Pschedelic Psaturday

Left to my own devices tonight, I'm having a retro evening.





Music courtesy of Beyond the Beat Generation - streaming "the undiscovered area of 60s underground". Their archive contains 27 versions of the song Gloria and 8 versions of Louie Louie.





The psychedelic film Wonderwall will be screening later and I have books by Richard Brautigan and Tom Wolf on hand. I may even put on a suitable dress from my collection.





If only I still had that lava lamp...

Pretty Vacant

We watched "Factory Girl" on DVD last night. I have more than a passing interest in the 1960s, love the Velvet Underground and don't mind a bit of Warhol now and then, so I thought it might be interesting. It wasn't.

How such an interesting time with so many iconic characters could result in such a dull film is quite remarkable. The film was supposed to be the real girl behind the image of Edie Sedgwick, but on the basis of this, there really wasn't much behind the image. Her father abused her as a child and one of her brothers was killed in an accident but nothing more is offered about he as person. She was then, allegedly, exploited by both Warhol and Dylan. I say allegedly because the film caused outrage in both camps, with Warhol's estate insisting she was not cut off by him and had already left his entourage of her own accord and Dylan tried to have the whole project blocked. Then this film comes along and exploits her image in much the same way.

The Dylan bit was actually hilarious - unintentionally I should imagine. To get around the legal problems with Dylan being unhappy at being accused of causing the downfall of someone he claims to have barely known, the filmmakers could not call the obviously-Dylan character, Bob Dylan. Instead, they made this unnamed musican as Dylan-like as possible - he entered with a harmonica around his neck and spoke in the same way that Dylan sings (I'm pretty sure Dylan does not speak in the same way he sings) which had us laughing everytime he came on screen. Lou Reed was apparently also appauled when he read the script although this may have been as much to do with someone from Weezer playing him.

This is the first thing I've seen Sienna Miller in other than gossip columns (or when I saw her in real life) and she is nominated for a BAFTA at tonight's awards. So how was she? She wasn't bad at all. She was ok. But then she was playing a pretty rich girl who wants to be famous and respected, but is best known for who she hangs around with and what clothes she wears. So not much of a stretch there really. And at times it did feel like the purpose of the whole film was just an excuse for her to wear lots of pretty clothes. But on a positive note, the clothes were very very nice.

You're Gonna Miss Me (Pt 2)

So to the Southbank again last night.

First up, Clinic - the carrot with which I'd lured the OH there. Clinic are the sort of band that you either like or you don't - they have a very distinctive sound so if you like one song, you'll like them all, but the reverse is also true. The OH maintains that they are a quintessential pop band there are four of them, they dress the same, their songs last less than 3 minutes. I'm less convinced by this argument - they might dress the same but their outfits are surgery masks and the quicker songs were described by the OH as 'death stomps' so I don't think they'll be gracing the Top 10 anytime soon. Despite this, I do actually like them and enjoyed their set last night.

I was rather apprehensive about the main act though - I really wasn't sure what to expect and it had been my choice - ordinarily the OH takes care of music and sport and I do films, theatre and art, so the pressure was on!

The crowd was pretty similar to the film screening, but more of them. The Psychedelic Couple were there again and were seated directly in my sight line from my side aisle seat throughout the show. Jarvis Cocker came on to introduce Roky Erickson and the Explosives, giving a little speech about how the word legend is overused etc. The crowd cheered. Roky came onto the stage, looking smaller than in the documentary but healthier.

So what was it like? I'll admit I made a fundamental error in that whilst I love the 13th Floor Elevators, I knew nothing of his other work, except what I saw in the film the previous evening and that wasn't really my sort of thing - a bit heavier, reminding me a bit of Hawkwind. And now he's in a new band, so obviously it was stupid of me to expect end-to-end Elevators songs - like going to see Sting and expecting him just to do Police songs or something. Also the Elevators distinctive sound (mainly from the electric jug) wasn't really re-createable with just guitars and drums. So he played mainly songs from post-Elevators - I didn't mind 'Starry Eyes' but was less keen on most of the others - not that there was anything wrong with them (his voice and guitar playing were, thankfully, still excellent despite his wilderness years), they just weren't my thing - a bit to middle of road rock (I was more interested in the psychedelic side of the psychedelic rock).

But he did play two Elevators songs - Splash and then 'You're Gonna Miss Me' at which point the crowd went wild (well as wild as a crowd of middle-aged people at the Royal Festival Hall can). Psychedelic Man was first out of his seat and down the front (we remained in our seats as we were on side balcony, not that I'm sure I'd have mobbed the stage anyway) and soon many others followed. The song still sounded great (I could feel tears starting to form - I seem to get weepy at concerts far too easily) and I was very pleased that for him that he was able to enjoy this evening of success and appreciation.

Anyway, here (if it works) is a bit of in their prime 13th Floor Elevators.

A Tale of Six Buses

No relaxing Sunday for me – I was rushing about all over the place. All of my own accord but any day that involves six bus journeys is never going to be the calmest.

First up was the haircut – see below. I’ve now moved our of her catchment area so had to get a bus there and back.

Next up, I was determined to go to the vintage clothing fair at the 20th Century Theatre on Westbourne Road as apathy last month had meant I didn’t make it to the one in Battersea. I’ve recently been feeling very bored with not only my clothes but the clothes available on the high street (and I don’t have the budget for anything else), so I thought vintage was the way to go (or second-hand as we used to call it when I was a student & bought most of my clothes from jumble and car boot sales). So off I went to Notting Hill (one bus then a tube) to Anita’s Vintage Fashion Fair.



I was a little bit disappointed with it – I left without buying anything which was a shock. There were some beautiful evening dresses and if I ever need something new for a formal event, I’ll definitely come here again but otherwise nothing really grabbed me. Perhaps I lack the imagination to make this stuff work? I definitely lack the needlework skills to adapt anything so am really tied to buying stuff that already fits. Or maybe I just wasn’t in the right mood for it – certainly looking at this picture now, it looks better than I remember.

But I think the main thing that I was disappointed with was the atmosphere in the place. The stallholders obviously all knew each other from similar events and as I walked around I could hear their conversations with their next-door stallholder. It was all moans. Moans that there weren’t enough customers, moans that they didn’t have enough space, someone had taken their spot etc. It was constant and they seemed almost annoyed when their diatribes were interupted by potential buyers.

Afterwards I walked around the shops and stalls on Portobello Road and whilst I’m well aware that much of the stuff along there is over-priced and aimed at the tourists, it was actually more fun than the fair. Then I got a tube and a bus home.

There was another pair of bus journeys (and four tubes) later to the Southbank but that's a whole other post.

What's in a Name

I’ve just discovered this website Corolla Cream – a feast of vintage-y stuff for the home and to wear.

Its makes great browsing but the thing I like best about it is that each item for sale has a person’s name –Vera, Madge and Philippa are teapots, Debs, George and Janet are cushion covers, Mildred and Cheryl are glovers.

As you may be able to tell, this has amused me no end.

Pictured here are George and Mildred, looking slightly different from the 70s sitcom of the same name.

There is even something with the same name as me (not Sanddancer – my actual name) – rather typically, it is a hideous pair of old curtains.

Music was my first love...

After the not very good Flaming Lips gig last year, I really did think I might never see another live band again. We considered going to Glastonbury again this year (quite a few of our friends are going) but then we realised we didn’t really fancy it that much – in my case I was mainly worried I’d be missing out on something. In the ‘are we too old for this festival lark’ conversation I talked about which bands we would actually want to see live – it wasn’t a very long list and many of the bands on it didn’t seem that likely to actually play anyway.

But then a few weeks ago I saw an ad in the Observer (how civilising and middle class we are now!) for the Connect Music Festival. The line-up was pretty close to my list of who we would go to a festival to see – Primal Scream (obviously), Jesus & Mary Chain (reformed with Bobby back on drums!), LCD Soundsystem, Hot Chip and this bit I was stunned by, Big Star! All in the grounds of a castle by the a loch which looks stunning.



But there was still the issue of it being a festival which involves camping, tents and all sorts of other unnatural things ("if we were meant to camp, God wouldn’t have given us hotels", has always been my motto). I contacted every hotel, B&B and caravan park within the area but they were all booked already. So we were faced with the choice of camping or not going. So we are camping but deluxe camping, where the tent is already prepared for you complete with airbeds and new sleeping bags, so all we have to do is turn up. To soften the blow, we are staying a hotel in town the night before and then one night in Glasgow on the way back. Since we’ve bought the tickets, Polyphonic Spree and Modest Mouse (also from our list) have been added to the bill. I'm almost not dreading the camping now.


Then this week the line-up is announced for Jarvis Cocker's Meltdown - and he had Roky Erickson of the 13th Floor Elevators playing, supported by Clinic. Two more from the list! How good this will be remains to be seen as Roky has had a rather difficult past but I'm looking forward to it.

I'm not sure how much this counts as being back into music as most of these are reformed groups rather than new bands but I'm genuinely excited by it all.

I'm also quite keen on seeing Macbeth at the Open Air Theatre this summer, but I think I might have used up all of the OH's good will towards obscure cultural outings for a while.

Its only Rock n Roll, but I like it

Last night, we went to see Rock n Roll. We'd been meaning to see it for ages and I don't know why we kept putting it off, because it really did have lots of things I'm interested in; politics, music and Syd Barrett, and it starred the wonderful Dominic West.

It really was excellent. The play covers the lives of people in Cambridge and Prague between 1968 and 1990, and between each scene they played a piece of music from that year, - Dylan, the Stones, Pink Floyd and Syd Barrett, even the U2 and Guns n Roses songs didn't ruin it. It reminded me again how much I love Pink Floyd - as unfashionable an opinion as that may be. I've also have a long-stranding fascination with this period in Czech history, stemming from reading alot of Milan Kundera and I loved Prague (except the food - I'm not a fan of meat, potatoes and dumplings), but I'm not sure that was essential to enjoying the play.

If it doesn't win the Olivier Award for Best New Play, I will eat my hat as they say.

Jump in, we'll take you for a spin...

and show you round the Wheelie World....

Inspired by reading Cinedelica, I rented the complete first series of Chorlton and the Wheelies.

I've always had a bit of thing for men from the north west and I think Chorlton was probably the first one (although he is actually a dragon, not a man - a happiness dragon if you want to be precise).

I watched three episodes this afternoon - fantastic. It has everything - politics, the class system, a great theme song and psychedelic talking toadstools.

Although I'm slightly worried that Fenella the Kettle Witch might give me nightmares.

If...

I had a spare three hundred and thirty pounds, I would buy this Biba dress.

But I don't.

Thankfully, the largest size it goes up is a size 8, which puts it well of temptation's reach.

We all live in a 1960s theme park

I must remember when buying things for the new flat, that it is a home, not a 1960s theme park. The temptation to fill the place up with retro junk is very strong and RetrotoGo website isn’t helping.

For months now I’ve been longing for a Martin Sharp Dylan poster (prices for a 1st edition mint condition print start at £800). Technically, I could afford this but it would mean going without a sofa, fridge or other essential items. I would quite happily sit on a deckchair if I had something wonderful to look at on the wall, but I don’t think the OH would be so pleased. ‘Can’t you just get a cheap re-print?’ he said when I tried to persuade him to let me ‘invest’ in this, but just isn’t the same.


As much as he likes Dylan/Beatles/Beach Boys and Olivia D’Abo in The Wonder Years, I don’t think he likes 60s stuff as much as I do. If I lived on my own, I would deck all the walls in psychedelic posters and walk round dressed like an extra from Blow Up everyday.

If he had his way, the flat would be full of New York and basketball paraphernalia. One man’s tat really is another man’s treasure.



I'm quite taken with this print too of the educational character, Sir Benfro, who I hadn't heard of until I saw these prints, but he's probably still a bit too kitsch.

I dug out the old film posters we had on a lounge wall as a student but am not sure they give the right impression. Kung Fu film 'Deadly China Doll' with Angela Mao (the female Bruce Lee!) and 'Massage Girls of Bankok' might be fine in an ironic way when you are 20 and trying to annoy the feminist flatmate, but perhaps not great if the 'in-laws' are likely to call round.

Maybe bare magnolia walls are the way to go.

Pretty Pictures

So to balance out the blockbuster film and reality television this week, I took myself off to the National Portrait Gallery at lunchtime to see the Photographic Portrait Prize exhibition.

In previous years, this has been sponsored by Schweppes and previously by John Kobal but not this year. A special award was sponsored by Deloitte but there was no headline sponsor. This worries me somewhat, because as much as I was envious of the big galleries’ sponsorship deals when I was running the poverty-stricken children’s gallery, if the big names can’t get the sponsorship, what hope is there for the smaller arts organisations? Obviously, it would be great if the arts could get by without corporate sponsorship as there is still something quite distasteful about this idea, but in reality (at least in the UK and more so in the USA) it is increasingly necessary.

Anyway, end of rant and back to the art…

There were some really great photographs. I especially liked one entitled ‘Cyril’ which was an old man (the photographer’s grandfather) stood in a near empty room, having sold most of his furniture prior to moving into a home. Another one that stood out for me was a ‘The Wedding Car’, a photograph of a wedding band in Indian stood in front of car. Of those that won prizes, my favourite was the fourth prize, a picture of a young girl singing into a microphone with her gran playing keyboard, with Lake Placid in the background – its absurdity appealed to me.

With many of others though I didn’t really see what was so special about them – there were too many baby pictures for my liking, and one with an Ethiopian tribeswoman with a rifle seemed such a cliché. Still better than wandering aimlessly around H&M and Urban Outfitters in my lunchtime.

First Big Weekend of the Summer

I had a great weekend, although it bore no resemblance to the weekend described in the song with the above title. As well as the glorious sunshine, I enjoyed it because I had plenty of time to myself, which is very rare since I took on the responsibility of the gallery - I had forgotten how much I like wandering around London, going to galleries and parks and not having to rush about.

As well as going swimming twice and doing plenty of walking, I did go to the V&A as I said I would. The Sixties Fashion exhibition was quite good (I loved the paper dresses), but I found the Sixties Graphics much more interesting, especially the stuff about the influence of Aubrey Beardsley. I felt quite pleased with myself that I knew about him already (I did a university course in The Decadents) and it made me feel half way intelligent for once which was much needed after Saturday's lowest common denominator television.

However, I had hoped to be able to buy postcards or prints of some of the things in the graphics exhibition, but they only had two images on postcards in the giftshop and they weren't the better ones. The real things are out of my price range - the poster here costs £650. I could quite happily cover my walls in images by Hapshash and the Coloured Coat and posters for UFO, although it might be a step too far combined with my growing collection of retro style dresses.

The dream is over

I'm even boring myself with this now, but anyway the Celia Birtwell dress arrived yesterday and its going back. It wasn't too long - there was just too much material and it did nothing for me. It wasn't the usual problem of me not going anywhere suitable to wear it, I couldn't even think of anywhere that it would be suitable for. I can vaguely picture women lounging around behind Jimi Hendrix wearing it, but that is no longer an option.

I haven't actually filled out the return form yet - I don't know why I'm delaying it because I really can't keep it.

Still that frees up £100 to try to spend next week when Oxford Circus restocks.

The Celia Birtwell Saga continues

Topshop did mess up the order as it rejected my credit card again, but I managed to order the dress again, but in a different size and then the halterneck top which had appeared to have been sold out the first time round. The top has overtaken the dress in the post and was waiting for me when I got home tonight (Topshop thankfully uses a different courier service from the morons Warehouse use who can't work our buzzer system despite instructions).

Anyway this is the top - Celia Birtwell Little Rock Print Halter to give it its full name.

I'm actually wear it now as I type, along with an old pair of flared jeans. I think I like it - no idea where I'll actually go to wear it, but it is limited edition so maybe it would be better if it remained unworn.

Disappointed

I have been obsessing about the Celia Birtwell for Topshop collection for weeks now. But so it seems has everyone else. It sold out within minutes in Topshop Oxford Circus and pieces are already appearing on ebay at ridiculous prices. As usual I had pinned my hopes on pieces of clothing, imagining that owning them will transport me to a better life.

I managed to buy another dress and a blouse online - really in a fit of desparation to own something from the collection - not really the pieces I would have preferred (which the dress pictured is). But I have had trouble with Topshop processing my credit card details before so I'm not convinced that it will actually go through.

So no doubt I'll be disappointed again.

In an ideal world

I would wear nothing but little 60s style dresses. Unfortunately, the English weather, work place dresscode and my ever-swelling thighs and advancing years prevent it.

I have a couple of dresses like this - I cannot resist them whenever I find them in shops. They hang in my wardrobe, largely unworn, but not unloved.