Rob Wickings's Blog, page 18
June 25, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 25
I mean, we can’t even. The news is acting like a kid after an illicit raid on the cookie jar, jabbering wildly and flinging stuff around so quickly that we simply don’t have the capability to keep up. So we won’t. We’re sticking to our lane, hands firmly on the wheel at ten to two. If we seem to be gripping a little too tightly, our knuckles whitening… that’s just the way we drive, yeah?
Anyway. Either the greatest or the worst sandwich in the world, salt, yanks and the world’s most satisfying checkbox await your attention on the other side of the fold. Join us. It’s safer in there.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
The peanut butter and jelly sandwich is a childhood classic, the love of which many carry through into adulthood. However, as you grow your tastes change. How do you update a beloved comfort food for more complex flavour profiles? Here’s a suggestion. We have no issue if you recoil with horror at the idea. We’re still not convinced ourselves.
Comics, as we never tire of proclaiming, do it best. Here’s a handy list of some which, rather than telling stories, explore and deal with philosophical and spiritual ideas. We would respectfully add the work of Darryl Cunningham to the mix, but everything mentioned here is good, and good for you!
Some interesting thoughts on writing from Warren Ellis, who is gradually making his way back to the light after facing (and willingly working to make amends for) a #metoo confrontation at the beginning of lockdown. His tone has changed a little—the Essex abrasiveness softening as he learns to improve himself. But Warren has always been wise in the ways of creativity and the processes by which art gets made. And his core metaphor here is more elegant than the whole ‘planner vs pantster’ bit.
Where would we be without salt? Well—dead. It’s an essential part of our diet, not just there to sprinkle on a bag of chips. This Bon Appetit article on the stuff is sciency and flavoursome. That’s quite an achievement, and one you should definitely devour.
We could start up on the whole USA Gilead situation but this is not really the place or time. It’s coming, though. Instead, we’ll simply share this inspired rant from Patrick Marlborough at Gawker on why we should simply banish America from the internet. He makes a very good point.
Publishing is in a bad way. The pay structure is awful and the sector is riddled with outdated ideas and ridiculous trend-chasing. But, more importantly, it’s facing a crisis of self-doubt which is destroying some writer’s ability to control basic crowd-management issues. If everyone’s a critic, what do you do when one of your authors is subject to a pile-on?
Music is, at its core, mathematical. The relationship between notes and chords is simple, logical and subject to easily understandable rules. These rules can be subverted in surprising ways. Take, for example, the war work of Merryl Goldberg, whose compositions contained some very important messages…
Our digital life involves a lot of complex interaction disguised under layers of clever computational smoke and mirrors. Every time you touch a link or click send on an email, a lot happens in the nanoseconds after that simple action. The thought processes which go into the things that happen when you, say, touch a check box, are explained beautifully here by the folks behind andy.works. Seriously fascinating stuff.
The World’s Most Satisfying Checkbox
The Music Desk are in remix heaven this week, spinning old platters from the eighties and praising the virtues of the twelve-inch remix. To some, these reinventions of chart hits seemed to simply glue a layer of cruft onto a finely-crafted jewel of tunery. The point, though, was not to sit and listen. The point was to get up and dance.
And finally. A memoir, some recipes, a bit of history, all exquisitely wrapped up this strip from Yazan Al-Saadi and Ghadi Ghosh. Once again, loudly for the gallery, comics do it best.
We’ve gone full out for this week’s Exit Music. A huge playlist of tracks guaranteed to give you goosebumps in the right way. Call it frisson, call it chills. Either way, there’s gonna be something here to set up a wave of delicious shivers.
See you next Saturday.
June 18, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 24
And we’re back. We hope you were suitably well-behaved whilst we were off being all windswept and interesting. Thanks for the love you showed last week’s archive post. If you care to go digging there’s plenty more on the site—Excuses And Half Truths has been running for a veeeery long time.
Anyway, let’s have some linkery. This week: singing cars, a simple cut-up and the worst writer in the village.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
Fans of a franchise are never happy unless they can complain about something. Whether a property isn’t truthful enough to the source, too truthful to the source—as long as there’s an element of the material not to their liking, toxic fans will whine loudly and at length. Especially if the VFX doesn’t match their mind-bogglingly high expectations. From the first iteration of Sonic The Hedgehog to She-Hulk, gods help the poor CGI supervisor if the keyboard warriors don’t like your work. However, it’s not all their fault. Budgets and time constraints are brutal. Also, it’s not just the fans they have to please…
Comics, as The Ninth Arts Desk defines it, are a winning combination of script, art and lettering along with the special magic which comes from the interpretation and inner voice the reader brings along. This is an art form where auteur theory can be applied—one person could do everything. But in general, there’s a team in place for every funny-book. The creative team along with an editorial crew work together to bring the magic to the page. However, there’s an increasingly loud school of opinion which places all the glory on the gilded brow of the writer. The script is vital, sure. But it’s literally half the story…
Sandwiches are important. A good sandwich, made with care and great ingredients, can lift your day. We prefer a sarnie to any other kind of lunch-time comestible, and the choice is almost limitless. If you can put some sort of filling inside some sort of bread and have it stay put on the short journey between plate and mouth, you’re golden. We would not dare to make a judgement as to the greatest sandwich of all time. The good citizens of Binghamton in New York State have no such hesitation. For them, if you’re talking about a sandwich, you’re talking about the spiedie.
The crypto crash has become a rich fount of hilarity and tragedy this week as the numbers go through the floor and the technology’s ponzu-scheme roots become clearer. As ever, the idea is good. It’s when people get involved that things go south. The culture which grew around the sector shares much of its DNA with the kind of finance bros who make The Wolf Of Wall Street look like a puppy. Cut Crush and fearsome internet pixie Laurie Penny shares her experiences at a seaborne crypto convention in 2018. It’s a wild ride.
Let’s check out a more wholesome activity. Collage is fun. Making new art from old is deeply satisfying. It can be as simple or complex as you choose. Pick the right two pieces of art and one cut could be all you need.
We’re sort of in the market for a new Cutmobile, which has sent editor Rob down a rabbit-hole of car research. By rabbit-hole we mean of course a vast, echoing underground cathedral. There’s a lot to read about. It’s sensible to look at electric vehicles, or at the very least hybrids. The technology built into the new breed of vehicles is remarkable, and touches every aspect of the driving experience. Right down to the noise the car makes when you put your foot on the pedal.
Like most people, we don’t pick up a pen very often these days. The odd birthday card. The occasional signature on an invoice. Otherwise, it’s all keyboard all the time. This primary interface between person and internet is viewed as the main reason why people stopped writing. Josh Giesbrecht has a different view. The problem, in his opinion, started with one of the greatest innovations in the writing world…
We absolutely loved this portrait of the last years of Jean Rhys. It says so much about her personality and the demons who shared her house and mind. We think her ramshackle cottage and the cluttered mess in her head became a shared space, the borders between each blurring and smearing away. In the end, it didn’t matter where she lived. She was free.
And finally. Most members of The Readership probably won’t know about Biggles, a classic example of pulp hero from the same school of British exceptionalism which brought us Empire-defending brutes like James Bond. His adventures were part of the cultural landscape for boys in the first half of the twentieth century. These days, W. E. John’s stories are barely readable, although they still have a propulsive verve which, if you’re prepared to put on your ‘of it’s time’ goggles, can still be entertaining. Author Charlie Stross offers a thought experiment where he retools Biggles for his particular flavour of expansive SF. Charlie insists he doesn’t have the time or energy to write the book. That’s a darn shame, because we’d read the heck out of it.
In yet another team-building exercise, The Cut Crew zoomed up to Birmingham this week to see Crowded House (as you’ll have noticed from Thursday’s blog entry, available for your reading pleasure right under this one). This makes our choice of Exit Music both really easy and incredibly difficult. There’s a lot of Crowded House to pick from. So we went with the first tune to pop into our head—which isn’t a song of theirs at all. However, it’s not quite that simple.
Nothing Wrong With You comes from The Finn Brothers, Tim and Neil, who were the core members of Crowded House for the moment when the band broke big. Their relationship has always been tempestuous, but the sparks struck from when they bang together are glorious. This track fits perfectly into the Crowded wheelhouse. It’s a lovely tune with gorgeous harmonies and an important message. The whole album which Nothing Wrong With You comes, Everyone Is Here, is well worth your attention. And if it tips you down the slippery slide of Crowdie fandom, then our job is done. It would be lovely to have you.
See you next Saturday.
June 16, 2022
Private Universe
Remember…
1994. The Together Alone tour. The first time TLC and I saw Crowded House. There were a line of strange, ridged constructs along the back of the stage, like monolithic artifacts of a forgotten age. Lit in rippling colours, there were times when they almost seemed to come alive, dancing gently to the music. A Maori choir and drum troupe came on for the title track and rattled Wembley Arena to the foundations. We had been fans before. Now we were hooked.
Remember…
2005. Neil and Tim as The Finn Brothers at the Royal Albert Hall. Nick Seymour turns up on bass, and for a moment we think there’s a full-on House reunion on the cards. But something’s off. Support act Bic Runga runs off stage in tears after struggling through an emotionally fraught set. At stage centre, a mike stand with a fedora on it. It all becomes clear. Founding member, drummer and class clown Paul Hester (the hat on the stand had been a trademark of his) had committed suicide the previous night. We realise we have, however inadvertently, been invited to a wake. It’s an extraordinary, sorrowful but uplifting show. They start—the rotten bastards start—with Don’t Dream It’s Over. All bets are off from that point. We mourn together.
And on and on. So many shows. Breakups, reformations, solo projects. The sound, the feeling remain. The warmth. The sense of family.
Remember…
The end of 2019. A world tour is announced. I am poised over the keys of the laptop as the seconds tick down to ticket-release. Tension. Mild panic. Forgetting the Ticketmaster password. Peering anxiously at the spinny wheel as the order is processed and…We’re in. Birmingham Arena. June 2020 can’t come soon enough.
Yes, right, well. About that.
The obligatory shaky, out of focus phone shot of a concert.Two and a half years later, Neil Finn, Nick Seymour, Liam Finn, Mitchell Froom and Elroy Finn stroll on stage, strap on and fire away. A crowded house (come on, you know I had to) at what is now the Utilita Arena goes nuts. Opening salvo: Distant Sun. Well, of course it bloody is. The first line goes ‘Tell me what you think you would change…’
Pretty much everything from March 2020 to here and now, thanks.
From there it’s a spirited, joyous romp through the back catalogue. You know more Crowded House songs than you think. But this is no greatest hits package. There are enough golden nuggets included in the set from the most recent album Dreamers Are Waiting to remind us that this is still a vital, powerful group of musicians with fresh songs to sing, fresh stories to tell.
They look great, by the way. Neil’s in a white suit, hair glinting sliver in the spotlight, up in an Elvis-high quiff. Liam (who treated us to an impromptu solo set, unannounced, slightly annoying as most of us were still in the beer queue) is a spit for Ewen McGregor’s Obi-Wan Kenobi with a soupçon of Marcus Wareing thrown in. Nick, always the fashion plate, rockets around the stage in (there’s no easy way to put this, best to just rip off the bandages) a kilt. Elroy and Mitchell just sit on the back line and get on with the job. Let the rockstars rockstar.
Two hours vanish, a sacrifice to the time gods. There’s a little less between-song banter these days, but otherwise all the elements of a great Crowdie gig are in place. Plenty of singalongs of course, where the band drop out and The Crowd take over. I choke up during Fall At Your Feet. Gods, I’ve missed this. Once the band roll into Better Be Home Soon I feel like I’ve been worked over like a punching bag. It is every bit as emotional as I expected. Catharsis is too weak a word for what I’ve experienced.
Why this band? Why these songs? You may as well ask why these clouds, why this grass? For as long as I can remember, Crowded House and their blend of warm, domestic, gently sensual psychedelia have been a part of our lives. Simple and comforting as a fresh cup of tea or clean set of sheets on the bed. They understand how the small things can inform greater truths. Every gig reminds me how Neil and Nick and whoever else plays with them have an innate ability to take any venue and make it intimate and welcoming. Live music is a communal experience. Neil and crew understood that when they live-streamed a set of musical experiments at home in New Zealand through lockdown which turned into a whole album, worked out with a global audience in tow. Crowded House bring that feeling of togetherness to the forefront and enfold their audiences in a big, fat hug. Lean in. Let it go. It’s ok to cry if you want.
In a strange and frankly still unsettling world, this was the moment we needed, the place to be, the songs to sing. To quote from the song: It’s only natural that I should want to be there with you.
See you on Saturday, housemates.
June 11, 2022
Chicken Two Ways: Soho, Memory and That Whole Proust Thing
The Cut is away. In a change to your scheduled programme, we offer a gem from the archives. Please join Editor Rob as he takes a Proustian ramble through his back pages via the medium of fried chicken. Trust us, it will become clearer once you dig in.
I turned my back on Soho in October 2016, twenty-seven and a half years after I first walked through the door of TVP in Golden Square. I started as a runner, one of those fresh-faced types that would grab coffee, fetch lunches and ferry videotapes around. There–videotapes. Shows you how long ago it was.
That first job is still in my bones. On the rare occasions when I slide back into the map of those streets (something I try not to do very often–memories have teeth and I am full of the scars they have inflicted) I navigate by the pubs, shops and restaurants that were the essential network of my working day. Flitting, frictionless and slippery as an eel through the tributaries, eyeblink-quick, in and out of the bars and brasseries with duplicate receipts that would help bolster the Monopoly money that constituted my pay packet. I could almost do it with my eyes closed. Sometimes, at four in the morning, running out for a packet of fags for a client on a crunch deadline, I probably did.
I still remember the order that a longstanding TVP client would insist was waiting for them in the edit suite before they arrived. A bottle of fizz. Two six packs of Budweiser. A six pack of cokes. A bottle of Captain Morgan. A bucket of ice. The fuel by which TV adverts are finished.
Once the booze was cracked, I’d be back in with the menus, praying for an easy order. If I was really lucky, everyone would order from the same place. If not, perhaps they’d at least keep it local, to Beak Street–the Andrea Doria for Italian, the Gallery Rendezvous for Chinese, maybe the Soho Pizzeria on the corner of the Square itself. More often, my luck would be out. I’d be ordering from four different places, still expected to have everything served together and hot and bloody toot sweet, sunshine.
The Soho I walked into in the spring of 1991 was not the Soho I left twenty-seven and a half years later. I was not the same Rob Wickings, of course. Married, a veteran of a spate of redundancies, battle-scarred, rheum of eye, knotty of joint. Eel-quick no more, and the dirty water I navigated so easily was both cleaner and more difficult to see through.
Most of my landmarks and waypoints have gone, you see. I’m half-blind if I walk through Soho now. The Andrea Doria is a coffee shop. The Gallery Rendezvous, a wine cafe. Soho Pizzeria, where I used to take TLC when we worked close enough to meet for romantic dinners, a little light jazz and a bottle of wine? A fucking Byron. TVP is long gone too, a faceless office space. Crossrail and gentrification has rubbed a rough dishcloth over Soho’s grubby face, cleaning it up and wiping the smile off its face.
Yeah, yeah. Poor old man. Can’t wrap your arms around a memory, right? You left, and you won’t go back, so what’s the big deal? You’re right. I shouldn’t get moony-eyed over a place I actively hated for the last decade in which I stalked its corners. But you don’t leave all that behind so easily.
It’s chicken that gets me thinking about Soho. More specifically, it’s a pair of dishes that were lunch regulars. You can still get one if you know where to look. The other is long gone. Both, if I see them on a menu, will instantly be considered as a contender. Both will not live up to expectations. But that’s what memory will do for you. It over-salts everything.
The Denman Street entrance to the Ham Yard Hotel complex is just an archway now, with a couple of retail units (you can’t really call them shops, they’re facades with products and a till in them) on either side. That plot used to house my very favourite place for lunch in all of Soho, and to be honest, the country.
The New Piccadilly Restaurant was an Anglo-Italian joint, a warm, jolly and utterly unpretentious place that would feed and water you for prices that would be unthinkable in today’s Soho. It was a refuge, a place where you could restore a sense of balance and sanity over a plate of food shared with friends. I loved it so much, it made a cameo appearance in a book that, to my shame, remains unfinished. Indulge me, because I’m about to offload an extract on you. Say hello to Inigo Jones, main character of The Prisoner Of Soho, as he finds a place to hole up after a savage beating…
Inigo was a creature of habit, and sensitive to territory. He had been born and raised in Soho, in a walk-up overlooking Berwick Street Market. The tiny block of Central London streets bounded on one side by Regent Street, and on the other by Shaftesbury Avenue, were all he knew and all he cared to know. He got nervous if he had to cross Oxford Street. The very prospect of a neighbourhood calling itself Noho filled him with horror. It would be like home territory only… different, somehow. The innate wrongness of this idea would be enough to keep him up at night.
It was an exquisite torture, then, that Inigo’s favourite cafe was on the very border of his self-imposed comfort zone. The New Piccadilly on Denman Street was, arguably, outside this zone. His friends took great pleasure in pointing this out to him.
“Too close to Dick and Pilly Circus, In,” they’d crow. “No such thing as a buffer zone. It’s over the border. You shouldn’t be there.”
Inigo was unrepentant. It was the one point regarding geography at which he would be prepared to loosen up.
“The point is,” he’d argue, “that there are a lot of places in the absolute heart of the territory that could have come from anywhere. Multinational coffee shops, franchise restaurants, you can find ‘em everywhere, and they’ll always be the same. The New Pick…”
He’d always pause at this point, and allow a beatific smile to slide over his fine-boned features. This was always the moment that his pals would regret bringing up the subject. There was always a rhapsodic soliloquy coming up behind that smile.
“The New Pick is the heart of Soho. It’s been there since whenever, it’s survived however many attempts at closure and takeovers. Unchanged. Uncompromised. It’s the pulse of our streets, ladies. The beat of the drum that keeps us marching. If there was a way of redrawing the map, of moving the place lock stock and big pink Astra espresso machine and dumping it onto Wardour Street, I’d do it in an instant. But I can’t, and it doesn’t matter. Because, my friends, the New Piccadilly is not in Soho.”
“Soho is in the New Piccadilly.”
He clanged the door open to the comforting fug of steam and frying smells. Every surface was in a warm colour, custard yellow on the walls, lemon on the formica tops of the tables, a deep crimson on the seat backs, age-darkened mahogony on the floors. Every vertical surface was encrusted with posters to West End shows, however small, however fleeting their moment on the stage. The more esoteric the better, it seemed. The place had not been properly redecorated since it had first opened its doors in 1951.
The formica, the light fittings that looked like the motors from the Saturn V rocket, even the menu mounted on a piece of horseshoe-shaped chipboard, all of it was from a different, more glamourous age. There were two banks of booths, leading back to the more secretive seating area at the back. Inigo’s preferred spot, even though it was closer to the bogs. Today, precisely because it was closer to the bogs.
Inigo nodded a wink to the avuncular white-haired gent in white shirt and burgundy cravat holding court behind the counter. “Ciao, Lorenzo,” he husked. Lorenzo nodded back and without another word moved over to the giant pink espresso machine on the corner of the bar. On the front, the legend W PICCADILLY was picked out in gold letters. He’d never seen the point in getting it fixed. The important part of the Astra was what went on under the bonnet.
And so on. Lorenzo, in case you’re wondering, was the owner of the New Pick, Lorenzo Morioni, and I only wish I knew him as well as Inigo does in Prisoner. Look, if you can’t wish-fulfil in your own unpublished novel, when can you?
Lunch would always be the same, no matter how much I’d hum and erm and wrinkle my nose. It was almost a running joke. Of course I would have the Pollo alla Milanese. What else could I do? Nothing else would ever come close.
What’s the big deal? You can get chicken Milanese just about everywhere. Any Italian joint will, at some point, stick a breaded escalope on the menu and have done with it. I’ve had plenty in my time and they are all, without exception, disappointments. They do not hit the spot in the same brutally laser-guided fashion that the New Pick’s PaM did.
Picture this. A huge oval plate is plonked in front of you. The main feature is a pounded escalope the length of my boot-sole (I take a size 10, 43 EU sizing), thickly breaded and still sizzling from the deep fryer. Alongside that, a generous swirl of spaghetti dosed with the most Heinz-Cream-Of-Tomato-flavoured red sauce you’ll ever get. Alongside that, a side of chips. And a wedge of lemon. It was the most absurdly generous carb-bomb you could get, the chicken still juicy, the chips (NOT fries) clearly done to order with the escalope, the pasta al dente, the sauce almost like ketchup bringing everything together.
My mouth is watering just thinking about it. I used to have a strawberry milkshake to chase the food down. Post-lunch would frequently pass in a semi-comatose blur.
I know. I am a monster of horrifying and unsatisfiable appetite.
Sadly, Inigo’s prediction as to the invulnerability of the New Piccadilly proved all too false, and it closed at the end of 2007. I took lunch there a couple of days before Lorenzo shut up shop for good. It was almost unbearably poignant, a sense of ending only sharpened by the fact that the food was prepared with the same sense of care and generosity as ever. For me, the closure of the New Pick was the first sign of Soho, my Soho slipping away from under my size 10s. I knew I’d never eat that meal again, and nothing I would do would ever come close. Believe me, I’ve tried. But then, how could I succeed? Chicken Milanese at the New Pick was as much about the surroundings and the people as the food. Memory is a most troublesome seasoning.
Anyway. Onwards to a meal that you can, at least for now, try for yourself.
Shelley’s Cafe on Dean Street is a favourite of many Soho office workers, who will still queue cheerfully for wraps and salads. A merger with another business next door, Make Mine, meant much of the Japanese grub that made Shelley’s distinctive was shunted off menu. But you can still get the chicken Katsu curry from a counter at the back. And believe me, you really really should.
What’s the big deal? You can get katsu absolutely everywhere. Itsu do it as a soup, ferfuxache. It’s one of those items that transcends cultural boundaries. Breaded chicken with a curry gravy. So what?
Here’s what. Order a large (because you need the full experience) and snag a seat in the tiny seating area at the back of the cafe. You’ll get a clamshell foam dish capped with a Panko-crusted escalope as big as my slipper (UK10, EU43) cut on the bias into easily-forkable slices. Underneath, a dense slab of rice. So far, so ho hum.
It’s the curry that does it. This is not a curry sauce. It’s a meal in itself. Classic Japanese curry flavours mixed into chunks of potato, carrot and yet more chicken. Sloppy enough to dip and scoop, thick enough to hold its own against the meat. It’s an extraordinarily balanced, rich and hearty main course that frequently dropped me into an afternoon dream-state. Utter, utter bliss. Against this, all other katsu currys feel like half a meal. I’d sometimes have them three times in a week.
Like I said before, monster, appetite, etc.
There’s something about the simple presentation of the Shelley’s katsu that makes it. Opening up the styrofoam to be presented with that slab of protein, moments before the fragrant steam hits you and oh god my mouth is watering again. Like the New Pick’s escalope, chips and spaghetti, it’s not pretty. But by all the gods in whatever shrine you choose to light your candle, Shelley’s katsu curry does the job.
Two meals, then, both alike in many ways. Both memorials to a past life. Both points on a compass towards the man I was, and the man I am now. Both ring my bell like Quasimodo whenever I see them on a menu. I am a simple man of hideous and unredeemable appetite and I know what I like.
It’s possible Soho made me that way.
I’ll never stop looking for Pollo Milanese done the New Pick way. As for Shelley’s–well, that one I can at least come close to in a home setting, although TLC does insist on eating off a plate rather than out of a clamshell. It’s a quest with no real ending, but a whole ton of delicious stops along the way. Proust had his biscuits, Joyce his kidneys. Me? I have breaded chicken, two ways. Simple as that.
But then, there is the vexed question of the Meat Box from Palms Of Goa on Meard Street (now an Honest Burger). Which is a whole other story.
For more on the New Pick, take a look at the Classic Cafes page dedicated to it.
Shelley’s can be found at 87 Dean Street in Soho. Here’s a recent review, courtesy of Kiwi food blogger Donut Sam.
June 4, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 23
Happy Pride Month, everyone! Like all other corporate entities, The Cut rushes to jump on the bandwagon, hoping to chase down a quick handful of the sweet sweet pink pounds. However,as general policy, we believe you are worthy of love no matter your gender, orientation, weight, colour, age, faith, position on the Myer-Briggs scale or point on the RPG alignment square. You’re all good in our book.
A minor organisational note—we are on a much-needed group away trip next week, so operations will be on a very low burn. We have lined up a treat from the archive so you don’t feel abandoned. We’d never do that. We are too full of love to let you down.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
Top Gun: Maverick seems to have tickled our collective fancy as part of a general 80s nostalgia vibe. Nice to see the movie finally appear after what feels like two years of trailers. Of course, we get to see Tom Cruise indulge in one of his signature moves, which brings up a question. We all know Tom can fly—but can he run?
Some short fiction for the long weekend, from our pals at The Sunday Morning Transport. This will redefine the phrase ‘moving house’. And ‘location, location, location’.
Staying with all things architecture, we are suckers for a nose round the spaces into which writers burrow when they need to work. Robert Graves’ hideaway in Majorca is a fine example of the form and fills us with unspeakable jealousy. Particularly as we are crafting this episode on a phone while on the M4 westbound. The view is nowhere as nice.
We really enjoyed this deep dive into the making of Yo La Tengo’s best album, I Can Hear The Heart Beating As One. Top tip about ordering at Prince’s Hot Chicken in Nashville, too.
I can hear the heart beating as one
Honestly, The Film Desk insisted this bit from Dread Central was included on the strength of the headline. We are not one to argue when they have their dander up like this. Seriously, though, it’s fascinating to see how the female in horror is transmuting from victim or Final Girl into something more… feral.
We’ve considered film soundtracks recently and how they are much less the product of a single visionary than you may think. Pressi Lovanto, composer for Scandi super-horror The Innocents outlines his unusual and highly collaborative methods, creating one of the most evocative and creepy film soundtracks of the year.
Let’s stick with yon auteur theory for a moment, and interrogate one of the more pervasive myths of 80s horror—that Tobe Hooper did not direct Poltergeist. It seems common knowledge that the producer, one Steven Spielberg, elbowed his way into the big chair. The facts tell a different story…
How many of you have a phone line in your place which isn’t attached to anything? It’s usually cheaper to have the line as part of a broadband bundle than to disconnect it. Seems like a shame to waste it when you can do… well, this.
We run playlists at Cut Central. Big, long ones. Fat, indulgent, uncompromising playlists stuffed to the gills with deep dives and eccentric tonal shifts. It’s a radical shift from the friendly curatorial vibe of a good radio show. Ken Freedman, station manager of the mighty WFMU, explains some of the differences.
And finally. This piece on Colorado’s only public funeral pyre should be gloomy, but somehow is not. It’s important to take control of one of the most vital decisions you’ll ever make, creating a mood of fond rememberance and celebration. After all, a funeral is not about the subject, but the people left behind.
If we’d been a bit more organised, this week’s Exit Music would be streamed daily on the socials over the next month. It’s the perfect anthem for June 2022. Get your boots on.
See you next Saturday, lovers.
May 28, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 22
It’s been a horrible week. We’re not going to try and sugarcoat it. The day job has been punishing, the news from home and abroad almost unbearable. We’re making the attempt not to let it all roll over us, crushing our bones into the tarmac and greasing its dreadful wheels with our tears. A reset isn’t possible under these circumstances—we need to learn a lesson and find a way forward which doesn’t simply shrug off events.
And also focus on some good things, like the construction and polish of this newsletter. Writing and reading is a balm. We intend to slather it on thickly this weekend. We hope you can join us.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
A couple of Substack links floating around this week. A pivot into good comics and food writing has led us to view the platform much more fondly than in the past. It’s all about how you curate your feed, we guess. First up, in a second hit in two weeks for Roxane Gay’s The Audacity, guest writer Christola Phoenix gives us a lovely urban story of hope, poverty and the numbers game.
Remember VHS? Somewhere in The Cut’s archive we have boxes of the things. Whether they’ll still play if we load them into a machine is a fraught question—the oxide on the tapes on which the signal is carried becomes sticky and prone to breaking off over time, even if it’s carefully stored. The creases and corruption of the carrier have become, for some people, part of the charm. And there’s also thirty years of broadcast ephemera that only really lives on these tapes.
Oh, how we love Nancy and Lee. The perfect pairing of a gruff old geezer with a bruised but hopeful heart and a sweet young girl who’s not as innocent as she seems is a great combination. Compare Nancy Sinatra’s pure tones with Lee Hazlewood’s exquisite song craft and you have an album for the ages. The Music Desk recommends you check this one out.
We have indulged a lot in comfort food this week as a way to lighten our sorrowful mood. Pie, Chinese takeaway, lots of chocolate. And you know what, it really has helped. Preparing and eating a meal you know you’ll enjoy can actually elevate your mood, as this great set of interviews in The Guardian shows.
Sometimes you don’t even need to do the cooking. Watching a show like Diners, Drive-ins And Dives can be a comfort in itself. Allowing the small, homey places with a good local following their chance to shine has innumerable benefits to the business and to the viewer. We always take notes on how to prepare big vats of good-looking stews, sauces and marinades. Then, of course, there’s the host, Guy Fieri, who by refusing to change or be anything other than his big-hearted self, has gradually started to earn the respect of his peers. For the Cut Crew, it’s good to see them catch up. Guy has always been our mayor.
We are all citizens of Flavortown.
A couple of interesting bits on mythical characters, and how their stories came to be told and retold, changing gently over the centuries. let us speak first of a near-forgotten outlaw, the mysterious Fulk Fitzwarin…
If Fulk seems a little familiar, well, myths and legends have a way of intertwining. Which brings us to the most famous fictional bandit of them all. We really enjoyed this overview of a great bit of 80s telly, which had a lot of clever writing and a fat stack of research to fuel the excitement and romance…
Let’s move onto another sort of fictional character. We’re all starting to see that ‘Boris Johnson’ is a construct, an artifice based on the archetype of the affable clown. This is camouflage, of course, disguising a far less acceptable figure whose personal and professional failings have laid this country low. Consider, then, the fictional character we voted to high office and the man behind the clown paint…
Ugh, we need a livener after that. This Substack listicle is quite a neat idea—a compilation of links to good food writers alongside a tasty little quote. Sort of a snack box of delicious nibbly bits. A writerly picky tea. Dig in!
Snack Life or Comfort Food (Slight Return).
The Cut is slightly short this week—we just couldn’t muster up the energy to get your full ten up. Please accept our apologies. We will try to do better. The situation wasn’t helped with the rotten news as we were finishing up that Andy Fletcher of Depeche Mode moved on this week. That did pick our Exit Music for today, although we wish we had a happier reason for playing our favourite bit of bombastic, dramatic synth-pop.
See you next Saturday, survivors.
May 21, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 21
Looks like we’re into the rainy season. Which brings a sense of relief to the extensive parkland in which Cut Central lives, and a sense of panic as the greenery wakes up and evolves into almost instant jungle. We’ve got some gardening to do is what we’re saying. With machetes. It’s possible the flamethrower will have to come out.
While we gird our loins for the task ahead, there’s a newsletter here for you. No, no, you relax and indulge in some light reading while we plunge into the undergrowth, edged weapons held high. Send out a search party if you don’t hear from us next week.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
The second season of Star Trek: Picard (tiresome last episode aside) was pleasing to our eyes. It was especially cheering to see Agnes Jurati, played by Alison Pill with an easy grace, blossom and embrace her essential queen-ness. Her transformation storyline, coupled with a narrative around realisation and acceptance of your true self, has resonated strongly with the LGBTi community, for whom Trek has always been an open and accepting space. You could throw in a counter-argument that Agnes was assimilated, of course. Nevertheless, Jaime Babb offers an interesting reading on Agnes’ path on Tor. Worth a look.
We live in a mediascape cluttered with conspiracy theories. When is news fake? Do we have to go to Snopes to check out everything our mad Auntie Eileen is posting on Facebook now (generally: yes)? How then should we view a growing online movement insisting that birds are in fact drones sent to spy on us? Are twitchers the new Watchmen? So many questions!
This New York Times interactive on the history and future of the guitar solo is brilliantly made and includes links to a lot of cracking plank-spankery. We recommend taking your time and cranking the volume. Actually, that’s advice we’d offer for most things in life.
You should subscribe to The Audacity on Substack. It’s full of really great, thoughtful and inspiring pieces. As an example, here’s a recipe for a good, simple loaf which turns into a treatise on the creative act. Baking and writing are closely twined activities. Only one of them ends with the essential ingredient for a sandwich or toast. Just sayin’.
I can guarantee any future Wonder Woman movies will not contain anything as bug-eyed, horny-toad wild as this 1943 strip, showing how the Amazons celebrate Christmas. A reminder that this was considered suitable for kids. Another reminder, which we will never tire of honking from the rooftops, that COMICS DO IT BEST.
We don’t deserve John Waters. One of the great transgressives, he remains brilliantly funny, sharp and very much his own creation. This interview for Buzzfeed is a love song, writer Scacchi Koul clearly delighted and infatuated with the guy. This is not a criticism. We are not interested in gotchas or scandals, especially as we feel John would simply delight in them. We need more people like John Waters in the world, and we are delighted to share this excellent piece. Viva trash!
The release of a new Downton Abbey film was met with groans and grumbles from the Film Desk this week. We lost interest when they killed off Dan Stevens in such a low-key fashion. However, Maggie Smith’s dowager duchess is more interesting, keying as she does into a great English literary tradition—the terrifying great aunt. Hey, if it’s good enough for Oscar Wilde and P.G. Wodehouse…
The Unified Theory Of Great Aunts
Band Waggon was possibly the first great British radio sketch comedy show. It delighted in the easy imaginative leaps you could take with the form, forming the first link in a chain which would run through ITMA to the Goons to Round The Horne and on and up. This is the wellspring from which a particular, giddily surreal brand of British comedy foamed. From here to Little Britain, The League Of Gentlemen and ever on. I thang yaw.
Alex Garland’s latest movie, Men, is just on release. As ever, reviews are mixed—he doesn’t do comfortable or consensus viewing. We’re looking forward to seeing it (particularly the last, allegedly bonkers, twenty minutes). But we’re pleased to see attention being paid to Dredd, his fantastic low (ish) budget take on our favourite leather-clad fascist. It’s a fantastic comic book movie—propulsive, gory and action-packed while also squeezing great performances out of a solid cast. Did Pete Travis deserve his director’s credit? No-one’s saying for sure. Whatever really happened, the movie which came out of the fraught post-production pipeline is a massively under-rated gem.
And finally. Food writer Jay Rayner is at his best when he shucks off his jacket and gives a bad restaurant a two-fisted rebuke. Although we sense an element of compliance in a comedy bit, his evisceration of Rob Beckett and Romesh Ranganathan’s one-night only pop-up is a classic of the form. Brace for impact, this one is gonna leave a mark.
Vangelis moved on this week. A true innovator of synthesiser music, his soundtrack work is most fondly remembered in mediasphere tributes. But the guy was a prolific artist whose work on the prog scene (check out 666 by Aphrodite’s Child) nearly led to a keyboard gig with Yes. Which brings us to his collaborations with Jon Anderson, which the old lags on the Music Desk remember with a nostalgic tear bulging in their wrinkled ducts. We celebrate the man and his music with this cut, in which two progressive artists pool their talents to delightful effect.
See you next Saturday.
May 14, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 20
It’s Eurovision Day! Here at The Cut we have a complicated relationship with the greatest international song competition in the world—there were times in the early 2000s when we nearly gave up on it all together, sick of the politics and the lackluster United Kindgom entries. We’re here and we’re paying for most of this, seemed to be the attitude. What more do you want?
Nowadays we’re more relaxed, simply enjoying the eccentricity and joy of the show. This year the UK has an adorable rock teddy-bear bringing the goods with a huge amount of goodwill behind him. Even though it’s blatantly obvious which country will win this year, we know it’s going to be a fun night. Editor Rob will, as usual, be hanging out and live-tweeting the experience—feel free to join @conojito as he rants and raves on that Twitter.
Meanwhile, we have a newsletter to bring you! Comics-heavy this week, but we know you all love that really.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
In the pre-Internet times, if you wanted to get the word out about your musical or artistic passions, the quickest and easiest way was to make a zine—a cheaply-printed, home-made pamphlet which you distributed yourself as best you could. Glue, typewriters and photocopiers were the tools of choice. A number of very famous comics names made their debut out of this vibrant, punky scene. Creativity was the fuel, talent was the engine.
An Alternate History Of Funny-books
We loved this bit from Reading’s own Steve Charnock on how a Henley bookseller has leveraged TikTok to help sell his rare volumes. It’s not the most obvious of platforms, but he’s made it work, and we can only applaud the innovation.
How do you feed a stadium full of hungry sports fans during a game? Well, it’s a challenge which Chris Giacalone faces every week at the Barclays Centre in New York. If you like your infrastructure and logistics, you’re gonna love this.
The Doctor Who theme is credited to composer Ron Grainer. As is often the case, the real work was done by someone else—in this case, electronic music pioneer Delia Derbyshire. The story of how the most famous SF theme in history was built is fascinating, especially when you consider the tools Delia and her team had to work with…
Twenty years ago no-one knew what a show-runner was. Now, as the broadcast TV scene mutates and expands, the notion of a visionary guiding the production of your next Netflix obsession is an important part of the promotion. Auteur theory creeping in through the back door. For many writer-directors with an idea and a dream, it would seem like the perfect job. But, as Vice shows, it’s a poisoned chalice lined with razors.
What Is A Showrunner – and why is it horrible now?
Editor Rob insisted we put this bit on the Scala Cinema Club in the mix. He was one of the ghouls haunting the back row in the 80s, hanging around all night and drinking in the horror and sleaze on screen. He’s mellowed now. He must have been a monster back then.
The script is the starting point, foundation and mortar of any dramatic presentation. As such, its format is standardized. Submit a film script which isn’t set out in a very particular way and no-one at the studios will even look at it. However, comics have no such standard and it seems every writer will set out their story in their own way. Attempts have been made over the years to come up with the One Format To Rule Them All. Here’s the latest. We like it—it’s clean and easy to use. Whether it’ll take off is anyone’s guess. Comics writers are a curmudgeonly, stubborn bunch.
We were sorry to hear from Chloe Maveal that Neo Text Review is shuttering at the end of the month. The site has been home to some of the best comics-related writing we’ve come across in years. NTR’s focus on British strips has been especially pleasing. Check it out while you still can. Here’s a great example of what’s on offer—the different approaches boys and girls comics in the 70s took towards one particular crisis, and how their audiences were expected to deal with ideas of courage and capability.
Last week, we highlighted a strip on how science was helping women take control of their bodies and make their own choices in the face of the looming threat to Roe Vs. Wade. It seems that threat has gained momentum, and you can now be imprisoned in the USA Gilead for daring to make those choices. We’re frankly horrified.
In further angry-making news, our esteemed government is seeking to put the blame for food poverty in the UK on the shoulders of the victims. Worse yet, they’re seeking to enlist Cut Crush Jack Monroe on their side, citing her work in giving poor families the skills to eat well on almost nothing. Even worserer, they’re trying to use her as an example of what these families should do instead of using food banks. Needless to say, Jack is not prepared to be misrepresented. Cannons loaded, fuse lit.
OK, we’re not going to leave angry. Our final bit is on Glyn Dillon, writer and artist behind the Tao Of Brown (which we highlighted earlier this year) and costume designer for Star Wars. His brother Steve was a leading light in the Brit-comics firmament, a distinctive and prolific artist. He left us too soon. In dealing with that loss, Glyn found a renewed sense of purpose, channeling his grief into remarkable paintings. This bit is sad but also hopeful, mournful but celebratory. It’s a fine way to finish up the week.
Here we are, then. Russia tossing out threats and brickbats, America losing its marbles, a Tory government treating the poor and disenfranchised like dirt on their loafers. The Cut Crew largely grew up in the eighties. We’ve seen this shit before. It’s all just a little bit of History Repeating…
No. We won’t leave angry. Not on Eurovision Day. We send our high hopes and best wishes to Sam Ryder as he prepares for launch. We don’t really care if he wins. It’s just great to see the UK taking the silliness seriously.
See you next Saturday, space babies.
May 7, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 19
The French phrase ‘M’aidez!’ from which we get Mayday as a shorthand cry for help, apparently originated as ‘merde merde’. Translating as ‘we’re in deep shit.’ Dunno why we thought that was pertinent but there it is, make of it what you will. We hope you had a pleasing Bank Holiday week, Star Wars Day and whatever other excuses for celebration came to you.
This week, spend some time with us in the woods, The Batcave and in a queue.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
It’s amazing what you can spot in old bits of pop ephemera you’ve lived with for decades. Take this extremely niche bit of trivia from Flashbak, who spotted a hitherto unseen link between two great English bands slapped on the side of a boom box…
Curiosity is our superpower. We are always nosing around, greedy at our feeds for the next nugget of interest to ping our radar. Mike Sowden of Everything Is Amazing knows this feeling well. He explores the sense of connection which often comes along with an enthusiastic, questing spirit like what we have got, and how it makes us better writers. Well, not based on that ugly last sentence, but you get the idea.
As an example of the above: we couldn’t tell you how we came across this great bit from writer, archer and all-round outdoorsman Dan Koboldt on how life in the woods is more complex than we think. But we’re pleased to have bumped into him, whatever path we took to get there.
10 Things Writers Don’t Know About The Woods
Content warning on the next post, and not just because it’s about comics. We have long asserted that The Ninth Art is an excellent medium for education. In light of the new threat to abortion rights in Gilead The USA, we present a great strip by Lux Alptraum and Erika Moen on how the tools which enable women to take control of their bodies have evolved since Roe Vs. Wade was first ruled. This one is not for everyone, of course. But if you’re curious, it’s worth a look.
This next clip speaks to our black little Gothic hearts and brings back memories of too much hairspray and nights spent moshing in dank basements. An old Nationwide story on the denizens of Goth club The Batcave in 1983 is somehow sweetly innocent and even-handed. No teen-cult scares here. Just pancake makeup and inventive ways to use fishnet tights.
If you need Zoom backgrounds, here’s a resource. The set dressings for Looney Tunes cartoons seem existentially bleak when stripped of Daffy, Bugs and the gang. They’d work well behind a production of Waiting For Godot, or maybe even King Lear. Another example of the artistry at play in works which were at the time considered to be throwaway entertainment for kids.
The story of Connie Converse is one of mystery, rebellion, lost chances with an unsolvable mystery at its heart. We are really enjoying James McMahon’s Spoook newsletter, from which this comes. Initially based on his time in music journalism, the narrative soon took a hard turn into frank discussions about his fragile mental health. He’s worryingly unfiltered but when James is on form he can spin one heck of a yarn.
Bob Stanley is another writer whose knowledge of pop is river deep and mountain high. He loves the form so much he even started a band to get the music in his head out to the world—you’ve heard of St. Etienne? He’s one of the po-faced boys poking at keyboards behind the saintly Sarah Cracknell. Anyhoo, Bob has written a new book on the birth of his favourite music. In this extract he talks about the English dance bands of the 30s. A very distinctive brand of popular music.
The story of Robert Samuel’s day job sounds like it should be satire or even lurching towards SF. But the fact remains he can run a successful business by simply waiting in line to snag tickets to hot shows on Broadway for other people. This is what capitalism in 2022 looks like, folks.
And finally. A few months ago we mentioned a resource for searching out fictional films and books which featured in real films and books. Spotifictional provides the same service for made-up bands, allowing you to easily check out music from Wyld Stallyns, Spinal Tap or Sex Bob-omb. It’s a little spare at the moment, but has the potential to be pretty darn handy.
Our Exit Music is the campest and most joyful clip you’ll see this week. Pop weasel Harry Styles was at Coachella 2022 and covered an iconic bit of 80s cheese as part of his set. A surprise guest arrived to help him out. Everyone involved seems to be having the time of their life, Harry in particular goofing around in spangled bliss. This one will put a smile on your face and a bounce in your step. We offer the prerogative to have a little fun.
See you next Saturday, pop stars.
April 30, 2022
The Cut Season 3 Episode 18
Another three-day weekend? Already? Don’t you lot have work to do? Where will we end up if we’re all lolly-gagging about enjoying ourselves and indulging in a little self-care and being actual human beings instead of adding to the coffers of the state and big business like we’re supposed to? We hope you’re happy, that’s all we’ll say.
No, seriously. We hope you’re all happy.
Enjoy the long break with us as we offer up a couple of American bar tours, a really good playlist and a primer on how to create an evil empire.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
Featured image of Reader’s World, Holland MI via Midwest Modern (@JoshLipnik) on Twitter.
A thick slice of our musical upbringing was baked on the streets of Athens, Georgia—an unassuming college town whose thriving bar scene was home to bands like the B52s and REM. That scene still exists today, and Punchdrink has been kind enough to talk to employees at three of the best. Gotta say, a pilgrimage to the 40 Watt Club is a bucket list item for us…
Here’s another bar crawl. This time we’re in New York, exploring the places where some of our favourite cocktails (and some we don’t care for—the Bloody Mary is just cold tomato soup with some vodka in it) were born. They also happen to be some of the most beautiful drinking spots in the city. Worth planning a day trip. Maybe a weekend.
Colonel Sanders is one of those real-life characters who has attained mythic status. In Japan, he’s celebrated in almost the same way as Santa and families will traditionally gather around a Bargain Bucket on Christmas Day. But who was the real Harlan Sanders? Can we parse out the fact from the mythology? Thank goodness for Snopes, who have done just that…
The True Life And Times Of Colonel Sanders
Cheese And Biscuits is one of the better restaurant review sites around. Writer Chris Pople hits the sweet spot between humour, empathy and expressing the delight of a hungry man with a refined palate enjoying really good food. We loved this cautionary tale of a trip to Khun Pakin Thai in Hammersmith, where he and his companion made a basic ordering error in a place largely patronized by the Thai community…
Quite food heavy this week, aren’t we? We obviously have big Bank Holiday dinners on our mind. Food is a community effort, of course. Like most creative endeavours, and especially at the high end, good grub is the sum of a machine comprising many moving parts operated by very skilled people. Restaurants who claim food is the product of one over-arching genius take as ridiculous a position as film-makers who claim their movie is all their own work. Worse still, menus don’t credit the chefs who help put that yummy stuff in front of you. At least films show a long roller of the people involved at the end of events. Amanda Cohen, chef-patron at acclaimed veggie joint Dirt Candy is trying to break that trend. A good start, we think.
Right, we’re full. Step away from the table, let’s have some music. This great list from Far Out Magazine of 13 under-rated songs from 1978 contains some you definitely know. But it’s still a banging set, and one to crank over the weekend. Hit me!
The Wild West. A place where men were men and women were… right alongside them, carving the future out of a very harsh landscape. The films which helped create the legends of the frontier have always been less male-dominated than you’d think. The Power Of The Dog is no outlier in the feminine view of cowboy tales…
We love us a good evil empire. If you want to put your plucky main character up against truly overwhelming odds, there’s nothing better than a villainous mega-corporation or corrupt government. However, creating such an organisation and making it believable takes more than designing a snazzy boiler suit for your minions and coming up with a cool acronym.
And finally. Did you ever have one of those toe-curling moments where you’re watching a film you recommended to your parents with your parents and that gratuitous sex scene or burst of sudden bloody violence comes on? Gods, the cringe of it. Writer Riley Cassidy has decided to lean into that feeling and show her mom some of her favourite films. As Riley works for Daily Grindhouse, you can guess which way her tastes lie. A particular highlight of the run is this screening of Gaspar Noe’s trippy dance-death orgy, Climax. Spoiler: Mom did not approve.
We’re running slightly short this week—the weird structure of the weeks in holiday season has discombobulated the office schedule a bit. We hope to be back to full speed next week. We’ll leave you with a short sharp burst of dirty pop from The Go-Nuts. ‘I See The Mona Lisa In My Pepperoni Pizza’ hits most of our tickle-nodes—art, food and low culture in a perfect two minutes of hot sauce ramalama.
See you next Saturday, you nutters.
