Dear Boy

LA’s Dear Boy are a romantic bunch, their sound beckons warm embraces and keen smiles from young lovers. The outfit led by their enigmatic frontman/songwriter Ben Grey and completed by Austin Hayman, Nils Bue and Keith Cooper deliver anthemic, cinematic pop songs in abundance. The lush production and effortless beauty of their musicality define them as a truly unique band. Even though they proudly wear their influences on their sleeve, the new wave leanings of The Cure and The Smiths, the Britpop decadence of Pulp and traces of their roots growing up in a time when punk and alternative rock were at their height, these elements can be found in Dear Boy’s music but it is uncommon for a band to unify such eclectic influences and create a sound that is so elegant, romantic and melancholy.

Melancholy permeates every song, whether the songs are hopeful or full of heartbreak and anguish, Ben Grey manages to embody his own elegance into his song writing. With such effortless breeze, these songs conjure a mood of longing and willing, songs such as ‘Hesitation Waltz’ and ‘Local Roses’ can suggest the joys of romance and the pain of separation in one sweeping lyric. Some songs feel like a sigh while others feel like rejoice. ‘Oh So Quiet’ and recent Christmas single ‘Cold Spell’ recount the joys of young love and the bittersweet bite of its ambivalence. There is no distinction between the two, this is a band that basks in the spectrum of love and beauty, and offers it all to be felt all at once through sublime poetic lyrics and shimmering popular song.

The beauty of their music paired with the elegance of their simplistic visual aesthetic help place Dear Boy in a timeless space. There is a lot present that suggests the past, such as the stark minimalism of the post punk aesthetic, but there is also a vitality and urgency to Dear Boy’s sound that makes them undeniably contemporary and ahead of their time. Most often they flirt between the two. In times where rock music is being marginalised and diluted by the unavoidable glare and hegemony of modern pop and dance music, it is a truly wonderful thing to find a band that relish in the decadence and opulence of rock and roll’s past, but are not afraid to break the rules of male stereotypes, of boys in a band, and create something of true value, that is genderless, timeless and damn near perfect in its execution.

Dear or die.

dearboyofficial.com 

Celluloid is Immortality

Once I had calmed down from all the excitement and euphoria I experienced while watching the new Star Wars film ‘Rogue One’, I was left to finally reflect on what I had just witnessed and how I actually felt about certain aspects of the film. For all the films triumphs I was left feeling cold, that on some level there was something indistinctly wrong with it.

The most significant and controversial factor of the film is the reconstruction of Peter Cushing’s character Grand Moff Tarkin from the original Star Wars film. The CGI special effects that restore Cushing’s image to such a realistic and authentic likeness are jaw dropping and it demonstrates just how far we have come in the last ten years with regards to special effects and movie making across the board. Once you process what you are seeing, that this is in fact an entirely CG character, which takes a while to recognise as it is that life like, it is then that you can overcome your initial excitement and fanboy giddiness and begin to contemplate if this is in fact in good taste or poor taste, whether it is ethical, legal or even humane.

After some considerable time of mulling this over I must say that there is something about this entire thing which just feels wrong. Because the sequences which include such innovative and dazzling special effects are the most thrilling and exciting moments of ‘Rogue One’, they have come to taint the film for me as it does not feel like cinema anymore. This obsession with nostalgia and digging up the past to the point of literally resurrecting the dead to give posthumous performances (without any consent or blessing) just feels icky and in incredibly poor taste. No matter how much love and affection motivated the filmmakers to reconstruct Peter Cushing in his iconic role, it is unnecessary, inhuman and it isn’t filmmaking. This is no longer cinema. What we are experiencing as we progress further into the post digital age is something that can only be defined as ‘post-cinema’. This is merely digital reconstruction, which no matter how awe inspiring and breath taking, is completely contradictory as to what cinema is in its purest definition. Cinema is to capture something, a moment in time and space with a camera and preserve it for all time. This crosses the line as we play God instead of artist.

As we continually demonstrate our lacking ability to say or create anything new we simply obsess over how good it was ‘back then’ and do anything to recreate those glory days. The most enjoyable parts of ‘Rogue One’ are when it feels most reminiscent and recognisable to the original Star Wars, which defeats the point of telling new stories or making new films. Why not simply watch the original films again and again?  They still exist. They always will. That is what cinema is, immortality. Celluloid is immortality, it preserves the mortal soul forever and captures a time and place which will always exist. The greatest performances of the greatest actors will live on and in doing so, so will they as cinema will never fade, never diminish or alter in its beauty or its clarity. James Dean will live forever. Marlon Brando will live forever. Peter Cushing will live forever. But it is inhuman to reanimate them from beyond the grave without their consent, to play God in this perverse puppet show of necromancy. Let them rest, they have lived and they have died. They have given us so much which we can cherish forever. Our obsession with the past must end or it will destroy our future. It will also destroy our past and reduce all that made it sacred and beautiful, meaningless.

Celluloid is immortality. Treasure it.

The Hateful Eight

Firstly let’s get it straight that ‘The Hateful Eight’ is by no means a bad film, in fact it is quite fantastic. The cast for one are impeccable and on fire, especially Sam Jackson, Kurt Russell, Walton Goggins and Jennifer Jason Leigh. The first half of the film is full of what we have come to expect from a Tarantino picture, a lot of fast talking despicable characters, profanity and extraneous gabbing. It is so beautifully written and put together that one just marvels at the delight of it all, the talent on and off screen. Over the three hour running time the tension swells and the niceties begin to be abandoned as in classic Tarantino style, the talking turns to blood, and violence and chaos ensues. The final thirty minutes are very satisfying and entertaining. The 70mm cinematography is stunning and gives a great weight and cinematic power to every frame, every wide shot or extreme close up. The whole thing is quilted in a threatening Ennio Morricone score that is more horror movie than spaghetti western; it pulses along eerily, developing the underlying murderous intent of everyone onscreen, setting the stage for the bloodshed that will inevitably come. The whole thing is so beautifully crafted, but is it that interesting to watch, as a film? The problem is simply that the story is far too slim to warrant its three hour run time.

Tarantino is a great writer and truly gifted film maker, no one knows that more than Tarantino himself. It has always been his writing and his screenplays in particular that have been his selling point, his films are defined from their use of language and the way in which the characters speak. Over the course of his career this has become more omnipresent and as his films and celebrated status have amassed success his penchant rambling dialogue and character monologues have just got longer and denser and more literary. Since ‘Inglorious Bastards’ this literary trend of Tarantino’s writing has become all pervasive and defining of his work, whereby narrative and plot are not as important as character and dialogue and the cinematic tension developed between the two. Some can say this has always been the case with Tarantino’s films but his earlier work from ‘Reservoir Dogs’ through to ‘Kill Bill’ although very heavy on a theatrical perversion with wordplay, all had a greater cinematic momentum that drove the narrative. In Tarantino’s later years it has become apparent that the writing has become the most sacred aspect of his process and the cinematic end product is almost secondary to the source material.

Tarantino’s preciousness around his screenplays is much like that of a novelist or a playwright, he regards them in that light, his writing process is no different to if he were writing a novel and in the case of his most recent work they have become far richer, denser and situational rather than adhering to a cinematic plot based framework. The chapter headings that Tarantino has always used now make a lot more sense as each scene plays out like a chapter of a novel, and in a novel they would be even more captivating. Both ‘Inglorious Bastards’ and ‘Django Unchained’ were heavily built around single scenes of extraordinary length, dedicated to dialogue, with very little action or momentum on screen, and reverential dedication to mounting tension. These films successfully pulled this off for they also displayed the director’s usual dynamic approach to film making, the history and wonder of cinema up there on screen with them giving even greater weight to written word, both harmoniously nurturing the other. This time Tarantino has clearly been so occupied with the writing that none of the usual cinematic flair is up there on screen. For a western - the genre that Tarantino holds most dear - there is little of the genre on screen, a trait not often something one can criticise Tarantino for. ‘The Hateful Eight’ is nowhere near as affecting as Bastards or Django, its suspense and tension not as palpable as Christoph Waltz’s opening scene in Bastards or Dicaprio’s speech about old Ben at the dinner table. In the ‘Hateful Eight’ there is a lot of talking and a lot of violence but the threat of violence and that sinister urge never brews so deliciously the way it does in Bastards or Django. It remains flat, this I am sure is because of the sedentary setting of almost the entire film. The characters have no where to go, therefore it is impossible to take the audience somewhere else either.

In the case of ‘The Hateful Eight’ it is this preoccupation and love affair Tarantino has for the novelistic approach to screenwriting that is its downfall. The Hateful Eight is on paper a very simple story of a bounty hunter transporting a fugitive to hang, who with six other characters find themselves trapped at an inn during a wild blizzard and they must all tolerate each others company for the rest of the film. There is murder mystery at the heart of the story and a whodunit plot device, but as for story it is as simple as it gets. It does not demand a three hour run time, if it ran for one hundred minutes like ‘Reservoir Dogs’ also a situational thriller, the film would have been far more compelling. The film doesn’t have any momentum, any driving force that directs the narrative and takes the audience on a journey from beginning to end. It is the assumption of Tarantino that because he knows his writing is so good, and all the Oscars and awards, not to mention flawless back catalogue, will give great evidence for that being the case, it isn’t enough if the story isn’t strong enough. There isn’t a story here worth telling, there isn’t a story that is captivating to an audience or characters anyone can route for and invest in emotionally. The history of cinema differs to theatre in that it has always been structured around a three act structure and centred around a heroes journey, when this trend is abandoned it never tends to work in the favour of mass success. That’s not to say ‘The Hateful Eight’ won’t make a lot of money, I’m sure it will, it is a Tarantino film after all, but it is impossible to ignore the disappointment audiences have had after having seen the film. It is impossible to shift that feeling that you didn’t see a movie; you just saw a play on screen.

Tarantino has stated that he intends to make ten movies, he now only has two more left to make, and after that he wants to write novels and direct plays. It is evident that this is the direction he intends to go, his screenplays and his writing process is no longer aimed at modern cinema audiences, he writes as a novelist, and as a novelist you are under no hurried pressure to do anything, the same narrative structure is not essential when writing a novel, it is a far looser and freer medium of story telling whereby characters and story can be developed over a much greater period of time. In cinema you only have two hours to captivate an audience and take them on a journey. It isn’t a problem if a film has a certain theatricality to it or evokes the feeling of a stage play, many films do it and do it well. There are many interior set dramas that borrow heavily from theatre and novels for that matter but it is always to what extent that keeps a film with its feet firmly in the realm of the cinematic. ‘The Hateful Eight’ is far too literary and is evidently a stage play so why make it a film, why not stage it as a one act play and let chaos ensue? I’m positive it would have a far greater affect.

I don’t think for a second that Tarantino has lost his love affair with cinema; however it is becoming increasingly clear that as a writer he doesn’t appear to be fulfilled writing for modern cinematic audiences. There is a light frothy nature to writing a Hollywood screenplay compared to the works of William Shakespeare or Tennessee Williams. Tarantino, I feel, fancies himself as the latter; he considers himself a great writer and wants to be remembered as such, to go down in the history books for having a God given talent for writing and perhaps that talent is just too big for the confines of the silver screen and is screaming to be let loose. Perhaps the stage is where he will go, where the dialogue can roam rampant and free without having to answer to critics arguing the lack of narrative or plot. There doesn’t need to be onstage nor in a novel, but in cinema, in the current Hollywood mould that we all consume movies, it is essential for at least a tenuous narrative plot to be present, which in The Hateful Eight is scarcely found. I feel as Tarantino ponders his next move and his next picture he should question, do I want to be remembered as a great film maker or a great writer? Nobody doubts either. 

Creeper

As I recover from the news of David Bowie’s passing, and now like all must find the strength to go on living in a somewhat dimmer Bowie-less world, I am left wondering who do we have left to carry the torch for the underdogs, for the misfits and the freaks, for weirdoes, the introverts and the loners. Bowie elevated the outsider into a position of power and empowered all who ever felt alone and slightly odd to embrace their oddity as he redefined the definition of rock and roll and gave birth to a gender bending theatricality that served as a precursor to the punk movement and the phosphorescent glare of the new romantics pop of the 1980s. However I’m not sure if he has left in his wake anybody to succeed him, to inspire the same sense of elation and fulfilment in future generation’s young minds. It is no secret that rock and roll is in bad shape, it is dying infact, slowly but surely being anaesthetised into decay. The bands that pose as rock bands are imposters chasing paper and the promise of fame and fortune, nobody is trying to say anything, nobody has their own artistic voice, their own theatricality and unique position to inspire the flippant young into leaving their bedrooms to embrace a new hypnotic hedonism to be found worshipping at the altar of showmanship, craft and endless creative ambition. Until now.

Finally the world has that band and that band is Creeper. Hailing from Southampton UK, Creeper are quickly becoming something of a blossoming phenomenon. Having only been in existence for two years they have already released two critically acclaimed EP’s and signed to Roadrunner Records and are beginning to amass a fervent cult following. The reason for all their success and adulation is quite simply because they deserve it, they are undeniably incredible. A band like Creeper shouldn’t on paper be getting the attention they are receiving, just like Gallows before them who took the UK and then the world by storm, Creeper play punk rock, fast, hooky, snotty, Goth tinged punk rock. They should realistically blend into the ocean of other local punk bands rehashing all the queues that have been done before by far more legendary alumni. However that is not the case, on the brink of releasing their third EP ‘The Stranger’ the media attention and word of mouth hype that is currently swelling around this band is reaching fever pitch, something truly special is happening or about to happen.

Just like My Chemical Romance before them the reason for this is showmanship. In a cynical and sanitised 2016 rock landscape we have come to expect mediocrity from the biggest acts in the industry. Nobody says anything interesting or controversial, nobody has the guts to voice their own unpopular opinions in fear of losing out to lucrative opportunities that will come their way if they just toe the line and nod their heads.  It’s a truly depressing time to be a fan of rock music. However Creeper defy all of that, they are led by their impassioned iconoclastic lead singer Will Ghould, who possesses a spirit that has not reared its head since Gerard Way. Ghould displays a vulnerability and a fragility that utterly rejects gender stereotypes and the laddish machoism that currently occupies the rock chart. He is an enigmatic front man cutting an image that is one part Joey Ramone, one part Davey Havok. He has all the flamboyance of Freddie Mercury and David Bowie, with the snarling voice of more visceral punk rock heroes such as Matt Skiba. Will Ghould is potentially the greatest front man of his generation. He looks like a rock star in the true definition of the word, yet under the chaotic energy displayed onstage is a shy, quiet introvert that only fuels the enigma of Creeper and their mass cult appeal.

Aside from the bands visual aesthetic and Ghould’s iconic silhouette is a growing arsenal of songs that are soaring, anthemic bursts of perfectly crafted punk rock. For a band that only have ten songs to their name, soon to be fifteen, there is not a second spared on filler. They have songs of such incredible emotional power, with beautifully written witty lyrics, that are complex and intricate yet beautifully simplistic at the same time. The songs are so catchy, the chorus’ so huge, it is impossible to deny them as legitimate contenders for being the biggest band in the world within five years. This is what it felt like when My Chemical Romance were about to release ‘Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge’, the anticipation for what was to come next could never have been anticipated but there was something in the air that suggested greatness. And the same ambition that drove that band to become so gigantic and culturally important can be seen in Creeper as they plot world domination and continue to release incredible records.

So as we lose another legend and David Bowie becomes a ‘was’, who then will take his place, who will we look back on in fifty years from this generation, for new bands to become legendary they need to begin crafting their own identity, their own voice and their own artistic ambition with its own insatiable hunger for satisfaction. Bands need to have the vision to exist outside of the time they belong, to not simply represent the values and demands of a contemporary audience but give birth to something new that has the ability to change the world and the way we see it, the way we dress and the way we think. The only band on planet earth right now that ticks all those boxes is Creeper, UK’s finest Goth punks believe it or not, and if they play their cards right and keep writing songs as good as ‘Gloom’, ‘Novena’, ‘Henley’s Ghost’ and ‘Black Mass’, truly the world is their oyster and it is only a matter of time until South Coast misery envelopes the world as the Creeper cult continues to grow.

Love in decline.