 captives, myself included, begin to shuffle around the fringes, our backs to the walls of the pit, our sense of self-preservation now unfurling around us like peacocks bearing their feathers.
The stand-off reaches an apex of intensity and suddenly one woman breaks out of her anxious side-step and lunges at the young girl to my side. Together they erupt in a fit of screaming, hair-pulling and scratching. Eager not to be entirely pre-empted by the women, the older man throws a punch at the bloke next to him wearing a grimy denim jacket. I have to wheel around to avoid the flailing wrecking-ball fists being swung by an overweight man in his late-30s, and quickly counter with a couple of darting jabs to his lower abdomen. With Fatty temporarily winded I skip around the two scrapping women and land an effective clothesline arm swipe to knock Denim to his knees.
The smell of sweat and blood mingles with the scent of grey synthetic carpet fibres scuffed up by the stamping feet of the staff. They have formed a collective braying audience, united with clenching fists and shouting encouragements. I almost expect them to break out with the classic playground chant of "Fight, fight, fight!", but they are too preoccupied with negotiating and closing hastily-made wagers between themselves.
I taste the bitter bile at the back of my throat as Fatty, returning strong and newly invigorated with violence, slams his brick wall of a forehead into the bridge of my nose, letting fly a jet stream of blood. Encouraged by the rising cheers from the sidelines, he hoists himself up out of the pit and prepares to launch himself off in an explosion of showboating panache and aggression. He leaps from his corner pulpit amidst the strip-light glare at the climax of a gathering storm of hand-claps...
"Mr Brooks please..."
I'm back in the black cloud of a Monday morning and rise, summoned from the holding pen. I cast a fleeting cursory glance around the sour faces of the others left sat there - society's detritus - and feel a surge of unjustified smugness. I'm not one of you, I don't belong here with you and this is last Monday morning that we will spend in each other's company. I approach the table of a staff member, who's facial expression hovers undecided between a smile and a grimace, and we sit down to business without shaking hands.
Indeed this must be one of the most depressing places I've ever found myself inside. It is a place of migraine-bright lights, un-ironed shirts, grainy coffee in styrofoam cups, and dog-eared posters tacked to walls advertising minimum wage hospitality jobs. The automatic doors give way to another lumbering layabout who slobs in, hands plumbing the depths of jeans pockets and scowling at the very presence of the day.
The jobless and the staff are separated by a discreet yet tangible barrier; those without jobs are shepherded to a central atrium of cheap furniture - a holding pen around which is wrapped a ring of staff desks. These desks are cluttered with a liberal array of bureaucratic paraphenalia, almost as if an attempt were being made to further highlight the gulf between those in the room.
The staff laugh with frugal economy at the occasional joke made by a colleague, the kind of mirthless banter exchanged to try and mask the crushing Monday morning depression that all are labouring under. All the while keeping their glances orbiting around the perimeter of the holding pen lest they should meet the gaze of someone languishing inside, thereby provoking some kind of dormant rage, the nature of which is most unwelcome on such a dismal morning. There's nothing like a random outburst of pent-up violence to irreparably ruin someone's day.
The jobless sit stubborn-faced on the sofas; stranded survivors on an island of their own circumstance, cut off from the rest of civilised society, able to view it through protracted lens but unable to play any meaningful or useful role in it. Each one works harder than is their want in order to avoid catching the eye of anyone else in the group, as though by ignoring all others the fact of their own presence in such a place can be allowed to slink by unacknowledged. Its easier to remain silent and aloof in such a place, or else you might begin to find an identity within it. No one here knows you outside of this environment, therefore - to them - you belong here, in the same sense that you associate them with this place and nowhere else. This is no place for making friends or seeking to inspire comradry. One man in his late-forties stares at the tips of his dirty shoes with the intensity of an aggressive drunk squaring up for a pub brawl. A young woman to my left appears edgy and agitated, hands shaking slightly as she grips her mobile phone in the grim hope that it might somehow teleport her into some other reality.
As I drift in and out of my own musings, I realise that the reason there appears to be such a division between the staff and jobless is because the holding pen is set into the floor by almost a couple of metres, like a swimming pool drained of all water. This had previously escaped my notice due to an ingenius lighting-and-mirror trick which no doubt councils up and down the country spent months and considerable funds in the pursuit of its inception.
As the staff begin to congregate around the rim of the shallow pit, a bell is sounded and the tension finally begin to ratchet to a head amongst those contained. Whilst before they would have sooner stabbed out their eyes with the pens held on desk-leashes than catch the gaze of another, now each man realises the situation that has been subtlely manufactured and the staring-down between them now begins, seeing the others as real opponents for the first time. The 5 or 6 captives, myself included, begin to shuffle around the fringes, our backs to the walls of the pit, our sense of self-preservation now unfurling around us like peacocks bearing their feathers.
The stand-off reaches an apex of intensity and suddenly one woman breaks out of her anxious side-step and lunges at the young girl to my side. Together they erupt in a fit of screaming, hair-pulling and scratching. Eager not to be entirely pre-empted by the women, the older man throws a punch at the bloke next to him wearing a grimy denim jacket. I have to wheel around to avoid the flailing wrecking-ball fists being swung by an overweight man in his late-30s, and quickly counter with a couple of darting jabs to his lower abdomen. With Fatty temporarily winded I skip around the two scrapping women and land an effective clothesline arm swipe to knock Denim to his knees.
The smell of sweat and blood mingles with the scent of grey synthetic carpet fibres scuffed up by the stamping feet of the staff. They have formed a collective braying audience, united with clenching fists and shouting encouragements. I almost expect them to break out with the classic playground chant of "Fight, fight, fight!", but they are too preoccupied with negotiating and closing hastily-made wagers between themselves.
I taste the bitter bile at the back of my throat as Fatty, returning strong and newly invigorated with violence, slams his brick wall of a forehead into the bridge of my nose, letting fly a jet stream of blood. Encouraged by the rising cheers from the sidelines, he hoists himself up out of the pit and prepares to launch himself off in an explosion of showboating panache and aggression. He leaps from his corner pulpit amidst the strip-light glare at the climax of a gathering storm of hand-claps...
"Mr Brooks please..."
I'm back in the black cloud of a Monday morning and rise, summoned from the holding pen. I cast a fleeting cursory glance around the sour faces of the others left sat there - society's detritus - and feel a surge of unjustified smugness. I'm not one of you, I don't belong here with you and this is last Monday morning that we will spend in each other's company. I approach the table of a staff member, who's facial expression hovers undecided between a smile and a grimace, and we sit down to business without shaking hands.
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
20 of my favourite musical artists
In no particular order
1. Aphex Twin
2. The Beatles
3. Led Zeppelin
4. U2
5. Pink Floyd
6. Nine Inch Nails
7. The Fall
8. Oasis (circa 1994-97)
9. Can
10. Joy Division
11. Jeff Buckley
12. Manic Street Preachers (circa 1991-95 - Richey Edwards years)
13. Brian Eno
14. Radiohead
15. The Smiths
16. Jon Hopkins
17. David Bowie
18. Gyorgy Ligeti
19. Kraftwerk
20. The Brian Jonestown Massacre
1. Aphex Twin
2. The Beatles
3. Led Zeppelin
4. U2
5. Pink Floyd
6. Nine Inch Nails
7. The Fall
8. Oasis (circa 1994-97)
9. Can
10. Joy Division
11. Jeff Buckley
12. Manic Street Preachers (circa 1991-95 - Richey Edwards years)
13. Brian Eno
14. Radiohead
15. The Smiths
16. Jon Hopkins
17. David Bowie
18. Gyorgy Ligeti
19. Kraftwerk
20. The Brian Jonestown Massacre
20 of my favourite films
1. '2001 (A Space Odyssey)' (S. Kubrick)
2. 'A Clockwork Orange' (S. Kubrick)
3. 'Aguirre - Wrath of God' (W. Herzog)
4. 'Apocalypse Now' (F. F. Coppola)
5. 'Blow-Up' (M. Antonioni)
6. 'Brazil' (T. Gilliam)
7. 'Easy Rider' (P. Fonda & D. Hopper)
8. 'The Evil Dead' (S. Raimi)
9. 'Get Carter' (M. Hodges)
10. 'Goodfellas' (M. Scorsese)
11. 'Monty Python & the Holy Grail' (T. Jones & T. Gilliam)
12. 'Possession' (A. Zulawski)
13. 'Reservoir Dogs' (Q. Tarantino)
14. 'Shallow Grave' (D. Boyle)
15. 'The Shining' (S. Kubrick)
16. 'Stalker' (A. Tarkovsky)
17. 'Taxi Driver' (M. Scorsese)
18. 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' (T. Hooper)
19. 'The Wicker Man' (R. Hardy)
20. 'Withnail & I' (B. Robinson)
2. 'A Clockwork Orange' (S. Kubrick)
3. 'Aguirre - Wrath of God' (W. Herzog)
4. 'Apocalypse Now' (F. F. Coppola)
5. 'Blow-Up' (M. Antonioni)
6. 'Brazil' (T. Gilliam)
7. 'Easy Rider' (P. Fonda & D. Hopper)
8. 'The Evil Dead' (S. Raimi)
9. 'Get Carter' (M. Hodges)
10. 'Goodfellas' (M. Scorsese)
11. 'Monty Python & the Holy Grail' (T. Jones & T. Gilliam)
12. 'Possession' (A. Zulawski)
13. 'Reservoir Dogs' (Q. Tarantino)
14. 'Shallow Grave' (D. Boyle)
15. 'The Shining' (S. Kubrick)
16. 'Stalker' (A. Tarkovsky)
17. 'Taxi Driver' (M. Scorsese)
18. 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' (T. Hooper)
19. 'The Wicker Man' (R. Hardy)
20. 'Withnail & I' (B. Robinson)
Sunday, 13 November 2011
Down and Out in Hollywood, CA
I moved to Los Angeles aged 24. It was the early 60s and California seemed like the centre of the whole universe. I was born in Boston, to a line of trawler-men stretching back 3 generations. But with every day older I grew the stronger my resolve to locate the escape route intensified. Movies were my passion and I had my heart firmly set on acting. Everyone I knew said I looked like a young Marlon Brando, and that all I had to do was head west to the land of the stars and I'd soon ascend into the same constellation.
............
I hit the road on the Greyhound, riding the rickety route cross country. A couple of my fellow passengers, as luck would have it, were guys my age who were also heading to Hollywood in a hopeful bid to realise their dreams. There was Jack, who shared the acting aspirations that I did, and Bobby who was a writer, his suitcase crammed full of draft scripts hammered out over the years whilst growing up. The world was ours, every revolution of the bus wheels taking us closer to our true calling.
.............
The first years were promising; I secured an agent on my third day in the city - something I took great pains to laud over Jack for the years after (he took 8 days) - and soon landed small parts in various mini-series, commercials and ill-fated pilots. It wasn't much but it just about covered the rent, and besides, I was confident my big break was languishing just around the corner.
............
After a while, the gaps between auditions and filming began to grow like a steadily receding hairline, and I started working on the side as a waiter in a fancy West Hollywood restaurant. It was the kind of place where big-time movie producers would have business lunches and discuss new project propositions over countless Bloody Marys. All the while I felt like I was there on the fringes, ear pressed up against the wall but without the helping hand or a ladder tall enough to see me scale it. One particularly painful situation stood out when, as I was serving drinks I overheard a sharp-suited executive gushing to some generic bright young thing about how he could be "the next Marlon Brando".
As the years wore on and the glorious 60s dissolved into the grim 70s, I parted ways with my agent and the auditions and opportunities slowly dried up. I once again craved the same escape route I had needed out of Boston, only this time there was no where further to go, and steadily I found that exit in drink. Women came and went out of my life - my looks still had their advantages. Gradually they too began to fade and wear; no longer were the Brando comparisons made my way.
...........
The Hollywood streets were harsh, and the studios and big names gradually fled to Burbank or further afield, leaving only a sidewalk full of stars in their wake. But I was determined not to give up on my dream. I attended more and more auditions but to no avail. They could sniff the desperation on me, almost as pungent as the cheap booze on my breath, and eventually my calls and follow-up enquiries were met with nothing but a firmly closed door. The wall had grown to a height far beyond my reach.
..............
Now my life is spent hauling my trolley along the sidewalks. A trolley full of my meagre possessions bound in dirty plastic bags. My skin is tattooed with years of grime, I've not shaved in I don't know how long. My clothes are ragged and torn, with years of piss and shit engrained in the stitching. I spend most of my time beneath a Downtown overpass where the closest I have to friends huddle round a trash can full of flames, on a good night passing between us a bottle of liquor or cheap wine. We recount our endless stories of how we arrived in LA all those decades ago, with our eyes ablaze with ambition. The city was kind to many who made the trip; we were the ones to whom it was not. These guys are just the same as me and I find a warm catharsis in that knowledge. They were aspiring actors, writers, directors, musicians, who spent years racing round corners chasing that big break and be rewarded with the life of Beverly Hills estates, premieres and adoration. In the end the only thing to break was our resolve.
I've not heard from my Greyhound buddies in a while. Last I heard, Bobby was down and out over on Venice Beach. That guy was the best damn writer I ever knew. He maintains to anyone who'll give him half a chance that a handful of his scripts were picked up by various studios and minor alterations made that cut him out of any entitlement to the shows' success. Jack I've not heard about in a long time. There were rumours he'd fallen victim to the needle but I can't be sure. If it wasn't the needle it would likely only have been something else.
.............
But me, I hold tightly to the belief that fame and fortune can come to a man late in life. My Indian summer is surely just behind the next band of rain clouds. Out there in the movie company production offices in the steel and glass high-rises, a new project is being conceived and blueprinted. A new kind of performance is required, and a new kind of actor to deliver it. The film business is as turbulent as white water rapids and the audiences who bankroll it all are fickle in their demands.
..........
Some day soon the conveyor belt of plastic starlets and pretty-boy hunks will stagger to a halt and then it'll be my time to rise to the fore. The premieres will await, with tuxedos, champagne and limosines, and I will be sure to linger long in the warm glow of the spotlight. And it'll be everything I thought it would be. And it'll all be worth this perpetual waiting.
............
I hit the road on the Greyhound, riding the rickety route cross country. A couple of my fellow passengers, as luck would have it, were guys my age who were also heading to Hollywood in a hopeful bid to realise their dreams. There was Jack, who shared the acting aspirations that I did, and Bobby who was a writer, his suitcase crammed full of draft scripts hammered out over the years whilst growing up. The world was ours, every revolution of the bus wheels taking us closer to our true calling.
.............
The first years were promising; I secured an agent on my third day in the city - something I took great pains to laud over Jack for the years after (he took 8 days) - and soon landed small parts in various mini-series, commercials and ill-fated pilots. It wasn't much but it just about covered the rent, and besides, I was confident my big break was languishing just around the corner.
............
After a while, the gaps between auditions and filming began to grow like a steadily receding hairline, and I started working on the side as a waiter in a fancy West Hollywood restaurant. It was the kind of place where big-time movie producers would have business lunches and discuss new project propositions over countless Bloody Marys. All the while I felt like I was there on the fringes, ear pressed up against the wall but without the helping hand or a ladder tall enough to see me scale it. One particularly painful situation stood out when, as I was serving drinks I overheard a sharp-suited executive gushing to some generic bright young thing about how he could be "the next Marlon Brando".
As the years wore on and the glorious 60s dissolved into the grim 70s, I parted ways with my agent and the auditions and opportunities slowly dried up. I once again craved the same escape route I had needed out of Boston, only this time there was no where further to go, and steadily I found that exit in drink. Women came and went out of my life - my looks still had their advantages. Gradually they too began to fade and wear; no longer were the Brando comparisons made my way.
...........
The Hollywood streets were harsh, and the studios and big names gradually fled to Burbank or further afield, leaving only a sidewalk full of stars in their wake. But I was determined not to give up on my dream. I attended more and more auditions but to no avail. They could sniff the desperation on me, almost as pungent as the cheap booze on my breath, and eventually my calls and follow-up enquiries were met with nothing but a firmly closed door. The wall had grown to a height far beyond my reach.
..............
Now my life is spent hauling my trolley along the sidewalks. A trolley full of my meagre possessions bound in dirty plastic bags. My skin is tattooed with years of grime, I've not shaved in I don't know how long. My clothes are ragged and torn, with years of piss and shit engrained in the stitching. I spend most of my time beneath a Downtown overpass where the closest I have to friends huddle round a trash can full of flames, on a good night passing between us a bottle of liquor or cheap wine. We recount our endless stories of how we arrived in LA all those decades ago, with our eyes ablaze with ambition. The city was kind to many who made the trip; we were the ones to whom it was not. These guys are just the same as me and I find a warm catharsis in that knowledge. They were aspiring actors, writers, directors, musicians, who spent years racing round corners chasing that big break and be rewarded with the life of Beverly Hills estates, premieres and adoration. In the end the only thing to break was our resolve.
I've not heard from my Greyhound buddies in a while. Last I heard, Bobby was down and out over on Venice Beach. That guy was the best damn writer I ever knew. He maintains to anyone who'll give him half a chance that a handful of his scripts were picked up by various studios and minor alterations made that cut him out of any entitlement to the shows' success. Jack I've not heard about in a long time. There were rumours he'd fallen victim to the needle but I can't be sure. If it wasn't the needle it would likely only have been something else.
.............
But me, I hold tightly to the belief that fame and fortune can come to a man late in life. My Indian summer is surely just behind the next band of rain clouds. Out there in the movie company production offices in the steel and glass high-rises, a new project is being conceived and blueprinted. A new kind of performance is required, and a new kind of actor to deliver it. The film business is as turbulent as white water rapids and the audiences who bankroll it all are fickle in their demands.
..........
Some day soon the conveyor belt of plastic starlets and pretty-boy hunks will stagger to a halt and then it'll be my time to rise to the fore. The premieres will await, with tuxedos, champagne and limosines, and I will be sure to linger long in the warm glow of the spotlight. And it'll be everything I thought it would be. And it'll all be worth this perpetual waiting.
Friday, 4 November 2011
Culture - November
Books Read:
Paul Auster - 'The New York Trilogy'
Albert Camus - 'The Plague'
J.G. Ballard - 'Cocaine Nights'
T.S. Eliot - 'Selected Poems'
Films Watched:
'The Rum Diary' (Bruce Robinson)
'Inside Job' (Charles H. Ferguson)
'Gran Torino' (Clint Eastwood)
'The Premature Burial' (Roger Corman)
'The Dead Zone' (David Cronenberg)
'The Adventures of Tintin - The Secret of the Unicorn' (Steven Spielberg)
'Scandal' (Michael Caton-Jones )
'The Man with X-Ray Eyes' (Roger Corman)
Albums Played:
Motorhead - 'Ace of Spades'
Noel Gallagher - 'Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds'
Kasabian - 'Velociraptor!'
The Fall - 'Ersatz G.B.'
Dinosaur Jr. - 'Where You Been'
Goldie - 'Timeless'
Mercury Rev - 'All Is Dream'
Lisa Hannigan - 'Passenger'
Gigs Attended:
Motorhead @ Manchester Apollo
Paul Auster - 'The New York Trilogy'
Albert Camus - 'The Plague'
J.G. Ballard - 'Cocaine Nights'
T.S. Eliot - 'Selected Poems'
Films Watched:
'The Rum Diary' (Bruce Robinson)
'Inside Job' (Charles H. Ferguson)
'Gran Torino' (Clint Eastwood)
'The Premature Burial' (Roger Corman)
'The Dead Zone' (David Cronenberg)
'The Adventures of Tintin - The Secret of the Unicorn' (Steven Spielberg)
'Scandal' (Michael Caton-Jones )
'The Man with X-Ray Eyes' (Roger Corman)
Albums Played:
Motorhead - 'Ace of Spades'
Noel Gallagher - 'Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds'
Kasabian - 'Velociraptor!'
The Fall - 'Ersatz G.B.'
Dinosaur Jr. - 'Where You Been'
Goldie - 'Timeless'
Mercury Rev - 'All Is Dream'
Lisa Hannigan - 'Passenger'
Gigs Attended:
Motorhead @ Manchester Apollo
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