Glasser @ XOYO

I distinctly remember the first time I heard Glasser: I was sitting cross-legged on the floor of our flat, eating Domino's Extravaganza pizza and drinking Corona from the bottle, on the cusp of a food coma after binging post-gym workout (I'm not sure Domino's is what the gym advises you to eat post-workout - in fact, I believe one trainer specifically instructed me to "eat nuts, not bread - bread is evil" so heaven knows what she thinks of Domino's).  "Who's this?" I asked John dreamily (which came out more like "Whosh thish?" with bits of sausage flying out of my mouth).  "It sounds like a cross between These New Puritans and jj and Bjork ("It schoundchs like a crosh between ..." you get it)."  "It's Glasser, one of my Rough Trade CD club albums," he said, carefully chewing his pizza before speaking in order not to follow in my disgusting ways.  "Humph," I mumbled in response.  "I like it."  But by this point I had drifted off to comatose sleep (burp).

The next day, I forgot all about Glasser and that album, "Ring", but then we started listening to it again and again - in the car, in the flat, and I began to love it.  I'd put "Apply" on as soon as I walked out the door in the morning and thought of that and "Home" as sort of my battle hymns as I set off to conquer wheelie bags and a new job.  And they were quite effective.

So it was no surprise that when John's birthday rolled around (and I was completely stumped in terms of presents at approximately 8 pm the night before) that I bought tickets for the next Glasser show (or "gig" as they shudderingly refer to such performances here in the UK - ugh, ugh, ugh, how I hate that word) at XOYO in Shoreditch.  There are loads of bad reviews of XOYO on the web - most label it as "the worst venue I've ever been in my life" and "the staff is rude and there is no air con, making it for a very sweaty evening", etc. so I had the worst expectations.  One reviewer complained, "The stage is RIGHT by the stairs, which is ridiculous."  Or makes for a great getaway, depending on how you see it.

Anyways, the show started at 8 and we arrived around 8:30 to catch the last couple songs from Lia Ices, an ethereal, breathy Olivia Palermo/Whitney Port-esque lookalike with soothing vocals and the best ankle-boot and tights combo I've ever seen (sorry, I should have concentrated on the music, but I was pretty fascinated by her perfectly thrown-together look).  But the crowd soon grew restless until Sampha joined the stage and did a set of (in my view) rather ambitious five songs complete with a surprisingly strong voice set against dissonant electronic beats - different and extremely intelligent, but I don't think anyone in the crowd (including me) really appreciated it or got it (there's a great remix of the xx's Basic Space by him out there if you're interested, though).  It wouldn't be for another half hour until Glasser (AKA Cameron Mesirow) reached the stage and in the time it took for me and John to get a fabulous spot on the left side of the stage, a massive dickhead with a massive coif (and yes, I am totally entitled to call this 6'11" 18-year-old punk - and his girlfriend, while I'm at it - a dickhead, because his coif was backcombed into a rather phallic interpretation of a rat's nest and also mostly because he and his lookalike androgynous gf were 6'11" and pushed themselves, rudely and forcefully in front of the people around them who were all around 5'3 or under) pushed in front of us.  So of course, the rage took over and I managed to step on some poor hipsters' feet in my rage and got us a prime position about 4 feet away from center stage.

But the brilliant thing about XOYO is that it's indeed such a small venue (a little bigger than my flat, I don't think, if you knocked out the walls), that it makes for some extremely up-close-and-personal viewing.  When Glasser finally took the stage with her band (who were in patterned boilersuits, nonetheless) and launched into "Apply" in what seemed to resemble a cobbled together traditional Korean (?) outfit but reinvented with a vintage blouse and hooped skirt, the hipster crowd went into a sort of rapturous/awed/stunned/swooning cheer.  Her voice, as powerful and perfectly on pitch as it is on the album, generated a crazy amount of energy in the small room and I was grateful that we could be so close to feel it.  

Halfway through the performance, her energetic dancing seemed to have caused her to rip a hole in her skirt, prompting her to laugh and exclaim, "Oh no!  Look what I've done!  What do I do?" as she looked bewilderingly around her.  She picked up the excess fabric: "Do I throw it over my shoulder like a continental soldier, as we say on the other side?" (I was the only one who laughed, since I was probably the only American in the room who knew the childhood rhyme)  And this might sound condescending, but I just loved the way she spoke: her totally, down-to-earth and very Californian accent.  She thanked the audience after every song and, aside from the performance aspect of the show, she seemed, well, almost very ordinary.

One of the best aspects of live performances is hearing songs from the album played just a little bit differently and Glasser did an amazing, stripped-down version of "T" midway through the show.  Her voice, accompanied only by electric guitar (which was made to sound like a synth) was so moving and bare, that at times one probably felt one should look away.  "Wow," she said with a generous smile after breaking the spell.  "Thanks so much!  I've never heard it so quiet before!  Not a lot of people have the patience to sit through that, so yeah, thanks!"

Oh, Cameron.  If only you knew how we (secretly) worshiped you.  Or at least, I do.

Listen to "Apply" here:




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Thursday Morning Tube Rant: Wheelie Bags

You know, looking back at the past year's worth of blog posts, I don't know what I was complaining about on my "tube rants".  Seriously?  That was the Bakerloo line: people were polite, even civilized, compared to the neanderthals that board the Piccadilly or Central lines.  Those Piccadilly or Central line travelers have no qualms about physically attacking you in order to not miss a train (I've had first hand experience and yes, I'm not proud of it, but I retaliated.  It made me feel better).

But aside from the serious aggro and negativity Piccadilly and Central line users project between the hours of 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. every day, I've found myself confronted with a very peculiar impediment to my train journey every morning, consistently, for the past two weeks: wheelie bags.  You know, those medium sized travel bags or suitcases that are wheeled behind you for overnight stays at grandma's house or something.  And every morning, I seem to be stuck behind one and its owner, who is oblivious to the obstacle his stupid bag is providing to all weary commuters.  One man seemed quite apologetic and considerately picked up the small bag by its handle when moving through areas of congestion, but others insist on dragging it about four feet behind them, so that the person immediately following does a helpless sort of wide-legged hobble/dance to get around it while having his heels nipped at by the person behind.  You follow?  It's annoying.  These bags should be banned.  Sometimes I think, 'Oh, it's not their fault - I might be guilty of this someday when you know, I'm coming back from grandma's house (except that wouldn't happen because my grandma lives in Hong Kong but that's another story)' but then on other days, when some skinny chick has just come flying at me with claws and all because she's desperate to get to the closing doors of a Piccadilly train, then I rage and rage and think 'No, get your $%^&&*^ piece of @#$% out of my way you @#$%^&* imbecile.' 

And to think I was complaining that my commute was boring last year - ha!  Oh, how times have changed.  But I asked for it.

Audio Assault: Plane Talk

I've come to accept the fact that we Americans (and some more than others) have very distinctive accents and more often than not, very distinctive voices.  Now, as I mentioned before, I work hard to preserve my American accent in London because a) I'm not ashamed to be American and b) I don't wanna sound like Madonna or Gwyneth Paltrow AKA sporting the dreaded "transatlantic accent" (although I've been told I have one now - sigh).  But, in the words of my role model and buddy Sarah Palin, gosh darn it, why do the Americans with the most annoying nasal accents SPEAK SO LOUDLY?  WHY MUST EVERYTHING BE IN CAPITALS NO MATTER WHERE THEY ARE?  IS IT BECAUSE THEY HAVE TO BE HEARD?  IS IT BECAUSE IF NO ONE LISTENS TO THEM, THEY'LL HAVE TO BRING IN THE BIG GUNS?  

AN EXEMPLARY INSTANCE OF SUCH BEHAVIOR CAN BE FOUND ON MOST PLANE RIDES CONTAINING TRAVELLING AMERICANS (sorry, once I start with the caps, I just can't stop.  It's quite enjoyable, I must admit).  Example: at the onset of our nine hour plane journey across the Pacific from Tokyo's Narita Airport to Seattle Tacoma International Airport, I was drifting into blissful, guided sleep when BAM!  It hit me.  The verbal diarrhea of some Abercrombie-wearing twenty-something male (and yes, I said "male" because I won't even dignify his presence with the word "guy") two rows behind me to the equally annoying Shanghainese girl engaging him in constant conversation.  "... I mean, Korea is like, like, such an amazing, amazing place, you know, like, I was teaching there and I, look, it's like a very, very male-dominated society and like, women have no say and like, yeah, totally, it can be very frustrating but like ..."

20 minutes later ...

"... and yeah, so my girlfriend is so skinny, I mean she has a six-pack but doesn't work out.  At all.  I mean, I work out and I lift, you know, and I have a six-pack.  I have a six-pack because I work out.  She is like, laid back, gorgeous, funny, I just love her.  She is like, amazing.  You know, some girls, like, can be high-maintenance.  You know?  Like super high maintenance.  She is SO not like that, I mean, she is truly a wonderful person."

4 hours later ...

"... like, I love Chinese food and stuff, but like, don't you get bored eating the same thing every day?  I mean, American food is like, so awesome, because you know, what's special about American food is, listen, you can have pizza.  You can have spaghetti, you can have pasta.  You know?  It's different.  Or you can have a burger.  But like, how do you do it?  How do you not get bored of eating rice every day?  I couldn't do it, I really like, just - man, I just like, couldn't do it."

(And yes, I was so traumatized by his monologue that I remember these snippets distinctly and I believe, very accurately)

Look.  I get it.  I've met some awesome people on planes.  Having a chatty and friendly seat-mate on a long flight is undeniably great and comforting, especially if you're travelling alone (for some people).  But not the kind of verbal diarrhea I and other passengers were subjected to NON-STOP FOR EIGHT HOURS AND THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES.  I MEAN, HE NEVER STOPPED.  THERE WERE NO PAUSES.  IT WAS TRULY AMAZING.  Or as Kim Kardashian says, "amaze."

American accent or not, I, like, can't stand it.  You know?  And British people do it too ... it's just that ... they, like, stop.  At some point.  Americans keep going on and on and on and on ... and on.  AND LOUDLY.  REMEMBER?  ALL CAPS.  I once was sitting in the bulk-head row of a BA flight from Seattle to London and a woman who was eight rows back - yes, eight, because I counted - had a voice that carried like the wind.  It was nasal as heck and I learned all about her new kitchen floor.  Fab.

If you're ever on a plane chatting with a stranger, just remember - I'm not interested in hearing your life story.  AT LEAST NOT IN ALL CAPS.

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Ooh La Lush!

Lady friends of mine, avert your eyes!  For you just might receive this gorgeously wrapped gift from me at Christmas this year (if you're good, that is).  Isn't this lovely?  Have you ever seen a prettier and/or more creatively wrapped present?  This is courtesy of Lush in Covent Garden Market, y'all.  I was storming towards Space NK for some last minute presents when these in the store window made my head turn instead.

You pick whatever products you'd like to go inside (each are individually bagged and tagged so the recipient knows her bath bomb from her massage bar) and choose the scarf of your liking from a wide variety.  The cashier expertly wraps it for you (in my case, a British-accented LA native - yes, I know, ew, but he was so nice!) and voila - happy fashionable christmas!  The one on the left was made entirely of recycled bottles (how this is possible, I have no idea) so it's SUPER eco-friendly!  And at £3.95 per scarf wrap service, it's not a bad shout, as John would say (though I still don't really know what that means so might have used it incorrectly).

Perfect for the inner (or outer) fashionistas!  (Male friends will not be receiving this, although if you're fabulously gay, you just might!)

As an added bonus, Lush staff are undeniably entertaining (if not a tad too overenthusiastic).  One super faboosh employee broke into a brilliant impromptu dance routine to a Janet Jackson anthem, prompting me to wag my finger at him: "You should be on The X Factor, you know, you so should.  You're amazing."  "Oh thank you," he said, blushing.  "Thank you!!!"  No, thank you.

27 Books Before My 27th Birthday? Not A Chance.

 

Well, I had the best intentions, and I'd love to say that I did it - but I didn't make it.  Well, at least, I don't think I'm going to.  My birthday is less than two weeks away and there's no way I'll read (I mean, *really* read) 9 books in that time.  Sigh of all sighs.  Grumble.  And I had really wanted to prove the naysayers wrong (John, who scoffed, "That's impossible!" or "You should just read short stories or a really thin book!"  Err ... great idea, but defeats the purpose of my quest).  Oh well.

It was an interesting experiment though, and I learned quite a lot of valuable lessons along the way - I highly encourage everyone to attempt it.  Think about it: out of all of you, who can honestly say, with their hand on their heart, that they read *regularly*?  I just don't think it's possible, with a full time job and a social life, to do so, unless you're motivated by a bookclub (which I have since joined) or a peculiar self-motivational experiment like mine.  Over the course of this experiment, I've read some truly, great books - and some that were ... um ... not-so-great.  I even received my first hate mail on this blog (see my review of Julie/Julia, then subsequent bashing of Cleaving - I had some hardcore Julie Powell fans running after me with spiked clubs and the like), which I was quite proud of, and a lovely, touching letter from a 90-year-old World War II veteran - none of which would have happened without my grand (little) scheme.

At the end of the day (and boy, do I hate that phrase), attempting to read 27 books before my 27th (whoops, I actually typed 17 in there at first!  I wish ...) birthday made me realize how little time I truly devoted to myself.  Time to yourself is always important to have, but not a lot of us have the luxury of curling up with a good book for 2-3 hour chunks of time.  So we find time: we read on our commutes, on our lunch breaks, in waiting rooms and reception areas.  We read books that make us so angry, we throw them (again, refer to Julie/Julia).  Or books that humble us, make us so grateful, that they move us to tears.  We read books that are so-so and we read books that we are practically evangelical about.  We even read trashy books for fun.  That's okay (because books don't judge you - people do).  

So what made the list?  Here they are, in all their 18-titled glory (and with some annotations):

1) To The Nines - by Janet Evanovich (That was my one trashy allowance.  Hey, we all have to start somewhere!  Right?  Right??)

2) Disobedience - by Naomi Alderman (Good effort, but ultimately crap)

3) Then We Came To An End - by Joshua Ferris (Utterly brilliant)

4) The Grass Arena - by John Healy (Touching, harrowing, and yet, amazing)

5) The Road - by Cormac McCarthy (Not bad, for a bestseller main-stream type)

6) The Help - by Kathryn Stockett (Best Oprah endorsed book of the year)

7) Travels With Charley - John Steinbeck (I *hearted* it - yes, I used "heart" as a verb and in the past tense - I didn't study English at Oxford, Mount Holyoke and York for nothing)

8) Julie/Julia - by Julie Powell (Despicable)

9) Cleaving - by Julie Powell (Even more despicable)

10) The Unnamed - by Joshua Ferris (Not as good as the other one)

11) Perfume - by Patrick Suskind (Just ... plain ... weird)

12) For Esme: With Love and Squalor - by J.D. Salinger (Classic beauty)

13) Short Girls - by Bich Minh Nguyen (Too ambitious)

14) Skippy Dies - by Paul Murray (What *should have* won the Man Booker Prize 2010 instead of the awful title in #18)

15) First Light - by Geoffrey Wellum (My hero)

16) Finding Nouf - by Zoe Ferraris (True airport literature - basically crap)

17) Girl In Translation - by Jean Kwok (Thought provoking and relatable from a cultural viewpoint)

18) The Finkler Question - by Howard Jacobson (Winner of the Man Booker Prize 2010 - awful, just awful)

I wish I'd ended on a high note but I'm afraid to say the opposite was true.  Granted, I still do have a week or so to squeeze in one last book, but in case I don't make it, readers, there you have it.  My full and final list.  I think a more realistic goal for next year will be to aim for at least one book per month.  But come on, people, 18 books in 9 months isn't too shabby.

Imogen Heap @ The Royal Albert Hall

Contrary to what you'd might deduce from reading my blog, I actually listen to a lot of music other than classical and on Friday, as a treat to myself, after celebrating a little personal triumph, I bought a ticket to see Imogen Heap perform at The Royal Albert Hall. 

If there was a soundtrack to my life, Imogen Heap would certainly be on it - it's not surprising, however, as she's a Grammy-winning artist who has appeared on numerous soundtracks, including the ever-popular Garden State.  Something about her music really lends itself to that extremely emotive, illustrative quality that is indicative of motion picture soundtracks.

Quite aptly, she opened the first half of her show conducting a full symphony orchestra and choir who performed an original score (complete with movements!) against the backdrop of a series of Planet Earth-esque nature scenes with titles such as "Beauty" and "Grandeur".  For anyone else, this would be an eye-rolling, pretentious act, but because it was Imogen Heap, it was entirely acceptable and endearing.  And it was clear from this orchestration that Imogen knows exactly what she is doing: the textures, layers and transparency with which the music soared accompanied the film perfectly.  Plus, I find myself invariably drawn to musicians who are classically trained - especially those who are as innovative as Imogen, because I'm consistently amazed by their gift in composing.  Classically trained musicians have an innate understanding of music that artists without formal training lack (I know that's controversial, but it's my opinion).

Innovation is one of Imogen's greatest skills; her work with ambient sounds and recordings bring to mind The Books and you never quite know what kind of instrument she'll use next.  The stage resembles a mad scientist's lab, with bells and a triangle hanging from the beautifully carved white tree in the centre, glasses half filled with water to make the familiar sounds you made as a child bored at a grown-up's restaurant that she's cleverly incorporated into the beginning of "First Train Home", keyboards, synthesizers and a multitude of other instruments you can't even see.

It's not difficult to understand why Imogen has won so many awards and garnered the affections of so many music fans.  She gives a lot.  What I mean by "giving" is this: for, in a venue as grand and immense as the Royal Albert Hall, she has the uncanny ability to make you feel like you're the only person in her company and, in fact, quite possibly chilling out in her living room.  She has the habit of chatting to her audience - rapidly digressing and easily distracted, which is at once disarming and also incredibly charming.  And if that doesn't win you over, there's the option on her website to vote, yes vote, for your favorite songs to appear on her set list because, as she explained, "people should hear what they wanted to come and hear."  Isn't that so ... thoughtful?  "I had no idea this song was so popular," she said in her adorable, bumbling way before launching into "Say Goodnight And Go" (one of my favorites).  "I never played it and then it ended up in the top three of the poll almost every time and I thought, 'Oh no!  I'd better play it."  So. Lovely.

But with the loveliness is also an honesty and firmness that is really very refreshing.  Explaining why she doesn't believe in encores, she said, "These are the last two songs that I'm doing with the band and then I'll do a couple more on my own.  I can't stand it when someone goes off and then you know they're coming back on, and you have to clap and wait and I'm just not going to do any of that."

Notable highlights of the evening included "Let Go", (of course) a heart-stopping rendition of "Hide and Seek" as her final song and "Canvas", from her new album, Ellipse, which had a sample of the crackling bonfire she invited her family over to share in.  I love how there's no caginess or cryptic messages in Imogen's music - she's very happy to explain exactly where she was when she wrote a piece of music, what was going through her mind, what the song means and most importantly, what the song means to her.  In that sense, she's extremely generous.  I love her.

If you've not heard Imogen's new album or had the chance to see her live this year, check out the video below of one of my favorite songs off of Ellipse, 'First Train Home':



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It's Cake Time!: Fireworks (Funfetti) Cupcakes

To celebrate Guy Fawkes Night, I made "fireworks" cupcakes using the Funfetti Udita brought over for me a few months ago* (*to be honest, it was all a bit of coincidence and I had no intention of making these multi-colored treats in celebration of anything.  Truth was, I woke from my three-hour nap yesterday afternoon in desperate need of a cake fix and looked up my favorite chocolate cake recipe.  Deeming the recipe a bit too involved, I decided to rummage the shelves and fridge for a different sweet fix, but to no avail - until I discovered the box of Funfetti at the back.  In fact, I'd never even heard of Funfetti until Mel mentioned it in a comment on this blog a few months ago.  I was a little disappointed to find out it was simply pre-packaged cake mix with sprinkles inside.  Oh well, cake is cake).

So there you have it.  They're quite tasty, except some unlucky person will have the eggshell cupcake because in my bleary-eyed, post-nap state, I was a bit clumsy with the egg cracking.  Sorry.