Justin Townes Earle @ The Corner

Last time Justin Townes Earle was here, I wasn't able to see him. Firstly, I had no one to go with (or so I thought). Secondly, I was in the midst of editing a rather epic and stressful project while also working full time and packing up all of my belongings in order to move out. I then heard from a pal who actually did go that it was Pretty Much the Best Thing Ever. Obviously I was beyond disappointed in my having chosen sleep over seeing endlessly talented, tall, dapper-as-fuck, singer-songwriter son of Steve Earle. Who needs sleep when you can have a night of the twangin' musical stylin' of JTE? Chumps. That's who.

Then, lo and behold, I heard he was coming back and I proceeded to lose my shit in excitement. Turns out he actually comes to Australia fairly often; he's been here about six times since 2008. Well, I praised the musical gods of touring at that nugget of information. To cut a long story short, I finally saw Justin Townes Earle on Sunday night at the Corner Hotel.

After so long spent watching countless  live performances of Justin Townes Earle on Youtube, I can now happily say that I've finally seen him in the flesh. In fact, I wouldn't just say it happily - I'd probably shout it, with wild gesticulations and a slightly crazed look in my eye. I can honestly say that I haven't been that enraptured and mesmerised by a live performance, or that moved by a gig in a really, really long time.

The entire night.

Wanting to minimise the amount of time fiddling around absentmindedly on my phone while standing by myself, I ended up arriving about two-thirds of the way through the second of the two support acts. I instantly regretted my decision to be a pussy, as Robert Ellis was onstage and immediately grabbed my attention and interrupted my "find a beer and and try not to look like a loser" train of thought.

When I arrived, the Texas native was about to launch into "No Fun", the cause of my aforementioned distraction from beer acquisition. That song, and "Sing Along" were particular highlights from what I managed to catch of his performance. Post-gig, I made sure to buy a 7-inch single of "Friends Like These" and congratulate him on a super set. Standing by the merch table and shooting the shit with punters, he was just charismatic and friendly and as good a story-teller as he had been onstage, if not more. So you know, keep an eye out for him if you're into a good dose of twang.

In any case, I marched my way to the front and waited for JTE to take the stage. Which he did, after what felt like aeons and after I managed to hit myself in the face with my beer. How that happened I'm not entirely sure, but it did and it was awkward and I was by myself. That's entirely beside the point though, because shortly after I proved yet again that I can't leave the house without making an ass out of myself in some way, Justin Townes Earle took to the stage. And when he did, a huge grin must have appeared on my face and I'm pretty sure it didn't leave for the duration of his set.

The first thing I'll say about Justin Townes Earle is that his onstage presence is something to behold. He's charismatic, self-effacing, and has a sense of humour that's a little wry, that betrays some intense geekery and that is very, very engaging. As in, I spent a lot of time giggling. Even while mentioning rehab and stints in jail, he had the crowd laughing. He spoke about his mother, about living in a terrible part of Brooklyn, and revealed the stories behind a number of the more touching or #dark songs in his arsenal of tunes, all in that amazing Southern drawl of his. I'm sure they're anecdotes he shares regularly to crowds around the world, but the show had the intimate atmosphere of someone sharing something personal - needless to say, he had the Corner audience eating out of his hand before long.

Of course, I did manage to be standing next to the all-sway, all-singing, all "YEE-HAW!"-ing epitome of That Guy (or woman in this case) who doesn't understand proper gig etiquette. That was a little tedious. But for all of her off-key wailing and her shitty, no-sense-of-space or of time and place dancing, I couldn't really fault her too much. I mean, her exterior personified what I felt like on the inside, and isn't that a good thing? Besides, the guy standing on her other side informed her that he was at the gig to see Justin Townes Earle perform thank you very much so she did eventually shut up. Which must have been embarrassing for her. I empathised - I'd just hit myself in the face with a beer after all. BUT I DIGRESS.

It's worth mentioning that the evening show on Sunday was actually the second one he'd done that day; the first was a matinee show. I suppose when you do two shows in a day you've gotta do something to keep things interesting, and to my delight that led to a few different versions of songs. A blues adaptation here, a re-imagining of "Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out" there (a particular highlight in my opinion), and a few moments of suddenly changing his mind or pulling out a song he hadn't played a long while. The set-list appeared to be in large part completely improvised, with moments of, "Ah, shit. I reckon I'll try it this way instead..." muttered while adjusting a capo, or re-tuning his battered black guitar.

I'll admit - if it wasn't already obvious - to being quite the fan of ol' JTE's catalogue. I suppose his particular brand of country and bluegrass twang peppered with tales of fuckin'-up, being down and out, heartache and redemption appeals on a very personal level. And I guess the fact that all those songs of his about being down and out, about heartache and redemption come from personal experience and IRL days of being down and out makes for some really affecting stuff.

That being said, I'm certain that even if I didn't have a personal attachment to his tunes and even if I didn't think him just about one of the most easy-on-the-eye/stylish people I've ever laid eyes on (I'm not even kidding), I'd have been pretty mesmerised by his performance. Completely disregarding any of his banter or his laughing at the shit yelled from amidst the crowd, his performances of the actual goddamn songs were kinda nothing if not heart-wrenching. Face contorting and body moving as his long limbs pace up and down the stage - it's like each note is a part of him wrenching itself free. If that sounds painful, it's not meant to be; it's just an indicator I think, of a singer who pours everything into every performance. It must be exhausting.

While I enjoyed the entire set (obviously), particular highlights in my opinion were "Look the Other Way", "One More Night in Brooklyn", "Black-Eyed Suzy", "Harlem River Blues" (SINGALONG, SINGALONG!), and of course, the previously mentioned "No One Knows You When You're Down and Out" (here's a link to another performance of it). For those of you playing at home, "Nothing's Going to Change the Way You Feel About Me Now" may have just been my mind-blowing moment of the set. Prefaced with a quip along the lines of "if you ask an artist you're dating to write a song about you, you might not like the result", it was the song I had been looking forward to seeing and it was all I could do to keep my hands from clapping involuntarily in glee.

Anyway, the set rollicked along in the charming, engaging, occasionally heartwrenching, occasionally hilarious fashion I have described in all sorts of gushing ways in this post. And at the end of the gig, I suddenly realised my attention hadn't wandered for the entire time JTE had been on stage. Which may seem like a strange thing to notice, but it's certainly noteworthy in my case. Even if I'm enjoying a gig immensely, I'll inevitably end up thinking about other things at points during the set, whether it be my To Do list for the next day, or something a song reminds me of, or whether I'll make the last train. Furthermore, I often find that by the end of a gig, I'll be ready to head home. Not that I hadn't enjoyed said gig, I'll just have had a sufficient session of rocking out and I'll be ready to head home and hit the hay. It takes something special for me to yell "MORE! MOAR!", and this was the first time in a long time that as the lights came back up I wanted much, much more.

In fact, I'm pretty sure the only time my mind wandered, it was for me to suddenly wish I'd come with someone, if only to be able to share the musical experience with someone. I wanted to teleport the friend I'd originally planned on going with to the Corner, because I knew the gig would've blown his mind.

Instead, I wandered on back home, all elated and in high spirits, and proceeded to describe how amazing Justin Townes Earle was to Mike and Jaz when I got home, with wild gesticulations and yelling and brandishing my cup of tea around.

Best gig in a while, in case that wasn't clear.

FEAST YER EYES ON THESE.

Ruining my productivity

Hurr. I mean, apart from the usual hours spent on Reddit.

Behold! The reasons for productivity being down, and for procrastination being up.

Here are some things that have either made me pants-happy or heart-happy or a little bit of both.

Firstly, here's a write up of Mitch at 4bars. He's doing an amazing job running Ezra Pound, which I will confidently declare as one of the coolest bars in Perth. Even if he wasn't perhaps my closest friend in the world, I'd still gush about Ezra. And believe me, I think that after my recent trip out west I'm pretty well qualified to cast my opinion on the different elements of the Perth nightlife.

Over the past few days, I have spent an obscene amount of time laughing while reading Axe Cop. I haven't laughed that much in a really, really long time. This was the kind of cackling, uncontrollable laughter that makes breathing impossible and makes stomach muscles cry out in pain. I sent it to my brother, then could hear the strains of his laughter echoing all the way to my backyard Reb Cave.

A couple of nights ago I was sitting around, doing some work with the sounds of Happy Days re-runs providing a background soundtrack. Suddenly, I found this video and my night was ruined. It's Giovanni Ribisi, sporting sunglasses he's designed for Barton Perreira. Well shit, I wasn't expecting that. Turns out he was the face of a 2010 campaign, but that was new to me. It's a very different image to the one I have in my mind of Mr Ribisi; that of Amazing Actor, one who is wont to take Quite Intense Roles. I'll admit readily that I've been rather pants-happy for him since seeing Saving Private Ryan all those years ago. Even in my early teens, my taste was strange at best. My friends had posters of Eminem and the Backstreet Boys, I was working my way through Giovanni Ribisi's filmography. Which is what my night degenerated to after seeing this:

Right, so my brother sent me this trailer pretty much immediately after it was released. I think that while watching it I made an audible squeak of excitement. With no exaggeration in the slightest, I know that I can confidently say that I have not looked forward to a film this much for years. Dare I say it, not since The Phantom Menace (I was eleven, so sue me) has my excitement level been this high. The cast, the characters, the sheer badass nerdery of it all ... chances are I'll be in some sort of a frenzy by the time it's actually released. I'm most likely digging myself into a hole of disappointment; I don't know if any film could possibly live up to the ridiculous expectations I'm building. That knowledge won't stop my from clapping my hands with delight whenever I watch the trailer however. 

The mantle for the real revelation of the week however, is reserved for a film I saw a couple of days ago, Bill Cunningham New York. I'll be writing a review of it tomorrow for RHUM and I'll chuck a link to it once it's done. Before that though, I'm going to take a moment to do a little bit of squealy, hand flappy gushing. 

My GOD, I have not been put in a mood that amazing by a film in a very, very long time. After about twenty minutes or so into the film, I began to count the amount of times I got the shivers. I'm not even kidding. I think I got up to about seven times. This documentary is so gorgeous, so fascinating, so touching, I left the screening with a smile on my dial and I proceeded to float around the city for the rest of the afternoon in a happy little cloud.

If you've used your powers of deduction after glancing at the title, you'd be right in saying it's about Bill Cunningham. He's a fashion photographer and writer for the New York Times, and has been one of the preeminent fashion photographers - namely street fashion - since the 1960s. He's a man in his eighties now, who until recently lived in a studio in Carnegie Hall with filing cabinets of photos in place of a kitchen and proper bathroom. In an age where every man, woman, kid and marmot has a fashion blog, Bill Cunningham is the most incredible breath of fresh air, albeit a breathe of fresh air who's been at it for decades. Devoid of the douchbaggery and smugness of other fashion photographers (I can't help but think of interviews with the Sartorialist that I've read recently when I say that), Cunningham is one of the seemingly dying breed who do it for the sheer love of it. He declares that "if you don't take money, they can't tell you what to do!", zipping around New York on his bike, not ever appearing to give a darn about the high society he rubs shoulders with. He's a sight to behold, resplendent in his old blue jacket sitting in the front row of a Paris fashion show, alongside models and shiny people with incredible posture. 

If you like documentaries, if you've ever enjoyed taking a photo, or if you've ever reveled in wearing something pretty, you really MUST watch Bill Cunningham New York. I think it's released in early November, but don't quote me on that. Until then, watch the trailer. Then go check out his weekly slideshow for the Times. 

For Your Consideration

Ryan Gosling - or, "the guy from that movie" apparently - breaking up a fight.

Note, if you would, Mr Gosling's truly ridiculous gun show on display. Personally, I'm partial to the scrawny boys of the world, but holy jeezum crow.... I wonder what they're called? Maybe "Thunder" and "Lightning" (there's always a storm!).

The Mountain

This is beautiful. You should watch it.

By Terje Sorgjerd, of El Teide, the highest mountain in Spain.

The Mountain from Terje Sorgjerd on Vimeo.

Creep.

Today at work I found myself being the mayor and entire population of Struggletown.

Last night was Ev's 21st. Thus, as I am wont to do, I made rather a large idiot of myself. Upon waking up this morning all I could do was groan. I Groaned not only because of the day at work I knew I had to face, but also because I remembered tripping over, talking absolute rubbish, swearing a bit too much during my speech, and generally making a twat of myself. 

That though, is worthy of a blagpost unto itself. 

For now, I wish to relate to you a story. A cautionary tale? We'll see. Give it some time, perhaps. This is partly for Brian's amusement. Maybe an amusement offering in light of the fact that I was utterly useless for the few hours I spent at work. 

Anyway. Brian, Brian's lovely sister Fish (real name: Michelle) and I work at a chocolate cafe. Not too long ago, a certain boy also began working there. To protect the innocent, I shall refer to him as Boy for the remainder of this post. I suppose as a result of nothing exciting ever happening at said workplace, I noted with some interest that Boy was quite good-looking. Good-looking, but young. Eh, whatever. So he's like, 18 or 19. Whatever. No blood, no foul. In the words of some male friends of mine, I chose to file that one under "lay-by". Or "investment". Or, "He'll be smokin' in a few years". 

So ensued something quite similar to this:

Reb: So, Boy's pretty... you know. Cute.

Fish: ....

Reb: ?

Fish: YOU KNOW HE'S SIXTEEN.

My face when.

I kid you not, I have never felt so creepy.

I also kid you not, this boy is also incredibly easy on the eyes. Ha. Kid. That wasn't intentional, I swear.

SERIOUSLY THOUGH! The year he was born was the year I started school!

WHAT'S WITH THAT?!

So, last night we happened to be working together. As he arrived and chilled out in front of the coffee machine before clocking in, I imagined Brian's gaze on me, with that smirking look on his face, that look on his face speaking volumes. So I busied myself with the line of dockets in front of me. When the time came to say hi to Boy however, I again imagined Brian's smirking face. Goddamn. Having a mental image like that makes it rather difficult to engage in witty banter.

Then, out of nowhere our manager turns to me and says, "Hey Reb. Could you show Boy where the rubbish compactor is?"

My face when.

I'm totally kidding.

So we went down to the rubbish compactor, and so ensued a conversation pretty much like this:

Reb: So... what's on for the weekend?

Boy: Ehh, not much. Hanging out with some friends, then I've got some homework to do.

Reb: (Thinking: Oh, Jesus...) Ha! I remember the days of homework. ... What year are you in, anyway?

Boy: Eleven.

Reb: (...) ... Jeez. I should just call you jailbait! HA HA HA. (Awkward laughter)

Boy: Jail-what?

Reb: ... Jailbait.

Boy: What's that?

I don't know if you're aware, but making a funny is much more effective when you don't actually have to explain the joke.

So that's what my love life's been reduced to. Being the token creep at work. Every time I speak to this poor kid, I feel Brian and Fish's gaze boring into me, laughing gleefully. Sigh. In the words of Ben Cousins' chest, such is life I guess.

What do I do? What do I do? WHAT DO? Do I roll with it, embrace my newfound creepdom, provide my workmates with an ever-flowing amusement fountain? Or do I take the mature road?

I promise I won't drink at the next staff party.

I am Attracted to Steve Buscemi.

I've never been able to claim that I have conventional taste in men.

In fact, amongst a few friends of mine there is a distinction constantly made between "hot" and "Reb-hot".

For instance, while telling me that a new co-worker would be right up my alley, a friend might say, "Yeah man! He's Reb-hot, you'll love him!"

So, what does Reb-hot entail and why would I (as opposed to any other girl) be likely to swoon over said potential boy?

In a nutshell:

Extreme Nerdery + Skinniness + Smartassery = REBHOT. 

(skateboard and guitar optional, but welcome)

It goes without saying then, that my track record is perhaps one of the most amusing amongst all of my pals. Barely an eyelid is batted when I say things like, "Do any of you guys find Philip Seymour Hoffman attractive? I mean, in a sorta weird yet awesome way?"

Which brings me to the point of this post. I have recently discovered and finally started watching Boardwalk Empire. It's amazing. It really is. Not least of all because it stars one of my all-time very favourite celebrity crushes, Mr Steve Buscemi. 

Hot stuff.

What is it about him? Is it the crooked teeth? The slightly googly eyes? The whiny voice? The awkwardness? Or is it a little of everything? Is it disconcerting that he reminds me of my last boyfriend? Or rather, that he reminded me a lot of Steve Buscemi? Sigh.

Whether it be getting killed off in the films of the Coen brothers, or being killed off in Armageddon, or being killed off in Tarantino films, or being one of my Favourite Romantic Leads Ever in Ghost World ... he's amazing. I remember playing "Marry/Boff/Kill" with Mitch, namely one particular game in which he asked me "Steve Buscemi, Philip Seymour Hoffman or Jean Reno?" over dinner. I think I actually cried/yelped/moaned in pain, causing fellow diners to look over, alarmed. I think I ended up choosing to Marry Mr Buscemi. Such is my love.

All swooning and dumbassery aside though it really is a goddamn delight to see him as the leading man in such a superb TV show.

Mystery Jets @ Hi Fi Bar

Taken at the risk of being "that girl taking photos with her iPhone"

"Hey, is that the drummer?" I asked Erin, trying to look nonchalant.
"Huh?"
"Yeah, it's the drummer. Over there, the guy - OH SHIT, IT'S ALL OF THEM!"

I don't usually get all squealy star-struck, and I try to make a point of remaining (somewhat?) cool while in the presence of people that I admire/lust after but unfortunately on this particular occasion I could not. Sitting at Three Below with Erin and a couple of her pals, I clutched my Bulmers in an increasingly tightening grip as the members of the Mystery Jets sauntered past us. My mouth gasping like a dying fish, eyes wide, I turned to Erin. "Should we say hi? Oh, SHITthey'regoing. EUUURRHHHGHGHH. SHIT." and so on. And so forth. Until they were out of view. Blaine and Henry Harrison, William Rees, Kai Fish and Kapil Trivedi walked back towards the Hi Fi, where they were to play in about an hours' time, oblivious to the two hyperventilating females left in their wake.

Why suddenly turn into squeaky, freaking-out dudd, something I steadfastly try to avoid? I'm not entirely sure to be honest.

Yours truly.

The last time Mystery Jets were in Australia (the first day of 2009, and a hungover one at that), I was walking to the Hi Fi along Swanston and saw guitarist William having a smoke, standing around ever so stylishly. I wanted to say hi, tell him how much I loved Twenty One, their second album. Unfortunately, I decided that I didn't want to seem a squealy fangirl and decided against it. Flash forward to the fifth day of 2011 and again I kick myself for pussying out. Oh well, win some, lose some. I guess it doesn't help that the members of said band are all incredibly good-looking.

At any rate, The Holidays provided the support. I saw them in 2008 supporting Little Red (I think) and I don't remember being super impressed. Enjoyable but not mind-blowing. We actually missed half of their set on this particular occasion so I can't give a complete report on what it was like but from what I saw it was much the same. Enjoyable, not mind-blowing. Erin had been looking forward to hearing "that bag of bones song!" (their album having been the feature on JJJ, I think that one's got some airplay) but we were too busy having a drink and ogling the various Mystery Jets and missed it. Speaking of ogling and drinking actually, immediately after visiting the bar at the Hi Fi proper, I spotted William and Kai standing near the merch stand watching The Holidays. Erin's pal Sachini immediately offered to ask them for a photo. "Uhhhh..." was my reply, and off she scampered. The resulting photo is hilarious (let's not kid ourselves), with Erin and I sporting nigh-on delirious grins contrasting the boys' significantly less excited expressions. Is it bad that the smile Kai flashed at me as I thanked him for the photo sent me nearly sent me into a conniption? Perhaps. So much for always keeping it cool.

Reb: HERP DERP. 

After recovering from the laughter caused by reviewing the photo just taken (as soon as Erin puts it on Fakbok I'll post it up here), I noticed a few things that were already apparent about the night ahead of us. Namely, things that had changed since Mystery Jets '09 (and that's not counting Blaine Harrison's ever-morphing hair). Firstly, the crowd. I've been on this earth twenty-two years, and I like to think that (NYE notwithstanding) I've gotten most of my drunken obnoxious antics out of my system. Unfortunately, the average age of the crowd - or at least, those in the moshular area - was around the 18-year old mark. I tell you, the sheer amount of obnoxious kids was incredible. Now, I'm all for having a great time at a gig but if your hulking frame has a jumper tied around your shoulders and you continually yell "I AM LOSING MY SHIT! I AM LOSING MY SHIT!" whilst flailing around, then frankly you can suck my dick (so to speak). A similarly-aged group of guys were to my right, and didn't spare a single opportunity to take photos of themselves falling over each other wearing oversized glasses adorned with flickering lights. Gooooooooooood. I could go on about the other dudds surrounding me, but I don't want this to turn into a tirade about exactly how much 17- or 18-year-old wannabe hipsters irritate the living snot out of me. Suffice to say, it's quite a bit.

I was lamenting to Dave about the drunken pseudo-hip teens and he dryly remarked, "What a startling coincidence. Drunken teens at a Mystery Jets gig..." but I swear, it wasn't like that last time! Is it because I'm two years older now? No, I think it's more a case of the band having acquired a bit more fame (which is quite good for them) in the past couple of years, and also a result of the sound of the band becoming significantly more electro-y and synth-y of late. That in itself doesn't bother me in the slightest as I like the most recent album, Serotonin just as much (in fact, perhaps more) than their first offering, Making Dens. That's certainly not to say I was raging at the entire crowd throughout the entirety of the gig. Not at all! Anyway.

Obnoxious jocks aside, I was getting more and more excited as the time for Mystery Jet-ing grew closer. Despite the paying out I receive from my more metal-orientated (read: non-indie) pals, I absolutely adore the band. Their tunes are energetic, to me capturing the joy, untapped potential, the adventures and mishaps in love that comes with youth. I won't deny that I have a sentimental attachment to a number of their songs. Twenty One was the soundtrack to a break-up that occurred just before their last tour here. For your future reference, "Behind the Bunhouse" is perfect to yelp/sing while in the midst of heartbroken rage, while "Flakes" is a good choice for more fetal-position sobbing. Of course, it helps that Blaine Harrison's voice is plaintive, full of longing. On the other hand, "Young Love" is the perfect accompaniment to brand-new flirtation. I remember during my days of working at a certain chain record store, dancing gleefully around the store, singing along to "Young Love" not caring about the strange looks I was attracting. After all, at the time I had just snared myself a charming man, and isn't that a reason to dance and sing? But I digress.

The boys opened with "Alice Springs", which happens to be my favourite track on Serotonin. Incidentally, it would have been my choice for first release from the album, as opposed to "Flash a Hungry Smile" but that's totally not the point. The plaintive longing of Harrison's voice that I mentioned before is a wonderful for the album's opener, with the rest of the outfit's "OOOHHHH-OOOOH EEE OOOOH"-ing keeping the song from becoming too lovelorn and instead the vibe of the Hi Fi was one of pure elation.

I was a little disappointed that not a single song from Making Dens was featured during the gig, but at the same time I was definitely bopping and singing along to the vast majority of the songs in their set. Frontman Blain Harrison, despite being confined to a chair due to spina bifida, still manages to rock out rather emphatically. I've already made remarks about how much I adore his voice (which might not be to everyone's taste), and his ever-changing hair but I feel I have to reiterate that he's got a great presence. This though, is at the same time as seeming somewhat quiet and almost shy at times. Reb in love? Probslol.

swoon.

I didn't have the foresight to put effort into memorising the set-list but highlights included "Hideaway", "Dreaming of Another World", "Serotonin" and certainly "Two Doors Down", the 80s-tastic flail-around-dancing favourite. I was pleasantly surprised when suddenly William put down his guitar and flashed a wonderfully crooked-teeth'd grin, shouting "DO YOU WANT A DANCE, MELBOURNE??!" (yes). They then launched into After Dark, a track by The Count and Sinden featuring the band. William's dancing was endearingly daggy, rather 80s in fact. I have to admit, despite the receding hairline and the crooked teeth, William Rees is incredibly attractive. Then again, I can't ever claim to have conventional taste. Again, I digress.

I could do an extended analysis of exactly how much I enjoyed myself during every song, but that would result in an overly long-winded blog post. And in my opinion, blog posts should be on the more concise side. I will say this however, that my highlights were "After Dark", "Alice Springs", "Young Love" and certainly "Behind the Bunhouse", which swept the crowd into a near-frenzy. Aaaaand, "Flakes", the tune that closed the show. Oh! And "Show Me the Light". William's proven himself to be quite a fine singer, with quite a few songs with him on lead on Serotonin (there was only one on the previous release). I note with interest that it's been his vocal contributions that have been the singles released of late. Anyway, mercifully the twats even mostly ceased twatting about halfway through the show thanks to security turning up to point to them that they were in fact being complete twats. So I (and the rest of the crowd) was free to dance around happily and sing along without fear of having a sweaty seventeen year old falling on us.

In my opinion, a really superb way to kick off 2011. Despite exasperatedly yelling into Erin's ear an expression of my anger at the novelty flashing glasses wearing youths at one point, seeing the Mystery Jets was really a lovely night. I guess even if there's a few dudds in the audience, seeing some of your favourite songs performed really tightly and charismatically by one of your favourite bands is you know, going to end up being a good night out. The band are an incredibly energetic, adorable, group of really fine musicians. Winner. I emerged from the Hi Fi sweaty, exhausted, happy, with ringing ears and a ripped dress. I say that's a pretty good result, wouldn't you? Well played, Mystery Jets.

The Tourist - Adequately Entertaining

One of my many faults is that I occasionally get jittery, anxious, panicky. For no apparent reason. Or, there probably is a reason but I choose to ignore it, with my chosen method of forgetting that I feel nauseous with nerves: by going to the movies.

I can thank my paternal side of the family for those two attributes, both the obsession with the cinema and the at times questionable emotional stability. My grandfather made special trips from his home in Rancagua in Chile to the capital of Santiago specifically to make sure he saw films like The Exorcist and A Clockwork Orange (which was his favourite film, I'm told). Apparently this sort of devotion to devouring the latest releases was typical of my grandad. So I guess it's little surprise that whether I be happy, sad, sick, bored or otherwise, chances are I'll be in the mood to go to the movies.

The mood to hit the cinematorium hit me today, having not only the day off work but also a bad case of the jitters. What to see? I checked the session times at my local and was a little disappointed. I'd already seen Blue Valentine, The King's Speech, Harry Potter, Agora isn't playing there anymore, and the vast majority of other films that were playing didn't interest me in the slightest. I cursed suburbia, and picked The Tourist. Directed by Florian Henkel von Donnersmarck (isn't that a wonderful name?), who was at the helm of The Lives of Others, co-written by Christopher McQuarrie (The Usual Suspects), and starring Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie, I felt it would be (at the very least), an entertaining piece of Hollywood escapism.

In a nutshell, my expectations were pretty much accurate.

The Tourist is entertaining. It's fun. The two stars are incredibly easy on the eye, as is Venice, where the majority of the film takes place. Two things the film certainly achieved were thus: it made me long to return to Venice (as well as Paris). It also made me constantly swoon at the sight of Mr Depp. Fun fact: he's my dad's age. Isn't that freaky? Freaky yes, also affirmation that specimens like Johnny Depp only improve with age. If Mr Depp is what you're after, The Tourist won't disappoint. 

If you're after a thriller on par with The Usual Suspects, you probably will be disappointed. Angelina Jolie plays Elise Clifton-Ward, a woman being constantly followed by various police forces around the world. Namely, by Scotland Yard's Paul Bettany. He's after Alexander Pearce, Elise's lover. Or is it husband? I can't remember. At any rate, traveling from Paris to Venice she deliberately runs into American tourist Frank Tupelo, a math teacher from Wisconsin. Thus, intrigue and an increasingly improbable plot ensues. 

About half an hour or so into the film I found myself thinking that I could imagine The Tourist in black and white, made in the 50s. Perhaps starring Gregory Peck. Beautiful, mysterious woman gets quiet yet quick-witted and attractive man involved in international intrigue also starring gangster types. It'd work, no? 

Anyway. Like I said, The Tourist is entertaining. Jolie obviously shines as the beautiful and mysterious Elise (my, aren't her lips big!). Depp (and I might be a little biased here) is great as the initially awkward yet increasingly confident Frank. The script at times has an enjoyably sly sense of humour. Yet there's something missing. The action never really reaches the kind of climax one wants. I found myself not caring quite enough about Elise. I suppose my expectations hadn't been exceptionally high to begin with so I did find the entire jaunt quite entertaining but at the same time The Tourist was kind of on the "instantly forgettable" end of the spectrum. Easy on the eye, fun, but also lacking. 

On the other hand, I had gone to the movies to be transported to a world of a fantastical Hollywood story. You know, in the old sense of it. Improbable story, starring gorgeous leads in a grand adventure. That's what it delivered, and I guess with that in mind, to me it succeeded. 

Jaw Drop

In Soviet Russia, write ON pencil. 

I did the sitting-at-one's-computer equivalent of a double-take when I laid my eyes on pencil sculptures by Dalton Ghetti. As always, I was alerted to his existence and skill via Reddit, sent to this site. Some quick Googling followed being met with Russian, and thus, I've spent the past hour so looking at photos of tiny, tiny sculptures. The mind boggles at the steady hand, patience and amounts of sheer skill needed to complete just one of these mini works of undiluted awesome.

Go, go gadget jaw drop. Thanks Reddit, for sending me to Willard Wigan (sounds like a super hero to me ... ), the master of the microscopic sculpture. Apparently, he is only able to do some of his work between heartbeats. That to me, is something of downright Jedi proportions. Except, you know, it's real.

That's a girl on an eyelash, on the end of a needle. THE FUCK.

Wigan pictures from here.

Let the Right One In

I've spent the past week or so pondering horror films. More specifically, that I find a great number of horror films released (for lack of a better term I guess) "nowadays" to be somewhat lacklustre. So last night I was rifling through my brother's DVDs and was intrigued to find he had a copy of Let the Right One In (or, Låt den rätte komma in). I hadn't ever gotten around to watching it or it's American remake, Let Me In, so I promptly sat down, quite ready to have the bejesus scared out of me. 

Not so, bro, it seems. 

Rather than the jumpy, terrifying vampire flick I was expecting, I found myself watching a gorgeous coming-of-age film. A captivating, beautiful one at that. Being that Eli, the mysterious girl that our bullied, lonely protagonist Oskar becomes involved with is a VAMPIRE, one has to expect a certain amount of darkness to the film. Well, there's plenty. Much of Let Me In takes place at night, in the gorgeous, snow-covered landscape of Sweden. The black night sky, the falling snow, the thoughtful meandering pace of the film made for a cinematic experience that was completely mesmerising. Let the Right One In is absolutely beautifully photographed. Every shot, every scene, is something to behold and be swept up in. Of course, it helps that the two young leads are superb also. While of course, given the subject matter and the fact that Eli does feast upon a number of locals throughout the film, Let the Right One In does have the ominous feeling that you'd expect. The kind that makes one expect tragedy to befall poor Oskar at any moment. However, rather than huddling under a pillow, I found myself enthralled and charmed. Winner.

A Remarkable Discovery

I just had my mind blown into a million pieces. Well, a thousand pieces might be a little more accurate. A million pieces would probably be warranted by something along the lines of Bob Dylan turning up at my doorstep. This though, is still pretty exciting.

Remember Jurassic Park? Of course you do. It's a goddamn classic film. It has velociraptors. It meant I was obsessed with dinosaurs for my primary school years. Right, so now please cast your minds back, past the T-Rex and the raptors. Back, to the two kids in the film.  Now, focus your mind on the boy.

That boy.

I can often be a little on the slow side when it comes to noticing these sorts of things. But I finally finished watching The Pacific (verdict: not quite as good as Band of Brothers). I also just watched The Social Network. It has now just clicked in my brain that "Jurassic Park Kid" has evolved like some sort of gorgeous Hollywood Pokemon into this:

Two incredibly improbable things have occurred in front of our eyes. Firstly, notice if you would, a former child star with a career that is still alive and kicking. Secondly, this fanta pants is one very fine piece of eye candy. Joseph Mazzello, I tip my hat to you. I tip my had emphatically.