My Chemical Romance Video Shoot: Confessions of an Ex-Emo Band Aid

I always thought that my Twit-addiction was a bad thing. Every morning, at 7.38am, my Blackberry wakes me up and my first action is to sleepily check Twitter for updates from everyone I follow in the world of music, fashion and current affairs (Jon Snow has all the best news scoops). Often I get annoyed with myself, wondering what drives me to be so obsessive about what people have to say, but just occasionally, the Twitterverse throws up a gem of information that makes my virtual stalking worthwhile...

8am on Tuesday morning (yeah, I woke up late) the music blog This Is Fake DIY Tweeted 'My Chemical Romance; Secret Show and Video Shoot, Tickets on Sale 9am'. It's safe to say that my little heart stopped beating for a second.

(I may be a whisker away from turning 25, but inside me lives the spirit of a teenage rock lover - I have never attempted to hide my emo soul) Music is my escape, my freedom - and an integral part of my identity!)

I existed in a state of paralysis, unable to even eat my cornflakes, until the tickets went on sale. When they did, instead of the usual Ticketweb palaver of the site getting overloaded and crashing (which is something they do so that they can sneakily sell tickets to touts, according to Ann Robinson off of Watchdog, knower of all things scam-ified) my transaction went through smoothly.

It's safe to say that at this point, part of me felt like I must have been the victim of a massive con. Why on earth would one of America's biggest rock bands shoot their new video in a tiny Islington venue, to an audience of just 250 fans?

There was no information about the gig on the internet - not even on MCR's own website. The only stipulations given by Ticketweb were that we were to 'come dressed in your colours or your Killjoys apparel'. I do enjoy a costume challenge...thanks to Topshop's new psychedelic Snake Valley range, I was already the proud owner of a ridiculously colourful, angel-sleeved, superhero-in-a-California-desert dress, so then it was just a case of piling on the crazy makeup and I became a bonafide Fabulous Killjoy.

Thursday evening came around, and I found myself in the largest concentrated mass of emo angst in the UK. There was a line of teenagers (and not so much teenagers) dressed in every colour of the rainbow, superhero masks, and sporting every shade of hair colour Stargazer have to offer.

It's safe to say that the collective excitement in this queue was off the Richter scale - and reached hysteria proportions once we were allowed to rush into the venue, to be confronted with the massive spider backdrop from the Danger Days tour...

I can't really say much more apart from this was one of the most enjoyable evenings of my life - whatever your opinion of My Chemical Romance, they are a brilliant band to watch live, and seeing them play had been one of my major 'things to tick off the list'. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd be watching them in a tiny room along with just a handful of fellow obsessives.

The crowd went wild went the band stepped on stage - we were so close, it felt like they were performing at a houseparty. After treating us to a Greatest Hits set, we had to do some leaping around for the directors cameras, before the band gave us a goodby present of 'an oldie but a goody' (in Gerard's words) Vampires Will Never Hurt You, from their first album.

MCR may get a lot of stick from the tabloids and music press, but to be honest, they are one of the few bands today that put on a brilliant rock n'roll show, and unite their fans to the point of family. A truly euphoric evening...made perfect by their performance of I'm Not Okay, a song that changed my life.

(excuse the shaky vid, I was a TAD over excited)

GL

The Week that Was...LFW AW11

It may be only five days, but London Fashion Week is officially one of the most nutty, draining, exhilarating and crazy experiences anyone could ever have. Autumn/Winter 11 was officially my second round of shows, and it was like nothing I could have imagined even one year ago.

Being called an Angel in The LFW Daily newspaper was pretty neat. Don't know who the weird blonde chap is in the pic with me...although it looks a lot like my boyfriend, dressed 'anti-fashion' at the Mulberry party.

*Before I continue, I need to make a NB. Readers may have noticed a slight lack of fashion on this blog recently, and that is primarily because a lot of my fashion werdz get spilt onto the Fashion Editor at Large site, where I work. I am also painfully aware that there are some seriously scary and life changing events happening across the globe in Libya and New Zealand. However, fashion is what I do, so it makes sense to write about it here and now.*

Back to business. My mission, this fashion week, was to stay true to myself, avoid all things that represent cliche fashion bitchiness, and to celebrate the creativity that makes this city so great. So first things first, here are the looks that made my heart beat faster.

Erdem. Hands down best collection of the week. Dappled, deeply coloured velvet in luscious, other-worldly prints that reached higher planes of beauty.

Holly Fulton. The perfect balance of playful and elegant (see me wittering on about how great she is in the video below.)

Giles: Glamour, perfected.

Mary Katrantzou. I think she is a print design genius, and her attention to detail is second to none. Each outfit is a mesmerising work of art.

Meadham Kirchhoff. The whole collection was out of this world, but I would be happy with just this witch jumper. Is that weird?



House of Holland: Henry gave us ladylike with a trademark twist and it worked so blimmin' well.

Mulberry: Special award for best show production (Fantastic Mr Fox themed woodland in Claridges? Just your normal Sunday morning, then) Their own brand of English almost-frump is coming into it's own.

Paul Smith. I am not of the lesbian inclination, but there was something about girls in slacks, cardis and ties that was unbelievably sexy and cool. I'm a Paul Smith convert!

Jonathan Saunders: this blue dress in paper-fragile silk literally took my breath away.

PPQ. What can I say? I need a cat hat.

Collections aside, the last few days have been entirely surreal. From the first hour of day one, the street style photographers have been out in force, so having made sure I was dressing in my favourite outfits, you can imagine my delight at being picked by the fashion deities at Vogue to pop up on their website. It's a slight shame that I look shattered, but I was so happy to have an occasion to wear this minty chiffon dress!



(I am also swinging a Clarks satchel in this pic, although my ridiculously floaty skirt is taking up the frame. I was attempting to prove that something doesn't have to be high fashion to look lovely - or as Gok would say, 'You don't have to spend a fortune to look fabulous'. Ahhhhhhhh fashion! Sorry, I can't say his name without singing that insanely annoying theme tune!)

The celebrity count has been unbelievable this time around. I have become more familiar with Alexa Chung's face than with the sight of my own bed, which I have not seen enough of over this sleep-deprived week. A host of my idols, along with a whole lot of z-listers, have been popping up at every show; Kirsten Dunst, Nicolas Hoult, Clemence Poesy, Paloma Faith and Boy George to name but a few. I checked my coat next to the annoyingly petite Gemma Arterton at the Mulberry party, moments after my significant other had brushed against her boob, and consequently danced the whole way home saying 'I've felt up a Bond Girl!' So mature.

We have whizzed around London in an extremely decadent London Fashion Week Mercedes, with a lovely driver called Nick, who is generally awesome. He dropped me back home, to the East London ghetto, late after many a day of glamourousness.

I have seen so many lovely blog friends/Twitter pals/fellow journalistas that I now feel part of the fashion family, which is a very nice feeling. It can be a somewhat lonely industry unless you stick together in the midst of the madness.

Which brings me to my last fashion week blessing, my new pal Hannah Clark, assistant to Yasmin Sewell. She is going to kill me for posting a picture of her on here, but take it from me, when I say she is one talented young lady. We have formed an unofficial 'Assistants to Important Fashion Women' club, and have spooky amounts in common (including both being estate agency veterans - weird!) Anyway - if you see her about, everybody say hi to Hannah.

(She actually does have a mouth)

At some point between the shows, I had a video camera thrust in front of me, and I did some talking about fash-wan stuff. Here's myself and the boss, chatting about Holly Fulton and Christopher Kane, for Mercedes Benz 'Voices of Fashion'.



And another silly vid, in which I am far too close to the camera, talking about my (weirdly Karl Lagerfeld inspired) outfit on Monday. As you can see, I really don't take label status very seriously!

And finally, this fashion week allowed me to tick off a life ambition. Queen Vivienne, I salute your brilliant show, and pledge my allegiance forever.


So that's it for another round of shows. See you in September, when we'll do it all over again!

GL

All catwalk images: Style.com. Vogue pic, Candice Lake.

It's London Fashion Week...

...So during the shows, I have to go a bit AWOL. However, you can find my posts up at Fashion Editor at Large, including a look at Orla Kiely's incredible indoor woodland installation at Somerset House; see it here. I've also noticed something decidedly spooky going on, and have a hunch that one of my childhood heroes, The Worst Witch, may in fact be the style icon of the season. Amazing!



GL

And The Winner Is...

The Brits in 2007. Just think, no-one even knew who Gaga was back then.

Award shows. Where the rich, famous and successful give each other prizes for being rich, famous and successful.

I flipping love 'em.

The bigger, shinier and glitzier the awards ceremony, the more I am irrevocably drawn to my television set. Perhaps my obsession began with the illicit thrill of staying up late to watch the Royal variety performance as a nipper, but now I can't get enough of these silly shows.

Of course, the highlight of my TV year is the Brit Awards (every year I watch it and vow to attend, in some capacity, the next year. Just something Iwant to tick off 'the list'). My bum was firmly on the seat of my sofa at 7.59pm on Tues, in anticipation for the show.

What a let down. This years event had all the personality of a soggy lettuce leaf. One that had been pickled in a vat of white wine, which judging by the obscene quantity of alcohol on each industry table, is probably a good description of most attendees' livers the next day.

So, apart from Plan B, who put on the best performance by far, there was a distinct lack of the Brits magic.

Here's a list of the missing ingredients;

1. A co presenter. James Corden did a marvellous job, in his own cute n'cuddly way - bonus points for stroking Justin Bieber's face - but leaving someone on their own up there is just asking for trouble. Where was the banter? The naughty jokes? Corden could hardly bounce of Bieber, who has all the warmth and personality of a Ryvita. Bring back the Osbournes, I say!

Can you imagine how embarassing
presenting an awards show with your family would be??!
 
2. The iconic girl band performance.
Give me Girls Aloud shimmying around in barely there leotards! Let's
face it, Rihanna is stunning, but you need to multiply her by five to
get a real sucker punch of a performance. I offer you one image to
prove my point:
  

3. A duet of two musical legends. Cee Lo and Paloma Faith are both smashing in their own way (especially Paloma, she is the sequin queen) but they ain't no Kylie and Robbie.

4. The surprise winners. There seemed to be the same five bands/artists nominated in every category this year, which got a little boring to say the least. Also the XX didn't win anything, which is just ridiculously stupidly wrong.

5. THE SCANDAL. This years ceremony was about as rebellious as a tea party in a nunnery. Everyone seemed to be working, with the gossip columnists Tweeting throughout the show then going of to party in secret silence. The old ceremony used to be much longer, allowing much more time for the musicians to get rat-arsed and start getting into barneys or trying to cop off with each other. The closest this year came to a bust up was when the Bieb told Corden not to touch his hair. Phew, that was a close one.

Ah, the good old days, when Jarvis showed us how it was done.

6. Gaga.

GL

Libraries Gave Us Power (Please Don't Take Them Away)

Take away bankers bonuses. Take away MPs expenses. Just leave libraries alone!

This week, protests have been happening across the land against the closure of some public libraries, which is the ConDems latest brainiac plan to save some cash. Whoever dared even suggest that idea deserves to be sacked on the spot. Obviously, libraries are a rare breed of service that offers so much for zero profit, but no matter how costly they are to run, if they were to close, the cost to our nation's education would be too much to bear.

Nicky Wire wrote in the Guardian this week how public libraries were a 'lifeline' for the Manic Street Preachers when they were starting out, providing education and inspiration for their song lyrics. I'm currently giggling my way through 'The Fry Chronicles', in which Stephen Fry tells how he quickly twigged that he would find any essay information in the Cambridge libraries, and didn't had to bother himself with such trifling matters as lectures. Apparently he went to the grand total of three in his entire university career. The books obviously served their purpose!

Books. Lovely, musty smelling, soft papered, with pages for writing inscriptions and notes in the margin. You can't write 'With love from Nana, 2001' in the front leaves of a Kindle book, now can you? iPads, Kindles, laptops - they are all very snazzy, but don't replace the excitement of having a thrilling paperback wedged in your bag. How will strangers be able to judge your intellect, personality or taste based on your book choice if all they can see is the back flap of an iPad case?

The British Library: just look at all of those lovely books!

I digress, but my point is this, books are ESSENTIAL. FUNDAMENTAL. IRREPLACEABLE.
And so, therefore, are libraries. Without them, our brains will become sickly and bland, surviving on a diet of trashy TV and randomly Googled information.

Personally, books have been hugely influential on my life. I was read the Worst Witch books as a little child, which somewhat explains my obsession with all things witchy and Halloween (for years I thought I was going to school to learn spells.) I read nearly every book - no exaggeration - in my Junior school library and was given special permission to progress to the Senior age books, in order to placate my insatiable appetite for novels. I used to stagger out of the library, vision obscured by the wobbling tower of withdrawals in my arms. Books to me were all consuming, to be read in every free moment and until I fell asleep on the pages at night. Maybe it's OCD, but once I start a book, it takes over my life until it's finished.

(Being allowed to read adult books when I was probably still too young wasn't always a good thing. I remember being traumatised and shamefaced as I returned 'The Crimson Petal and The White' to my librarian at age 12, my mind reeling with the imagery of Victorian prostitutes.)


My teenage angst was placated by the usual suspects. Sylvia Plath gave me words that made sense to my paranoid mind.

As much as I would love to devote whole days to reading, like I used to do as a kid, grown up life does not allow time for such luxuries. Unless you are on holiday, that is. Last time I ventured abroad, I took an extra small suitcase just for reading material and managed to devour a book a day (I don't read, I consume, voraciously, until I get to the last page.) One of those books was 'A Fraction of the Whole' by Steve Toltz, which blew my mind into surprised, amazed bits. It's impossible to describe and completely confusing, but a work of genius.

Nowadays, I crave books as a form of comfort and escapism. I wander the aisles of Waterstones, longingly gazing at beautiful special-edition covers of F.Scott Fitzgerald, before going to my local library to find a beaten up copy for FREE. For a while I was deprived of my library addiction when my fine reached astronomical levels, I think they may have had a wanted poster for me up in the window. A kind donor paid off my debts and I am looking forward to stocking up on my next literary treats. I don't know what I'd do without libraries.

Take away free school dinners, for goodness sake, just leave the books alone. We'll be skinny, but at least our minds will be well-fed.

GL

Glitterbird Mouths Off...

... About boobs, bums and bombshells. More importantly, about the massive hypocrisy of the 'trend for feminine curves' that has gripped the fashion industry. Read all about it here:

http://fashioneditoratlarge.blogspot.com/2011/02/are-blonde-bombshells-taking-over.html



GL

Listening to the Wireless

Confession: I cannot wait for the day when, like my Nan, I have time to listen to the plays on Radio 4. She is always telling me about 'the fascinating story I heard the other day...' and anything that combines culture and entertainment is a winner in my book.

I have recently realised what a massive role the humble radio plays in my little life. All day, every day, I am affected by what is coming over the radio waves. Every other Tweet concerns something that I've just heard; normally making me cry with laughter, in the form of Scott Mills or Alan Carr, or making me seriously pissed off, in the form of Jo Whiley breathing.

oh my god just go away

My parents aren't particularly mad on music, we very rarely had records or CDs playing at home apart from at Christmas. In the car we would listen to the same George Michael (Mum) or Phil Collins (Dad) albums on repeat for about, say, seventeen years. And the only radio I would hear would be the weekend football results on Five Live. To this day, the fuzzy sound of the announcer droning 'Watford FC, 1, Stoke City, nil' makes me feel grumpy and car sick.

It was only during 6th form when I both 'found' music and suddenly had lots of time working/ procrastinating by myself that I discovered the joys of the radio. The teenage mind is a scary, weird, paranoid and lonely place, so sitting in silence is just asking for trouble. However flick on the radio, and you suddenly have friendly voices reminding you that there is a world out there where people laugh and play pop songs and are happy. It works better than Prozac! The sound of radio DJs stops you feeling alone, especially when you are working through the night to complete an entire A-Level art project from scratch. It's nice to know that somebody else is awake and at work as the birds start to welcome the dawn and your eyes are raw with tiredness.

Obviously, there are downsides to radio listening; it's easy to neglect your musical education and listen to whole albums, when you are being fed a diet of throwaway pop songs. In the Muse biography I am currently reading, the author describes how a certain Matthew Bellamy cannot bear to listen to any music that is not to his taste, therefore avoids the radio at all costs.

Matt Bellamy: tragically allergic to radio.

Your choice of station, too, is crucial; there is currently a war ensuing in my workplace over the continued broadcast of Capital FM and their five song repeated playlist - my boss shouted that she's sure Rihanna knows what her own name is, so she wish she's bloody well stop asking us, as we heard her single for the fifteenth time that day.

The weekends, too, are hazardous times. Even semi-decent radio stations relegate their least interesting staff to these shows and the playlist goes from contemporary to zzz-worthy as soon as Friday night turns into Saturday.

Whether you are a fan or just an occasional listener, your choice of station also speaks volumes about you as a person. I'm a diehard Radio One evening show listener, but find it weirdly comforting that I am now old enough to switch to Radio Two (sometimes.) 6Music is obviously brilliant, lovely and intelligent, and features Jarvis Cocker. Enough said. There are the KISS and Capital fans, who will go out and buy their latest NOW65 compilation CDs from HMV. The Magic and the Hearts out there all have paint splattered radios from when they listened whilst doing DIY at home, and a dusty vinyl collection in the attic. Then there are the Radio 4 and Five Live people, who (let's face it) love a phone-in discussion more than anything and probably watch Loose Women too.

NOW! = No.

By the way, I don't MIND local radio -the DJs are fine, and they often give local music scenes a boost. I just wish the copious, repeated adverts would die a slow and painful death.

Listening to the radio is a simple pleasure that cannot be beaten. There is none of the lazy guilt involved with TV watching, because you a free to roam about and do other stuff while your ears are filled with musical treats. I have discovered so many of my favourite bands by listening on long, late night drives in the car, then frantically scribbling track names on my hand as I steer with my elbows. When I can't afford festival tickets, I can sit outside on a summer evening listening to the live broadcasts, feeling the atmosphere seep through the speakers.

The Zipper, most enthusiastic man in music, just not in this picture.

The most significant figure in my radio education is Mr Zane Lowe, who is a personal hero of mine. His show has inspired me for the past seven years, and just listening to his unbridled enthusiasm for new music makes me happy. In fact, it was through luck and some swiftly researched questions that I won the gig of interviewing him for my student paper waaaaaaay back in 2005. It was my first ever interview of any kind, and standing outside the room after an hour in Zane's fascinating company, my veins flooded with adrenalin, I suddenly realised what I wanted to do with my life. A change of degree and about 12 internships later, here I am, (sort of) doing it, and still listening to his show nearly every evening.

The first thing I am going to buy for my grown-up home is a Roberts, and I'm sure I will, just like my Nan, still be tuning in when I am 70.

GL

CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNONNNQQQQQUESSSSTTTTTTTT!!!

Farewell Jack and Meg, at least in context of the White Stripes, anyway. Icky Thump was one of the last physical albums I bought, from Tesco in Bognor Regis, no less. It stayed on my car stereo for a solid month. Jack White is possibly the greatest rock n' roll guitarist playing today, so I will have to content myself with his other projects.

Thanks for the phenomenal amounts of musical power and inspiration guys! True visionary heroes, who provided one of the defining sounds of my 'yoof'.

GL

Like A Stick Of 'Brighton Rock'

It is pure serendipity that my fingers recently hovered over my bosses' heaving bookshelf, only to stop at Brighton Rock by Graham Greene. Now, considering this novel is a vintage classic which is set in my favourite place in the world, it is strange that I have not read it sooner.


Nevertheless, that was soon rectified. I was immersed, halfway through the dark, dangerous story just a few weeks back, when I suddenly noticed the media kerfuffle over the film adaptation, due for release on Friday! It's pretty spectacular that I managed to miss that one coming too, bearing in mind the local Sussex press haven't had a scoop this big since Sarah Payne (sorry, that was crass, but it's true; the local news programmes have been milking the Brighton Rock story like there is no tomorrow. Or at least, no more good news stories, after tomorrow.)

Anyway, before I allowed myself to indulge in the cinematic 1960's revision, I devoured every last word of Greene's novel. Not usually one to revel in gory gangster literature, I must confess to a weird sense of proud toughness as I paraded the book on the Tube, complete with a mean switchblade image on the dust jacket.

Set in 1938, it was very strange reading about a lot of my favourite Brighton hotspots as they were in times past, but obvious that the all consuming seaside atmosphere of holidays, dreams and just a little trouble has been around for much longer than my lifetime. He has captured and condensed the real feeling that enters every pore as you walk around the maze of cobbled streets, the creaky old pier and the gaudy seafront cafes.

Richard Attenborough playing 'Pinkie' in the original film version

Reading this book, I found myself dragged into the current of feverish, chaotic crimeland and my stomach was in knots as the intense pressure on the deviant characters mounts. It is incredibly fast paced, as one misdemeanour after the next is used to cover up previous wrongdoing, and even though the story was written over seventy years ago, the themes of morality, religion, love (or the lack of) and the burden of responsibility are still acutely relevant.

I can't get the main character, Pinkie, out of my brain. He is simultaneously an evil, conniving gangster who will stop at nothing to assert his authority, and a lost, insecure and naive little boy, who constantly questions what he believes.

The unique brilliance of this novel, in my opinion, lies within Greene's ability to convey huge ideas of context, character, atmosphere and action in a single sentence. I literally wanted to write out random passages from the book, as examples of perfect, inspiring prose.

I don't think there are many better feelings than reading a book that gives you a brand new vision of what is possible in life, and this is one of them.



Perfect timing, really! The new film adaptation premiered last night, and is released on Friday, so my new Brighton Rock obsession no doubt continue for at least another month. I have never seen the original movie, starring Richard Attenborough, but I understand Sam Riley, Andrea Riseborough and Helen Mirren have some big boots to fill.

Moving the story to the 1960s is an inspired move by director Rowan Joffe, because the gangland story is perfectly suited to a Mods v Rockers context. Plus it's an excuse to feature lots of shiny scooters and great fashion. Bring that on, I say.

Helen Mirren is also a brilliant choice as the interfering busybody Ida Arnold who attempts to solve the gang's crimes, not only because she has the age and authority to bring this role gravity, but she also looks smashing in a headscarf.

Just for a minute, can we talk about Sam Riley? I think he is such a fine specimen of a human being. Having had my heart stolen by his tortured portrayal of Ian Curtis in Control, I cannot wait to see him play the equally conflicted Pinkie in Brighton Rock's lead role.


I have no doubt that this film will supply all the tension, plotting, mystery, and twisted romance of Greene's novel, with the added bonus of some Sixties-ness. Excellent! I'm counting the hours until Friday night, where my cinema seat awaits.

GL

All images: Brighton Rock