A short history of house...Chicago house

I have friends whose eyes glaze over at the very mention of house music. I know what they're thinking. Thumping banging beats, irritating repetitive synthesized euro vocals or cheesy piano filled tat. Yes house has a lot to answer for these days.

Just last week a mate remarked at a gig that she knew she was old because she couldn't bear to listen to house anymore. So, at the risk of sounding like Carrie Bradshaw, later that night I got to thinking. What is it I used to like about house? Of course I woke up the next morning and, as ever, forgot I'd even asked myself a question.

Until yesterday. I've been contributing to a music book this week so I've been typing away in my boudoir listening to all sorts. And when a classic Chicago house track came up:


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I took the opportunity to listen to some old songs. Wow. I'd forgotten just how good these early house tracks still are. Marshall Jefferson's "Move Your Body" from 1986 was the first time anyone had played piano on a house track. And it still gets people moving today. Along with Frankie Knuckles, Jefferson is considered " a Godfather of House".

I have to admit I spent most of the mid-90s while at University in a haze of house. Britpop passed me by entirely because I was dancing my tits off at house all-nighters and warehouse parties (proper ones where you had to go to a dark dodgy boozer to find out the secret location). I just love dancing in places where everyone is there for the music. Still do really. Which is why I like festivals now. Except I'm not as young as I used to be, so I usually suffer the next day.

I could waffle on about all the different sub-genres of house but you'd probably start yawning. So I'd just like to introduce you, if you don't know them already, to a few of my favourite Chicago house tracks.

Chicago house is the earliest form of house. It is funky, edgy-disco, gospel-influenced dance music. The term 'house' comes from Chicago where it meant something cool, hip, fresh or bad. Alternatively some say a Chicago club called The Warehouse gave birth to the genre's label. Either way, my ex-boyfriend first introduced me to it (ten years after it had erupted out of Chicago in the early 1980s). Many a happy time was spent falling in love to these tunes while recovering after days of hard partying.


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"Baby Wants To Ride" is a very naughty song by Frankie Knuckles. I've since realised it's about a dominatrix persuading a guy to let her have her wicked way. Ooh er.

Then there's "You Used To Hold Me" by Ralphi Rosaio.


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Sample lyrics include "What that dorky chic got wouldn't satisfy a cheese stick let alone my baby/She better take her big longhaired butt and move on 'cos he's mine, all mine." Love it.

I end on what is probably my favourite Chicago house track, "Promised Land" by Joe Smooth. It's got it all - funky rhythm, piano and strings, and an optimistic but not cheesy message.


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So don't diss house until you've listened to these classics. All of them are on The Original Chicago House Classics (2002) album (it's on Spotify).

White Lies

If music is my boyfriend, we haven't seen much of each other lately. I've wanted to but lazily I haven't made the effort. And getting him in the diary is a nightmare because you have to book three months ahead. I'm just not organised enough. Not a day has gone by when I haven't thought about, and listened to, him though. So I finally reignited my passion for live music last night. With White Lies at Brixton Academy.

For anyone not familiar with this young quartet who hail from West London, their sound is very Joy Division, though they apparently dislike the comparison "We weren't alive during that period of music and we've never really been into Joy Division...I think we're a lot more euphoric and uplifting," they're quoted as saying. The title of one of their most well-known tracks is Death, sample lyrics "And when I see a new day/Who's driving the same way/I picture my own grave/This fear's got a hold on me/Yes this fear's got a hold on me". However much they deny it, I think it's safe to say their dark undertones lean towards the Mancunian punk-electro melancholy maestros.

Lead singer and guitarist Harry McVeigh is no tortured Ian Curtis but the timbre of his voice is captivating. Its deep richness is, I think, more distinctive than Tom Smith's voice of Editors. They got things off to a riotous start with their biggest chart success Farewell to the Fairground. The loud hypnotic drum snare and edgy synths had the whole place dancing and singing the lyrics back. The jumping around got crazier from then on. The more they played, the more the loyal crowd loved them and lost it. My attempt at recording Unfinished Business:



was thwarted by three 6ft 3 blokes behind who appeared to have lost control of their limbs such was their jittery flailing. At one point I did wonder how many people must have slipped on the pile of sick we'd narrowly avoided on the other side of the room. As soon as we saw it, we headed away to our usual safe spot (left as you look at the stage, on the slope - perfect for those who are vertically challenged like me) and vowed never to go that way again. Shiver.

We did notice that we were surrounded by similarly vertically challenged types. But unusually they were mostly male. Maybe it was because they were still in their teens and not yet fully grown. Which, while we were chuffed at being able to see, then made us feel very old. Gigs are funny like that. If you're not of the overall crowd demographic, you quickly notice. Which is why I like festivals -music lovers of all ages muck in.

White Lies have cited Talking Heads as an influence and one of the highlights last night was their cover of Heaven which was thoughtful and eerie. Of course the band performed all their cult hits from number one album To Lose My Life but it was their final song, Death, which nearly ripped the roof off. They said they were honoured to headline at Brixton [their first time] and it was something they'd remember for the rest of their lives. When they took two bows at the end of their storming gig and lingered on stage to savour the moment before throwing their drum sticks into the crowd (so rock 'n' roll), you believed them.
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White Lies were supported by Post War Years (who we missed) and Wild Beasts who were a revelation. I'd listened to Wild Beasts on Spotify before, but, like White Lies, they're a brilliant band to catch live, full of energy and naughty lyrics (just listen to The Fun Powder Plot - hilarious).

DIY travel photography

Ever wanted to know the trade secrets of that astonishing ethereal landscape or startling wildlife shot in guide books? Well I found out the other night from Lonely Planet travel photojournalist Juliet Coombe at a talk she gave at Intrepid Travel in Islington (who incidentally seemed like a lovely bunch and no, I'm not on commission).*

Of course having the right lenses helps but it's amazing how Juliet has learnt to improvise out on the road saving potentially thousands by not buying fancy equipment. She has photographed an entire country in thirteen days for Lonely Planet from beaches to mountains via caves and jungles so she knows how to think on her feet. I couldn't believe the mundane items from around the house (mainly the kitchen) that Juliet inventively used to take the shots she was showing us.

So if, like me, you have a basic digital SLR camera and don't have heaps of dosh to spare, here are some of the lovely Juliet's top tips (I do hope I'm not ruining her income from talks by revealing her secrets).

Bin bags  - these are absolutely essential apparently. Not only can one be used to waterproof the camera (wrap it round and poke a hole through for the lens), it can also camouflage the camera for wildlife shots or it can be stretched over the lens so that you can cut out a rough shape of the object you're shooting while the bin bag filters the rest of the scene out. Take a roll of them.

Foil - take lots of it. Fills in shadows on faces.

Cling film - stretch it over the lens and smear on brylcreem or soap, or stick lace on it to create patterns. Use coloured cling film as cheap filters.

Tights - can be used as filters.

Clothes pegs - use them to attach silk scarves or card (again with the object's shape cut out) to the camera.

Toilet roll holder - pop over the end of the lens to create a longer lens.

Matches - apparently top travel photographers never use flash because it's too bright. The old-fashioned match gives a softer light.

Tissues - tip different quantities of tea or coffee on them, dry and you have filters of various sepia tones.

Rope - for lowering your camera to the ground from a landrover when you're on safari. Perfect for undergrowth shots. Or strapping to the roof of the vehicle.

Small step ladder - for those who are vertically challenged like me this could be the difference between a shot of the back of heads or an engaging picture.

Juliet recommends experimenting with all these devices before you travel, choosing one subject on your doorstep, so you can see which effects you like.

Successful photojournalists are able to create profound pictures by thinking about their message before they take the picture, emphasised Juliet. Apparently practical people can take pretty pictures but they won't necessarily have the longevity of those who've thought it through. And finally...remember: a good photographer will be prepared to do anything to get the picture (within the law presumably).

* All pictures are by Juliet Coombe.

When Perry met Self

* Turner prize winning artist Grayson Perry was in conversation with the inimitable author Will Self last week at the British Library and, as a fan of both, I couldn't wait to hear the informed banter between these two opinionated characters. Neither I nor the packed audience were disappointed.

Self, cloaked in trademark head to toe writer-black, was the perfect foil to Perry's peach and blue graphic print dress, to his curly boots with bells and to Shirley, the doll on his knee.

To some Grayson Perry is still an oddball, that artist who dresses like a woman. Thankfully he's become so acceptable in the UK that even he is unhappy about it. "Now when I'm out in the street I'm not that annoying pervert anymore," he half grumbled. "They say, 'oh it's Grayson Perry, he can do what he likes'. It's quite boring now, unless I go abroad." You have to respect a man who says his definition of a good outfit is taking a deep breath before he leaves the house.




What I also like about Grayson Perry is his refreshing frankness about the meaning of his art and how he goes about it. Not for him a puzzling pretentious riddle hinting at how his work is created. "Well, I started in the left hand corner and worked across," he said of the Walthamstow Tapestry, a major new piece namechecking well-known brands, which is a wry, modern take on the famous Bayeaux tapestry. "I really see a difference when I work. I get better." As Self pointed out, it's rare to hear an artist admit that their technique isn't perfect from the outset.

"I grew up in public," replied Perry. "My first ceramics were incredibly inept. But people thought they were ironic." You have to laugh but there must be some truth in it. In fact, much of what Perry said was a serious point made in jest. When Self highlighted this, Perry was very clear about how and why he uses humour. "My job as an artist is to supply electrodes, not the sparks. I don't necessarily want to kill my art with explanation. The jokes are me dancing around it. When I'm in the studio, I'm deadly serious." He's now put in 10,000 hours of pottery practice to prove it.



Much of Perry's art is inspired by revered classical work. So, while from a distance his vases may look Ming, up close they often portray disturbing images or provide a commentary on modern life. Consumerism, religious iconography and text are all regular features. He'll go round a museum or flick through an art book for ideas and then think how he can make a relevant 21st century version that isn't a horrible parody.

He comes across as extremely eccentric but matter-of-fact. He said he doesn't like art about airy fairy things (themes such as sadomasochism certainly prove that) yet he's created an artistic cult whose leader is Alan Measles, Perry's childhood teddy bear (so called because Alan was his best friend at the time and he had measles -  how cute). But if that isn't airy fairy I don't know what is. Perry, as you might expect of a man whose alter-ego Claire famously collected his Turner Prize in 2003, is full of contradictions.

Picasso spent his whole life trying to draw like a child and in the same way Perry is interested in the psychology of childhood "Everybody has their own Alan Measles", he told Self, which is why he makes shrines to Alan and exhibits them.

Maybe I should reclaim and reshrine my childhood teddy bear, long since abandoned in the spare room back up North. "Karen Chickenpox" doesn't have quite the same ring to it though.
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*  Poptart succumbed to the seasonal lurgy this week and has been sipping Lemsip and popping Beroccas under her duvet while feeling guilty about not writing this blog.

Why Do We Talk?

I was going to blog about a talk I went to last night but actually that can wait. It ain't breaking news (although it featured an interesting conversation between an eccentric artist and a clever writer if that whets your appetite).

Speaking of conversations and talks, I highly recommend watching Why Do We Talk, a Horizon programme which will be on BBC iPlayer until next Tuesday. It looks at how us humans started learning language.

Scientists are gradually piecing together the first map of the complex language functions in the brain. Did you know that babies listen to their mums in the womb? They get to know her tone and cadence which is why, in the programme, a one day old baby's brain responds to her mother's call "hi baby" but not a computer's.

Apparently the origin of language lies in our genes. There's a single gene that controls the tiny movements in our faces that enable us to talk. If we're born without it then we can't talk properly. All vertebrates have this gene but two tiny changes to it mean that we can communicate verbally but other animals can't. And probably around the time these changes happened (like waaaaaay back, thousands of years ago) is when evidence of art and culture started appearing. How cool.

The programme had many more examples to bring it all to life, like Christopher who "collects languages like butterflies". He's autistic and can speak 20 languages. It also trotted out some well-I-never-type stats - there are more than 6000 languages in the world and 800 of those can be found in Papua New Guinea alone. Worthwhile banking for future pub quizes methinks.

On a separate, but sort of related, note I've just started dipping into The History Of The English Language again, like you do (it's a reference book which has been lying dusty on my bookshelf for yonks). Did you know limousine is so called after the name of a province in France? Tabasco sauce is named after the Mexican river Tabasco, and the Charleston dance after the American city. And we can't forget the good old hungry Earl of Sandwich who first invented our lunchtime staple.

But back to the programme…watch it to find out what the forbidden experiment is.

Boom boom

Not being able to take pictures in galleries sucks. Especially when I've paid good money (a hefty £12) to get in. What is the argument against non-flash photography in galleries anyone? I'd really love to know.

So begins my visit to sculptor Anish Kapoor's show at the Royal Academy. With a rant. Luckily the Turner prize winner's work is captivating enough to distract me.

What I called "that giant red trumpet thingy" (real name Marsyas) in the Turbine Hall at Tate Modern is the only work of his I've ever seen. It's a testament to its impact that I thought the red trumpet showing was a couple of years ago (turns out it was seven).

Part retrospective, part new work, this exhibition is dramatic, subtle, ambiguous and sometimes disorientating (in a good  way).

The mirrored silver balls,  Tall Tree and the Eye (2009), seemingly floating in the RA's courtyard (left) give a flavour of some of Kapoor's central themes: reflections and perception of space.

There are heaps of detailed reviews, The Guardian and The Times for instance, so I give you my highlights.

First up has to be "the pimple" so named by my silver-tongued sidekick, who surreptitiously took indoor pics for me on her iPhone (I thank you Mrs Macro). As "the pimple" looked like a shadow on the wall to her and a mucky wall to me, we were unable to obtain an image. Its real name is When I Am Pregnant (1992) and it was only when we looked at it from the side that we realised it was a protruding oval about as large as a torso. There are no signs or explanations on the wall, just a leaflet to carry round, which makes for a very fluid exhibition.

In another room, a variety of mirrored objects causing our reflections to invert, elongate, quadruple in size or disappear altogether depending on where we stood were fascinating.We were like children in a hall of mirrors. In contrast, a roomful of what can only be described as grey cement intestines (below) rather freaked me out.

What's really refreshing is seeing Kapoor's ultra modern sculptures in such a classical setting. Non more so than the 30-tonne lump of red wax slowly lumbering through five galleries on a mechanized rail track, squeezing its way through the classical doorways. Its movement is almost imperceptible. An assistant informed me that he'd timed it to within the minute - two hours to cover one length of the building and two hours back. It's called Syayambh (2007) which is Sanskrit for "self-generating".

The highlight for me though was Shooting into the Corner (2008) involving a cannon, some blood red wax and a white wall. A loud, messy spectacle infused with anticipation (the two minute silence as we watched the man prepare the cannon was palpable, the unexpectedly loud boom of the cannon (I know, I know, when are cannons ever quiet?) and the splodge of wax on the wall were gloriously satisfying.




If you're reading this during the day head to the Royal Academy's live webcam of the cannon. It fires sporadically - we saw it at 3pm - until the show finishes on 11th December.

Putting the "L" back into play

The irony of the faded "L" in this artwork - Play by Ulrik Weck - was not lost on some of us who attended a charity night at Play, a fringe off-shoot exhibition from last month's Frieze art fair. Especially given the glut of gallery owners and dealers showing round potential buyers. The buyers seemed to avert their eyes from this piece near the entrance. Someone pop out for neon bulbs pronto!

Curated by East London gallery Paradise Row and Prakke Contemporary, Play features 50 works and performances scattered over four storeys in a disused Georgian mansion in Mayfair. And I must say I had the most fun I've had at an exhibition in ages which may explain why its run has been extended.

Billed as "a festival of fun", the exhibition is liberal in its approach to its theme. Rooms of random curiosities included Jake and Dinos Chapman's Fucking With Nature. Stuffed animals hump on either side of a mechanized see-saw as a wee mouse runs between the two. It's overlooked by another Chapman piece:

featuring Ronald McDonald of whom they are so fond and who has subversively featured in previous work. Then there is Conrad Shawcross' Axiom reminiscent of a child's playground:

I enjoyed the frivolous lamps with feet:

 and I reckon my driving instructor would love this one:

Douglas White's Moon Cabinet (using wax and pigment to create a luminous orb) would look amazing in my bedroom:

But it was the fun performances which make this exhibition so inventive. From the Fucked Off Frog standing by a paddling pool giving passers-by the Vs to the Word Orchestra on the stairs, conducted by artist Ian Giles, creating unexpected and sometimes profound sentences.

You'll see different performances, depending on when you go. I ended up playing in a tiny room filled with polystyrene balls (entered through a trap door in what was made to look like a bunk bed in an eerie children's bedroom).

Immersing yourself in tiny balls is a pleasant but odd sensation especially when the trap door shuts out the light. It was the float experience all over again (see earlier post about darkness).

When we came across a room full of feathers - part of a performance piece called Kinder Heaven - there was nothing for it but to dive in. Much fun was had until we could no longer breathe. We also paid for it later (my most expensive coat still looks like a half plucked chicken and my favourite black jeans could be ruined).

That might explain the shocked gaze of Trudie Styler on the arm of Guy Ritchie (random I know) as they caught sight of our haute couture be-feathered look when they swept past us into Ritchie's pub Punchbowl a few streets away. We were attempting to have a one-for-the-road Amaretto but it seemed there was no room at the celebrity inn. Styler looked extremely startled, her eyes as wide as a raver's and her mouth formed into a pouty "o" shape that for some reason made me want to pop in a golf ball sized polystyrene ball (can she blink I wonder?). But I digress. Back to the feather plucking....

Play runs until Friday 13th November.Contact the gallery for a viewing appointment.

Shapes in the sky

They're dramatic, colourful and make people smile. What's not to like about fireworks?

 

Especially when they light up the sky with funny shapes like a palm tree:

Or this flower:

I love them as they bring people together too. Having said that, I had two sets of friends on the common this evening and in true Pop Tart fashion, didn't manage to hook up with either because of the general pandemonium and lack of mobile network coverage.

More gratuitous pix:

Pink and gold are my favourites. I really fancy a mulled wine now...

The darkness

"Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light," said the blind and deaf American author Helen Keller and I think she was right...certainly as these autumnal days draw in and it's nearly dark by 4.30pm. Brrrr. I need all the friends I can get. 

So it happened that I trundled off with two such lovely persons to experience the relatively new steel chamber devoid of light in Tate Modern's turbine hall. The three of us held hands as we gingerly walked up the big wide ramp to be wrapped in a silent blanket of blackness with only a vague green hue from a faraway light. Even more scary than the dark unknown were the occasional ghostly figures looming into view and then just as suddenly vanishing again. Shuffling feet, giggles, the odd "where are you?" and yelps of surprise are all part of experiencing the huge 13m high x 30m long installation on stilts How It Is by Polish artist Miroslaw Balka.  

Being inside the black box is disturbing and nerve-jangling for the first couple of minutes. But then a strange thing happens. It's like someone found the dimmer switch and gradually turned the light up. After five minutes your eyes adjust so that you're confident taking big strides from one wall across to the other while circumnavigating everyone else. And when you reach the far material-clad wall and look back to the entrance it's almost sci-fi in a Close Encounters of the Third Kind shadowy way.

The serious message behind How It Is is its reference to the cattle trucks used by the Nazis to transport Jews to death camps. Balka explains this concept in The Times and how he wanted to create "a photographic black hole", the opposite of Olafur Eliasson's popular light sculpture The Weather Project shown in the turbine hall six years ago.

Yet for all that, the dark is fun and makes you briefly think in a different way. And I'll bet a frisky couple will chance their luck before April rolls round and it's dismantled. Whether they're caught and we get to hear about it remains to be seen (no pun intended).

Talking of thinking in a different way in the dark, I experienced my first float a few days ago. Lying in salt  water for an hour in a confined, coal-black room relaxes you, detoxifies you, makes you more creative etc. It was a belated birthday present so I went with an open mind. However, rational thoughts such as drowning in ten inches of water and running out of oxygen with no one to hear my last gasps kept bubbling to the surface.

Death by float seemed like a distinct possibility for at least quarter of an hour. I spent the remaining 45 minutes silently concentrating on the filmy aqueous sheet on which I was buoyed, trying not to succumb to any violent arm flailing that might hinder my chances of survival. So I was indeed reinvigorated by the time I left and grateful for the wondrous world in which I was still alive.

Might try that dine in the dark restaurant next. Unless I choke on an unidentified object, I should be safe.