Sinister: Fever Pitch!

stephen troussé poetryplace2 at xxx.uk
Fri Nov 14 14:01:56 GMT 1997


Blimey! There I was going along to Salon online magazine
(www.salonmagazine.com) for my weekly fix of Camille Paglia's advice
column, when who should I come across raving about our favourite pop-kids,
but Nick Hornby!  I've attached the full piece for the benefit of those of
you without browsers... it's a bit long, and he takes a while to get around
to B&S, but it's a lovely review. I might even read one of his books now..	

			Gosh, but Britain's got loud all of a
                                 sudden. You can hardly hear yourself think
at the
                                 moment, amidst the sounds of crashing and
banging and
                                 weeping and wailing and self-proclamation
and
                                 accusation and electric guitars. The noise
started on
                                 May 1st, when Tony Blair was elected Prime
Minister:
                                 Blair's landslide victory changed the
national mood
                                 literally overnight. The raucous
celebrations lasted well
                                 into the summer, and even Britain's
notoriously
                                 conservative national press -- somewhat
perversely,
                                 given how much work they had put in to
preserve John
                                 Major's exhausted, deeply unpopular and
increasingly
                                 sleazy party -- started tapping its toes
discreetly in the
                                 corner, like moms and dads at the end of
rock'n'roll
                                 films. Blair's approval rating shot
through the roof, and
                                 Britain suddenly discovered that, contrary
to all our
                                 suspicions, we were a young country,
brimful of talent
                                 and vision and energy. Those of us who had
got used to
                                 the idea that we were an awful, senile
country, full of
                                 reactionary old farts who hadn't read a
novel in 30 years
                                 and who still disapproved of the length of
Ringo's hair,
                                 couldn't take the pace. By July, I felt
like I wanted to
                                 stop partying and go and have a sit-down. 

                                 But there was no let-up. Our cricket and
football teams
                                 began the summer by winning handsomely and
                                 unexpectedly, victories for which Tony
Blair seemed
                                 obscurely responsible -- something to do
with young
                                 people being better than old people at
sports,
                                 presumably. The Oasis album came out
amidst a great
                                 deal of ear-splitting ballyhoo, and Noel
Gallagher was
                                 one of the first to be invited to 10
Downing Street for
                                 one of Blair's occasional artsy parties,
another indication
                                 of fundamental change: The only rock 'n'
roller that the
                                 previous administration had been able to
invite to
                                 parties was Andew Lloyd Webber. (Lloyd
Webber,
                                 incidentally, made vague threats about
leaving the
                                 country in the event of a Labour victory,
a threat that
                                 may well have been responsible for the
size of Blair's
                                 majority, but scandalously he never went
anywhere, as
                                 far as we know.) And then, of course,
there was the
                                 Diana thing, about which there is only one
observation I
                                 wish to make here: Whatever else it was or
wasn't, it was
                                 certainly loud. Sometimes you get the
impression that
                                 we have turned ourselves into one huge
braying mob,
                                 bursting with nervous energy and
Adrenalin, looking for
                                 an excuse to make even more noise than we
are already
                                 making. Recently, as another Salon
correspondent
                                 noted, it was poor Louise Woodward who got
the
                                 treatment. 

                                 I've been listening to Belle and
Sebastian, a ramshackle,
                                 cute and only occasionally fey folk-pop
band who have
                                 spent the summer releasing four-track EPs
with quirky
                                 names and classy sleeves: "Dog On Wheels,"
"Lazy
                                 Line-Painter Jane," "3, 6, 9 Seconds of
Light." Belle and
                                 Sebastian have not, as far as I am aware,
described
                                 themselves as "the best fooking (sic) band
in the world,"
                                 unlike the rest of their peers, and nor
should they: A
                                 recent sold-out show I saw in London was a
shambles,
                                 and to this member of the audience an
irritating, as
                                 opposed to adorable, shambles. One of the
support acts
                                 was a rambling and very drunk poet, and
the boys and
                                 girls themselves took their own sweet time
tuning up
                                 and messing about between each number. It
took a good
                                 five minutes before they deigned to play
anything at all. 

                                 But quirkiness is a much rarer commodity
in this new,
                                 brash Britain than it was. We used to be
rather good at it
                                 -- generally, we took the view that if we
couldn't
                                 compete with the Yanks properly, then we'd
refuse to
                                 play the game by acting daft. This new
Brit feistiness,
                                 however, has meant that everyone wants a
shot at the
                                 mainstream: Self-confidence is in, and
self-deprecating
                                 charm is out -- almost. Luckily, Belle and
Sebastian
                                 have charm in glorious abundance, and "A
Century of
                                 Elvis," the last track on the new "Lazy
Line-Painter
                                 Jane" EP, is surely the most charmed
you'll be all year. 

                                 "A Century of Elvis" is in effect a short
story, spoken in
                                 broad Scottish over a gorgeous, aching,
jingle-jangle
                                 guitar and a couple of tootling organ
notes; the story is
                                 about a period in the narrator's life when
Elvis -- the
                                 very famous one -- visited him in his flat
every evening.
                                 It's one of those rare pieces of work that
you love partly
                                 because you have no idea where it came
from: I haven't
                                 heard much recently that describes Elvis
poking around
                                 a post office van, apparently
contemplating whether to
                                 drive it away. It's the accumulation of
detail that makes
                                 the track -- there's actually some
deceptively fine
                                 writing going on here, although the band
probably
                                 wouldn't thank me for pointing it out. In
one passage the
                                 narrator wonders whether it was Elvis'
love for squirrels
                                 that attracted him to their particular
leafy suburb;
                                 another concerns the great man's impassive
                                 consumption of a video entitled the 'The
E-Files," about
                                 unlikely Presley sightings. You end up
smiling at the
                                 simple joy taken in picking up an idea and
running with
                                 it -- if you can make anything out in the
mix, which is,
                                 needless to say, pretty crappy. Oh, and if
you love the
                                 tune but get tired of the story, the
jingle-jangle is
                                 recycled for "A Century of Fakers," the
song that kicks
                                 off "3, 6, 9 Seconds of Light." 

                                 Maybe you have to be living here to
appreciate just how
                                 welcome this kind of egoless homecooked
whimsy is at
                                 the moment, but if you've heard the Oasis
album, or seen
                                 the mass Disteria on TV, you can probably
guess. Me,
                                 I'm going to sit the New Britain out with
a couple of
                                 Belle and Sebastian EPs and a good book;
it won't be
                                 long before we turn back into ourselves
again.
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