Nina Supersonic
Boy Cried Wolf @ Camden Barfly 25/01/11 - “This Is Exciting”

 

One of my most consistent mottos in life is, Panic: It gets shit done. Brash, but true. I never thought I would see it demonstrated as perfectly as it was at Boy Cried Wolf’s gig at Camden Barfly last night.

 

   When the impeccably dressed Wayne Murray took centre stage, ready to launch into the head-bending opener, Ghost In A Photograph, I saw a pale and wide-eyed expression more suited to a man about to enter a cage fight with Vinnie Jones. But the great thing about panic in my experience is that it can bring out the best in people; something tenacious and raw.

 

   The set list strayed away from a few strong selections from their EP, The Firebrand. The desolate assault of melancholic guitar that is Forever Is A Dirty Word sat comfortably alongside the optimistic Summer Song, a new addition that was almost unnamed, and for a while was known only as Gary…

 

   They are also adept at providing the most unlikely of anthems. In the same way that I would be bemused by a chant involving tweed, or Emile Heskey, I find it charming that I have never left a Boy Cried Wolf gig without the chorus of ‘We are all…tricycle drivers!’ stuck in my head.

 

   By the time Tricycle Drivers was played the spaces between songs were punctuated by a level of applause (and a hint of Take That-esque screaming) that I hadn’t heard in The Barfly for a while. It was received with an endearing amount of surprise, with Wayne remarking, “You’re so loud. …It’s so nice!” with a bashful glance at the floor.

 

   The lyrics to No Comfort From Your Skin, the night’s closer, were penned by Wayne’s touring companion Nicky Wire, of Manic Street Preachers. It’s hardly surprising that the song drags you into a kind of (undeniably catchy) lament; “She’s picking me apart with the weight of her words/And killing my desire.” Heartbreak isn’t only Wire’s domain, however, as the rest of the set list is full of it. Traces Of You is a break-up song waiting to happen, one to put on repeat while working your way through the remains of a bottle of whiskey and going through all the ways in which their new girlfriend may be prettier…or something like that.

 

   “You’re exciting, we’re exciting, it’s exciting,” Wayne observed, and he was right. It had been a while since I had witnessed The Barfly so animated. I would see Boy Cried Wolf now, as soon as you can. Not only because they are awesome, and genuinely hard to compare to any other bands around right now, but because I doubt you’ll be able to see them in a venue this size for much longer.

 

    Do it. You won’t be disappointed.

Quote Of The Day…

This amazing exchange came courtesy of my friend David, lead guitarist of Ageless Oblivion (http://twitter.com/#!/AgelessOblivion). If, like me, you are cynical of the need for death metal to exist, you’ll be surprised to know they’re rather good.

Me: <Insert Dom Howard-related comment here>

David: “Who’s he?”

Me: “The drummer from Muse.”

David: “Mm…drummer.”

Me: “What?”

David: *shakes head* “Dickhead or a psychopath. All of them. Trust me. These are people who hit things for a living, remember.”

“So Retro” – Jet @ Shepherds Bush Empire 18/07/2010

It’s not like me to review the same band twice in a row, but there is a reason behind my fangirling.

   “Are they still going?” was the question that followed almost every mention of going to see Jet. Almost as frequent was this exchange, recounted verbatim:

   “Who are Jet?”

   “You know, Are You Gonna Be My Girl?

   “Oh yeah! God, are they still going?”

   My favourite remark came in the amused and slightly condescending dismissal of the band with, “Jet, haha brilliant! So retro!”

   Having learnt the back catalogue crash course-style in the week since rediscovering them at Portugal’s Optimus Alive festival, the week preceding their only UK date before disappearing back to Australia, I find these questions harder and harder to comprehend. Not least because Are You Gonna My Girl?, the song that propelled them into mainstream consciousness, has been far surpassed by their later musical output.

   I’ve speculated for longer than the dilemma probably warranted, but it remains a source of bafflement to me that Jet have managed to stray into obscurity in the UK, especially after the experience of seeing them live outside a festival setting.

   Opening with a snarling That’s All Lies, the tone of the gig was set. Retro it was, but in the best of ways. At the front amongst the pogoing the atmosphere was more reminiscent of a 70s punk gig, raw with aggression and resulting in much bruising from over-exciting jumping.

   The set list was nicely split between the three albums. Highlights included the monstrous Black Hearts (On Fire), seeing the venue’s crowd-surfing ban pushed to the max and frontman Nic Cester smouldering his way through the lyrics. La Di Da proved an unlikely touching singalong, and the outrageous tidal wave of riffs that is Start The Show was played ironically in the encore. 

   Nic played his part to perfection, swaggering with Godlike arrogance and his vocals alternating between a combustible growl and deranged screaming. His love for demanding a bit of audience participation apparently never gets old either, judging by Seventeen and Beat On Repeat.

   Meanwhile drummer Chris Cester, also on backing vocals, attacked his drum-kit with the intensity of an unhinged vigilante pulverising a floored mugger. The effect was too big for Shepherds Bush, and only served to reinforce the question of, why aren’t they bigger?

   Are You Gonna Be My Girl? inspired its expected spree of head banging and shouty-pointing from the crowd, and songs like Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Hey Kids, and Walk have choruses made for stadiums. Songs with less impact and similar appeal have achieved that in the past (Arctic Monkeys, anyone?), and with much less stage presence and charisma to back them up. So why not Jet?

   There are a few theories that carry weight. One, that they are Australian and therefore not taken inherently seriously by the rock ‘n’ roll aficionados governing UK airplay. Two, that Are You Gonna Be My Girl?, while so incredibly successful at making their name, with a tune that is played in introductions and adverts to this day, became their downfall in the eyes of the UK music Press. They ‘sold-out’, or became ‘too commercial’ or ‘mainstream’; all these words and phrases now so commonly used with fashionable distain.

   Whatever the explanation it’s a sad conundrum. Far from the gimmick that the UK’s knowledge of them makes them out to be, Jet are a fantastic and truly underrated rock ‘n’ roll band. Capable of far more than walls of noise and catchy riffs, their songs range from the grandiose to the gritty; wryly comical (“There is good and there is better/Just like imitation leather”, courtesy of Beat On Repeat), uplifting, raw, anthemic, intelligent, and simple, the best examples of which are sadly not given half of the credit they deserve.

   Come back soon, Jet. I do hope that one day we’ll be ready for you.   

          

“That Band’s Gone Genius, uh oh oh oh oh oh OH!” – Jet, Optimus Alive, Lisbon, Portugal, 09/07/10

I’ve never liked support bands. Even when they’ve been support bands I’ve liked, I’ve never liked support bands. Bands that are on before my preferred band on a festival bill count as a support band. They tend to serve nothing more than a better (though this is often not the case…) way to pass the time than staring morosely at a drum-kit and backdrop while supporting myself on the barrier because I no longer have the will to stand up straight.

   Jet were, at first, in the unfortunate position of being such a band. Two bands on before the Manics at Optimus Alive Festival in Portugal, I hadn’t even fully recovered from the sprint to the barrier in temperatures of over thirty-five degrees.

(For those of you who don’t know or can’t remember who Jet are, think “Dum dum dum du-du-dum da-da-da duh-duh-duh-da-da-duh-duh So, one two three take my hand and come with me because you look so fine and I really wanna make you mine!” Yes, that was the only song I knew of theirs too.)

   A vague memory of owning one album while only knowing one song at the age of sixteen was all I had to make me interested. Then they came onstage.

   It was symptomatic of my ignorance of them post-2006 that I was surprised at Are You Gonna Be My Girl? being played in the middle of the set. Why would they play their best song before the end? I thought. Turns out, to my surprise, that it isn’t their best song. Not by far.

   Vocalist and rhythm guitarist Nic Cester has benefited massively from cutting his hair, not least because his stage presence (which he has in excess) is now reinforced by the realisation that he is very, very attractive. The squeal of, “Ooh, the singer’s cute!” to my right confirmed my theory. He also has the perfect (almost to the point of rock parody) voice for this style of music.

   She’s A Genius was the song I could still hum afterwards and that I could sing along to after one chorus. It’s an exemplary song as far as gritty rock goes, with a riff that goes straight to your elbows and seems to demand a Michael Stipe-esque dance*. Rip It Up also ranked high in the singalong ranks. Black Hearts (and I must admit Youtube and Wikipedia have aided me in discovering what these songs were actually called) had the same effect, but with a great melody to match. There are countless chants here, made for a mass clap-along.

   By the end of the set I was genuinely sorry to see them leave the stage, which they did to a residue chant from their moment of audience participation during the catchy, but oddly moving, Seventeen. Their set had been such an unexpected jolt of fun that I had even failed to notice the festival photographers taking many shots of me gazing up at the stage, with the sort of smile on my face that made me look like I was on day release and had lost my medication…

   I don’t know enough about them to write an informed and Q-worthy review, yet reviewing them I am. Upon returning from Portugal after the end of the festival the first thing I did was check what UK dates they were playing. I have nothing to convey, nothing of journalistic worth, apart from total over-excitement in the realisation that a band I had forgotten about have not only been rediscovered, but have become rather brilliant in the years that passed. 

   If you, like me, have the opening riff of Are You Gonna Be My Girl? imprinted in your mind until the end of humanity, you will be surprised at how far they have come since. If you, like me, love uplifting, dirty and raw rock ‘n’ roll, buy Shaka Rock and I can guarantee you will not be disappointed.

* I feel the need to add, as a disclaimer, that this may be because I was on the barrier and therefore unable to move anything but my arms and my head…

“Leeds vs. Lisbon” – Optimus Alive, 8th-10th July 2010, Lisbon, Portugal

So it transpires that football isn’t the only thing that the Portuguese are superior at. Music festivals can also be added to the (somewhat extensive) list.

   Optimus Alive festival is a three-day heavy rock affair in Alges, up-town Lisbon. The line-up was a failsafe combination of Florence & The Machine, Kasabian, Manic Street Preachers, Pearl Jam, Deftones, Faith No More, Jet and LCD Soundsystem. The temperature wasn’t predicted to drop below thirty degrees. There was going to be free Iced Tea. I was sold.

   So frequently in the UK festivals are much more enjoyable in advance than in the grim mud-soaked, piss-stained, beer-saturated reality. Festivals such as Glastonbury and T in the Park, costing around £200 per ticket, have gone from being lairy gatherings of over-excited music lovers to magnets for every wannabe indie kid and irritant poser under the age of 20. Those who would be content with taking amphetamines with WKD in a field for five days without seeing a single band are in the vast majority. No matter how good the line-up, I find it hard to concentrate on the immense experience of the music past the near-uncontrollable urge to line the rest of the crowd up against a wall and shoot them with air guns.

   Enter the foreign festival. Enter Optimus Alive.

   Firstly, it’s unbelievably clean. Even on the third day, pre-Pearl Jam, on a Saturday, when the queues for the portaloos (which were really more like clever portable communal bathrooms) demanded a fifteen-minute wait, they were nothing less than spotless and full of clean toilet paper. Seeing Pearl Jam without having to attempt the notorious “hover” manoeuvre to avoid syphilis, was mind-blowing.

   Secondly, the people were awesome. I mean genuinely awesome. The people who you would seek out at parties. That no one was visibly paralytic and/or throwing glasses of their own urine over parts of the crowd was instantly a step up from previous British experiences. But everyone I met while there had brilliant stories of musical escapades to tell; Madrid to see Bon Jovi, Rome to see U2, a row of Deftones fans racing Manics fans to the main stage barrier. Great scenes.

   The atmosphere is electric but never tips over into aggressiveness. Seeing siblings looking after their eleven-year-old brother near the back of the main stage whilst sipping pints of beer during Pearl Jam was particularly touching. At the front it was lairy but self-contained; even the mosh-pits were exhilarating rather than a desperate struggle to keep your femurs intact.

   It’s romantic, maybe naïve, to want British festivals to retain this sense of fun, this sense of wonder, without the cheap posturing and exhibitionism. But at least there’s always the chance to go overseas, which, when the combined cost of both the flight and weekend ticket comes to less than a Glastonbury or Reading/Leeds ticket alone, is a lot more affordable than you’d think.

   Lisbon, Germany, Spain, even Belgium. They all beat the British festivals in this Champions League.

Kasabian @ Le Bikini, Toulouse 09/06/2010

Toulouse didn’t sell itself well. From the moment I arrived to about four hours before doors the rain poured solidly, almost mockingly. Also the venue, Le Bikini, doesn’t appear to live up to its glamorous title, being situated in the middle of a largely deserted industrial estate full of nothing but warehouses and a very conspicuous Mexican Grill. Also, this gig is cursed.

   No really, it is. The first time Kasabian were due to play here the gig was cancelled a week before the event for no publicised reason. The second time the gig was cancelled an hour before the event due to three members of the band suffering from seafood-induced food poisoning in Marseilles.

   So third time lucky then?

   Queuing was a solemn and short affair. Two hours before doors I was worrying whether the four people there would turn out to be the extent of the crowd; such was the conviction of the French that this gig was destined to never take place. But after the very shakiest of starts Toulouse produced the most wild, jovial, enthusiastically-singing crowd of the European tour. Where they all came from, I don’t know. Maybe they were all hiding in the warehouses?

   The band matched the crowd’s stellar form, despite Tommy’s…shirt. Also despite a set list that was cut annoyingly short compared to other dates, they still managed to fit in the expected (Empire, Underdog, Club Foot, Fire, and a stomping version of Vlad The Impaler that saw Serge on his back, writhing on the floor of the stage playing the outro) and the unexpected (the return of the mighty Reason “K-I-L-L!!!” Is Treason).

   Serge, usually inclined to stand away from his microphone with his head down and his customary “Don’t look at me. No, really, do not look at me” expression, spent most of the gig dancing, stamping, pouting, and on the floor. I suspect alcohol may have played a part but I am not complaining because, due to his burst of hyperactivity, he handed me his set list.

   Tommy was quieter than usual, but then most things would look subdued next to his…shirt. I jest. He was also on good terms with the front rows, grabbing people’s hands, winking and executing some very Roger Daltrey-esque whirls of his microphone.

   One suspects this is the last leg of the West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum tour, and this instantly begs the question, where now? “African groove”, “sexual groove” and “middle east” are the phrases that have appeared in the Press so far. But whether they come from Serge or from uninformed speculation has been unclear.

   For a fan it means the excruciating division of opinion: on the one hand too much success will spell the end of all this, the chats at stage door, the small venues, the barrier within touching distance of the stage, the winks, the smiles, the elements aside from the music that made us fall in love from the front row. With success come stadiums, high stages, miles of barrier, and a distance between the band and the fans that can hardly ever be reversed. On the other hand, to wish for a sub-standard album would be unthinkable.

   Whatever happens, at least we have the gigs like Toulouse. That’s enough for now.  

The Drums (Oh Johnny boy…)

Once again, due to my habit of intentionally ignoring everything NME has to say with fingers in my ears and a loud, ‘Blah blah blah, The Skids, blah blah blah…’ I have been rather slow on the uptake with this band, but bear with me.

   I first stumbled across them supporting Florence & The Machine at Hammersmith Apollo.  They were preceded by an almost 50s-style scene with an outbreak of banshee screaming and one girl behind me, fanning herself in preparation for lead singer Jonathan Pierce to come onstage, exclaiming with no hint of irony, ‘Oh he’s so dreamy!’ By the time they came on my eyebrows had almost disappeared into my fringe in disbelief, especially when the legendary Johnny finally entered the stage, dressed like someone doing ‘dandy schoolboy’ in a satirical play with a haircut so retro I questioned whether it could be real.

   Once they started playing however, in a charming and raw style that bought to mind an optimistic and camp version of Joy Division, I not only started to like them, but I started to find Johnny inexplicably attractive within about three songs. By the end of their set I may have even flailed while saying, ‘Oh, I love him!’ On the one hand there’s his dancing, which alternates between an Ian Curtis-esque shuffle and a flourish of Adam Ant-style posturing. While part of you wants to dismiss him as a tragic indie car crash, a more overwhelming part of you knows that he’s cool enough to get away with it. On the other hand though there is his singing, which is undeniably strong, able to express both irony and charm.

   Then there is the issue of their stage door persona, a tripping point for any band, where an arrogant attitude or a snappy comment can put me off a band’s music for life. I saw his fringe before I saw him, and hoped that someone else would stop him considering I didn’t know his name at the time and I wanted a smoother opener than, ‘Guy from the drums!’  Luckily someone obliged and Johnny took a round of obligatory photos before I chipped in with a devastatingly cool, ‘Excuse me…’ I am glad to say that, despite the onstage strut, he was one of the most polite musicians I have ever met. Upon my camera breaking he insisted on waiting until we had got a photo I was happy with, even offering to fix it while his arm was still around me. Allow me a moment to sigh…

   After the gig I bought their recent EP, Summertime! It comes across as the polar opposite of their live sound, but that is no bad thing. Songs like Let’s Go Surfing, Make You Mine and Best Friend (from their Best Friend EP) sound like they were produced on a jaunty, aged 60s record. Live they sounded like a hyperactive 80s throwback, torn between punk and cheesy pop. Johnny’s energy is contained in a way that it can’t be onstage, but the effect is a blissful, upbeat and surprisingly original record.

   The real star of the show is the last track of the EP, I Felt Stupid. It’s a song that could have leapt straight from a musical, like Hairspray or Grease, only…decent. It’s almost unbearably charming, but so touching and sincere it’s hard not to succumb to visions of Johnny, in his rolled-up trousers and white socks, singing ‘I don’t know if it’s right or wrong but come stay with me, I wanna hear every beat of your heart’ to you across a US diner…or maybe that’s just me, but you get my point.

   The Drums are playing two nights at Heaven, London, in early June. Go. They’re lovely, captivating live, have two very strong EPs, and the tickets on Ebay are reasonably priced. Please, do go.

PS - Sorry for the extended break. It will never happen again, cross my heart…

I’ve Never Voted Conservative Before…

I may be delving into unsafe waters here in writing about politics, but with the general election in May approaching with the speed and unpredictability of a crazed rally car, I felt compelled to reflect.

   You could say that the small number of people who have decided to vote are already giving some indication as to how their decision was made. Whereas once politics was about ideology, principles and beliefs, now it has become a distasteful reality show. A governmental X Factor in which a vote for the Party that best represents your principles could now be considered a vote wasted.

   The Liberal Democrats under their more telegenic leader, Nick Clegg, now represent the best option for those who champion leftwing ideals. However, many people I know who believe in their stance, who voted for their Liberal Democrat MP in their constituency, will not be voting for them. They will not be voting for them because it will be a wasted vote that could be better used tactically.

   The tactical voting will be played-out as follows between Cameron’s Conservatives and Gordon Brown’s Labour. Phonelines open now.

   A huge amount of people; those of the Daily Mail persuasion, who are now prepared to blame Gordon Brown for the recession, the cold winter, their mother-in-law’s hip replacement, and probably the freak outbreak of Norovirus at their child’s school, will be voting for David Cameron. Not the Conservatives; David Cameron. They will be voting for David Cameron on the basis that he is not Gordon Brown, because to vote on the basis on the Conservative Party’s policies this election would imply that the Conservatives had actually announced any policies of their own aside from making retaliatory statements and reiterating, again and again and again, that they are not Labour.

   If the current Prime Minister had not just become the nation’s favourite moral panic due to the hysteria of the Press, Cameron’s Party would not stand up to any sort of sustained scrutiny.

   Firstly there are their questionable allegiances. The Conservative’s allies in Europe, after David Cameron pulled the Party out of their centre-right coalition in European Parliament, include Latvia’s Fatherland And Freedom Party, whose members celebrate their collaboration with the Waffen-SS against the Russians in the Second World War, and the Polish Law And Justice Party, whose founder, Jaroslaw Kaczyncsky, publicly stated that homosexuality would result in ‘the downfall of civilisation’, shortly after his brother and co-founder, Lech, banned gay pride marches in Warsaw.

   Secondly is their apparent incapability to be decisive, best exemplified by Cameron retracting a statement on tax within twenty minutes at the Conservative Party Conference earlier this year. Another example came on 10th February when they unveiled a campaign poster attacking Labour’s “£20,000 death tax”, when in fact they, at their Party Conference last autumn, were discussing a similar deal concerning an £8,000 figure. The only difference between the Parties on this issue was that Gordon Brown’s would actually cover the cost of the elderly care it was to be invested in, whereas Cameron’s wouldn’t; it just resembled less of an attack on inheritance. That’s where most of Cameron’s facade of policies collapse; they are policies trying to cater to every demographic rather than show how they are going to be credibly applied to our political system.

   Their statements concerning the economy and government deficit, cutting public spending in a way that would disadvantage those worst affected by the recession such as health workers, the unemployed, immigrant workers on low wages, teachers, and those on average or low incomes, are not only fickle but economically illiterate. The economy needs investment to encourage growth, but the Conservatives are willing to ignore that in favour of omitting words like ‘spending’ from their non-existent manifesto. It would be an overt transfer of resources from the lower and middle-classes to the very well off, who would be largely protected by Tory policy.

   As I am writing this Alistair Darling is about to announce the Budget for 2010, an optimistic budget based on growth and expansion, not cuts. Last week unemployment and inflation figures were shown to be falling, and Labour have delivered a set of proposals set to save more than £11 billion in efficiency savings. The Treasury has also shown willingness to detail these savings, giving Labour’s ambitions that extra bit of credibility, the credibility that David Cameron lacks.

   Today Cameron has said that the Labour Government had ‘run out of steam’ and that only a Conservative Budget would cause the economy to grow again, but of course he did not give any further detail as to how, or what a Conservative Budget would actually do.

   Gordon Brown’s Labour Party is far from perfect but tactical voting for the Conservatives this election is about as effective a protest vote as putting the dirty underwear of two decades ago back on and hoping they will smell better. What this would result in is nothing more than Thatcherism Part II, thinly disguised as centre politics. However the events of the last thirty years has not only seen the death of leftwing politics, as incorrectly linking immigration, Europe and unemployment became fashionable in the media, but the death of political ideology. Never has a Party so blatantly ditched a coherent campaign strategy in a time of such crisis, to try and win an election by telling every demographic what they’d like to hear, regardless of fact, credibility or the likelihood of it ever being put into practice.

   This general election is probably going to result in the lowest turnout of voters for years, and it is my fear that instead of voting on the issues like healthcare, education, or the economy, people will be voting against a fictional bogey-man created by the media, or a shiny face on a billboard with nothing behind it.

Frankie Boyle (warmup) @ Hen & Chickens Theatre

It could have started better. For me, I mean, rather than Frankie. While waiting for my tickets at the box office I became quite excited recounting a story to my friend, with much laughing and fist-waving to animate my point. What I didn’t realise was that mid fist-wave Frankie was standing next to me waiting to go upstairs. What followed, after what must have looked to Frankie like an overenthusiastic show of support or a wanking gesture, was him waving his fist at me in return and a bemused look from both of us.

   Not the most conventional start to a gig.

   Apparently going for the front row was a severe misjudgement. In a theatre of 54 seats I had predicted a stampede for the front row that resembled the onslaught of the Orcs of Mordor. As it was, me and my friend were two of the grand total of four brave souls in the front row. Even when there were sure to be no more seats in the back rows, people created more seats. By the time I had realised the consequences of my mistake it was too late and I had become a waiting victim of peoples’ fear.

   ‘Oh, it’s my stalkers,’ Frankie said upon coming out, by which point I was sat so far off the edge of my seat I was performing a semi-sexual assault on my friend. It was no more than my naïve enthusiasm deserved.

   Recounting gags serves no purpose when this gig was only a warm-up for what is reported to be his last ever stand-up tour, though I suspect he might have made a snap judgement of the audience and toned it down by 20%. His remark of, “You must be the (insert suitably condescending word here) audience I’ve ever seen, but don’t worry, I’ll work past your mental and social barriers” confirmed my theory.

   Whereas I could have had an entire hour of Baby P and Holocaust material, there were also a fair amount of laughs that had no edge of shock. Frankie himself was typically unceremonious in his delivery, dressed in a zipped hoodie and carrying a clipboard with fascinating bullet points on them such as:

  • ET’s balls
  • Kramer vs. Kramer, a touching account of a father fighting for custody of his son

And so on…

   There was also much recounting of gags that hadn’t made it past the producers of Mock The Week, which made it easier to see why he views TV as so restrictive. One of the examples of Bad Things To Say At A Dinner Party that unsurprisingly didn’t make it on air was, “Well, as we’re all here…who’s looking after Madeleine?”

   I laughed. I laughed until I almost cried. Compared to the overly-discussed (and uncannily accurate) Rebecca Adlington comment that the UK media was calling for him to apologise for, these were not only more offensive, but genuinely funnier.

   The atmosphere is undeniably tense though, and I got the impression that was exactly how he wanted it. He has a disturbing knack for choosing someone in the front rows (which was me on more than a few occasions) to maintain eye-contact with during the build-up to a grim punch-line. It was yet another reason why running for front row is something I won’t be doing again in a hurry.

   It did however, convince me that this tour, whether it is his last or not, is going to be well worth the money. He remains the master of innovative, intelligent and fearless comedy. Roll on June and the feature-length gig, where I’ll probably confirm his first impression of me as a stalker.

Alice In Wonderland, directed by Tim Burton. No, wait…

When I grow up I want to be Marina Hyde. An effortlessly cool writer for The Guardian with sport, politics and Lost In Showbiz columns, she is invariably right about everything. One of her recent articles asked if we could now officially claim Tim Burton as one of ours, an honorary Brit who rejects the homogeny of Hollywood in favour of the twisted and bizarre. As a worshipper at her altar I would usually agree with anything she says; if she so wished she could probably make me reconsider my views on genocide and maybe even cricket. However, this time I’m not so sure.

   Set just over a decade after the events of the original book, Alice is now 19 and faced with an unwanted marriage proposal at a social gathering arranged by her mother. Running away from the question and the congregation, Alice falls into a rabbit hole and into the world of her recurring childhood dreams, a world that has been taken over by the evil Red Queen and her Jabberwocky. Alice’s mission is to slay the beast, reclaim the kingdom on behalf of the White Queen and face up to the possibility that the dreams of her childhood weren’t actually dreams at all.

   With the strange and oftentimes sinister characters ready-made in the narrative this seemed too big an opportunity for Burton to waste, and yet somehow, shockingly, he has. It is never a good sign when I come away from a film and think of more innovative things to do with the screenplay than the director has. The script, for example, contained the sort of linguistic riddles that an intellectual five-year-old could see through. The “remember who you are” conundrum began and ended with The Lion King for me, while other gems such as “Am I mad?” “Yes, but all the best people are” exchanges couldn’t even masquerade as deep and made me inwardly cringe.

   Other key moments in the film like the epic chessboard battle between the White Queen, the Red Queen and their assorted knights fell far short of what they could have been. A seemingly obvious suggestion would be to limit the pieces’ movement to what would be expected on a real chessboard; Queens able to move freely, knights only able to jump diagonally, pawns comically static etc. Tim, CAN YOU HEAR ME???

   The closest the plot came to creepy was the loss of the Bandersnatch’s eye and that was more reminiscent of cheaply animated Tarantino than the intelligent eeriness of Burton’s previous films. The lack of depth may also explain why the ending lasted all of two minutes, finishing with the sort of emblematic posturing that Pirates Of The Caribbean did with much more style.

   For once, and maybe the first time, Burton looked constrained by the PG certificate, or audience expectation, or box office numbers. It looked like Hollywood, sounded like Hollywood and felt like Hollywood.

   The redeeming point of the film was, predictably, Johnny Depp, who has always looked more in his element playing the insane than he does the serious. The Mad Hatter, with his occasional-Scottish accent and mild Tourettes, commanded both intrigue and an almost irrational amount of sympathy, far surpassing how much I cared about the welfare of the main character. Michael Sheen, cast as the White Rabbit, would have also been a highlight if he had been given the benefit of a bigger part, and Mia Wasikowska, while extremely beautiful and competent within her part as Alice, was innocuous due to the unforgiving blandness of her script.

   Despite all of this I do think I enjoyed the film, though all I have talked about since seeing it are Johnny Depp’s character and how much I envy Mia Wasikowska’s hair. I think that other people would enjoy it too, but only if you were to disregard the name of the director. If you go expecting a Tim Burton film I would prepare to be disappointed.

   I don’t know what’s more sad, that last sentence or that he’s given me a reason to disagree with Marina Hyde.