“I didn’t want to have a “Guitar Center experience” in which I had to pretend to know shit about gear and presets and microphones or whatever. I didn’t want to waste time being scared into saying stuff like “oh ya, that X&892 is sounding real WARM.” With Craig I was able to say stuff like “can you bring up the diva in my headphones?” or “So I should play the note that’s so moody it makes me feel like I’m PMS-ing every phrase in the bridge, or every other one?” and we would just go with it.”—what did i tell ya
“For me, I think the record just kind of encompasses my experiences through the year 2011-2012 living in Philadelphia. Part of that was being a small town kid from the west coast (Eugene, OR), moving from my college in the suburbs into a city where people were constantly telling me these horror stories of women getting raped, and feeling really terrified and trapped by that. My aunt, who was basically like a second mother to me, died of colon cancer on Valentine’s Day of that year, which was probably the hugest influence on the record. It is sort of this really cruel joke because she died at the age of 49 without ever having been on a date. She was just kind of above it, I guess. She’d never been in love. At the time, I was very angry at the human body, I think. I think a lot of the lyrical imagery revolves around trying to express this sense of violent femininity. Like, why am I cursed with this body that releases fear in me every time I walk down the street? How did this physical growth take over such a good person?”—I sincerely recommend reading all the Little Big League interviews you can find
Jenn: I read on Rookie that “Snake Jaw” is about body dysmorphia.
Mish: It’s the most common—and vain—thing that women in the first world struggle with. And since we all know better than to struggle with pure vanity, we all hate ourselves for struggling with it. That’s my problem—I will get mad…
From the age of seven, I operated a very strict regimen when it came to fandom. The first step was saving any articles about my favourites and storing them in a cardboard flap folder until The Day. Once every couple of months, always on a Sunday, I’d sit down with the inky bounty and prepare to commit everything to my meticulously organised annals: images and articles would be precisely snipped out, glued onto the blank side of a piece of scrap paper, two sheets of which would be placed back to back in a plastic wallet, and entered into the correct lever-arch folder.
I once made the mistake of leaving the auxiliary folder at a friend’s house. We fell out that weekend. She told me she burned it, though even 16 years later, the image of a nine-year-old girl warming her hands and cackling as she stoked a small pyre of the Spice Girls’ quickly ashing faces seems inconceivable. She had rich parents. She was probably allowed to have bonfires whenever she wanted.
The next level couldn’t be contained by lever-arch folders. My parents mounted two large pinboards on my wall so that I could put up pictures without gumming up the paint with Blutack. Unfortunately, my desire to look at 300 photos of Avril Lavigne, tAtU and Alex Parks at all times – from poster-size to barely visible thumbnails – overrode any concern I might have had about being told off for spotting the walls with grease.
Around a year and a half later, it was time for another change. I carefully peeled off the pictures, preserved the Blutack for reuse and put my old self in the recycling bin. I spent an afternoon meticulously redecorating every surface, reinventing from the small pile of NMEs, copies of Vice, FACT and The Fly that I had amassed and some free posters I was given by the local record shop: The Libertines, Kings Of Leon, Razorlight. I redid the coverings on my school folder and textbooks. After several hours, I called my mum in to show off my handiwork. “Great,” she said bluntly. “From lesbians to drug addicts.” The Libertines poster I’d stuck in my window, facing out onto the street, was removed on pain of grounding.
At the end of this month, it’s 10 years since Razorlight released their debut album, Up All Night. I first discovered them back in the pinboard era, when Daniel Radcliffe (pictured with a bowlcut and a broomstick) said he loved them in an NME interview. I think my logic for seeking them out went something like, “if that Harry Potter guy knows who they are, I should too.”
On Wednesday I went to Camden’s Electric Ballroom to see them – or Johnny Borrell and three hired hands – play the album in full. It’s a record I hadn’t listened to in eight or nine years, so I couldn’t remember a lot of the words, but the lyric I was listening out for was conspicuous in its absence. In “Vice”, the third song of the record, Borrell gives out his phone number and sings, “call that number and I’ll call you right back”. I hadn’t forgotten the phone number: “0h-seven-seven six-one-oh one-oh two three-threeeee”. Maybe the sound was muddy or the line was obscured by his new woodsman’s beard, but he seemed to skim over it at the gig.
After a lot of haggling and establishing of terms, I was allowed to get a mobile phone when I was 15. I used some of my hard-earned credit (I worked weekends in a café cleaning toilets and picking baked beans out of the sink) to call the number and leave a no doubt very breathless message asking when Razorlight would play in Cornwall. Then we went on a family holiday, and the phone had to stay at home. It was the first thing I thought of when we got back; I remember taking it out of my little rainbow-striped bag and calling voicemail. There was a message from Borrell, sounding potentially wasted or maybe just sleepy, promising they’d definitely come and that it’d be cool, man. I played it every day until it expired.
I had forgotten this until I read it again today, but back in 2004 Borrell was pictured on the cover of NME with the phone number from “Vice” scribbled across his chest. A colleague of mine interviewed him a couple of weeks ago and brought this up. After initially claiming that he had never called anyone back, he apparently went on to suggest that it was an early example of social media. Stripping away the unimpeachable Borrellness of that statement, there’s something there: it was certainly the first time that there was any sense of immediate gratification to my fandom.
(It’s interesting to listen to Up All Night with that in mind, too – it’s full of mobile phones. Beyond “Vice”, there’s “Leave Me Alone”, where Borrell can’t get any rest for some girl calling him off the hook. On “Golden Touch”, he’s the one desperately leaving “a thousand” unreturned messages for an in-demand scenester. A message on his phone is “blowing [his] mind” on “Get It And Go”, and “In The City paints a scene of boys figuring out the best way to get high while the girls are desperately “trying to get reception” in search of a different kind of instant high. Up All Night could be one of the first records about how we’re always connected, for better or worse, in the 21st century. Whether it was conceived this way or not, the people in these songs are up all night because they never let each other go to bed; a night never has to die when you can continually communicate to plot your next destination and pester someone until they pick up.)
Razorlight did come to Cornwall: they were the not-so-secret guests at the 2004 Surfers Against Sewage ball, an annual charity party on the cliffs in St Agnes. I lied about my age to get in and got to the front of the stage. Borrell held my hand and sang “Don’t Go Back To Dalston” to me, a song I found particularly moving despite knowing nothing about Dalston and thinking “up the junction” was a euphemism for getting pregnant. It was the most romantic moment of my life to date, and I got a bottle of his half-drunk water as a trophy for my shelf of snapped drumsticks, crumpled setlists, dirty towels and other stage junk.
The following year, they supported the Manic Street Preachers on tour. My parents drove my friend Katy and I to Plymouth to see them. After Razorlight were done, we watched two Manics songs, called my parents to say we were bored and happy to go home now, if they were ready. Later that summer, Katy and I saw them at the Boardmasters festival in Newquay. At this point I had a summer-long work placement with the BBC and had secured an interview with Borrell. I turned up and heard he didn’t want to be interviewed by a kid (I remember it as “some fucking kid”, though that may have been an embellishment of memory), and got drummer Andy Burrows instead, who was very nice. I went home and poured Borrell’s bottle of water in the toilet, a ceremonial purging.
Nobody is really commemorating the 10th anniversary of Up All Night, and there’s probably not a great case for it as a classic of the canon. But Wednesday’s gig reminded me of how strong some of those songs are, and how they must have lubricated my listening brain to receive Blondie, Patti Smith (“In The City” is just “Gloria” with different, worse words, the audacity!) and Television with ease when I discovered them later on. Borrell played it pretty straight– not topless, preening or self-aggrandising, a small, pleased smile occasionally peeking through his facial thatch. Without projecting too much, it seems like he’s made peace with himself, even while journalists still do their utmost to prime the best-value mouth in music for pull-quotes.
There is a case to be made for him as one of the last entertaining figures in British indie, even if he was essentially a cleaner Pete Doherty that teenage girls could take home to mammy. That early quote about Dylan, chips and champagne is pretty excellent, though perhaps the attendant outrage (a rock star with an ego?) is one of the reasons that a lot of young British indie bands have become so mealy mouthed and keen to avoid causing offence. But saying that, Razorlight are a band I think of a lot when I’m at work, doing a job that they and the rest of the class of ’03 – ’04 made me want to do. When faced with a slightly daft but essentially harmless band of boys playing derivative songs, my first impulse is to roll my eyes. Then I remember that they’re all someone’s Razorlight, a gateway drug to other things - or even the be-all-and-end-all of their relationship with music - and try and suspend my cynicism.
To have that sense of one’s intrinsic worth which constitutes self-respect is potentially to have everything: the ability to discriminate, to love and to remain indifferent. To lack it is to be locked within oneself, paradoxically incapable of either love or indifference. If we do not respect ourselves, we are on the one hand forced to despise those who have so few resources as to consort with us, so little perception as to remain blind to our fatal weaknesses. On the other, we are peculiarly in thrall to everyone we see, curiously determined to live out — since our self-image is untenable — their false notion of us. We flatter ourselves by thinking this compulsion to please others an attractive trait: a gist for imaginative empathy, evidence of our willingness to give. Of course I will play Francesca to your Paolo, Helen Keller to anyone’s Annie Sullivan; no expectation is too misplaced, no role too ludicrous. At the mercy of those we cannot but hold in contempt, we play roles doomed to failure before they are begun, each defeat generating fresh despair at the urgency of divining and meting the next demand made upon us.
It is the phenomenon sometimes called ‘alienation from self.’ In its advanced stages, we no longer answer the telephone, because someone might want something; that we could say no without drowning in self-reproach is an idea alien to this game. Every encounter demands too much, tears the nerves, drains the will, and the specter of something as small as an unanswered letter arouses such disproportionate guilt that answering it becomes out of the question. To assign unanswered letters their proper weight, to free us from the expectations of others, to give us back to ourselves — there lies the great, the singular power of self-respect. Without it, one eventually discovers the final turn of the screw: one runs away to find oneself, and finds no one at home.
”—Probably written this out in at least three different notebooks, but I still forget it all the time.
So I’m only now hearing about this book Twee, written by Marc Spitz. In addition to Zooey Deschanel (eh, okay?), Portlandia (what?), Disney (???????), Spitz lists Rookie as a point of reference for the apparent rise of Twee. His definition of “Twees” (ugh) BTW, is:
“It breaks my heart that men are still so quick to reinforce the male dominance of the music industry and lambast any dissenting voice. I have spent almost all of my time in bands unsure of whether this was ‘the place’ for me, and when incidents like this happen all I can think of is how many other young women and girls will be discouraged by what they see. I will not have my own and so so many other women’s experiences invalidated, reduced and washed away by men who are all too comfortable with the kyriarchy. I want every girl reading this to know that you are so much bigger than what you are told to be. Nobody is allowed to make you feel small and nobody is allowed to invalidate you or your experiences.”—Alanna McArdle, Joanna Gruesome
Dear reader, I could really do with a hand. Bad Machinery book 2 needs a little promotional push, and the best way you can help out - at no cost to yourself - is with a review on your local Amazon site, or Goodreads. If you’re reading this, you’ve almost certainly read The Case Of The Good Boy…
“I’m really against that whole ‘radical self-love’ thing. I think that is bullshit—it puts the burden of loving yourself on you, and it distracts from the real problem, which is that the cultures of privilege and oppression that surround every aspect of human life are why you feel bad about yourself. It’s not your fault. It’s everyone else’s responsibility to stop being shitty, and then you’d probably feel fine about yourself.”—Perfect Pussy did this month’s Rookie theme song (a cover of ‘Candy’s Room’!), and I spoke to Meredith Graves about fashion, seamstressing, prom dresses and why self-love is bullshit.
“But Britpop’s imperial period, which began 20 years ago – with the release of Blur’s Parklife on 25 April 1994 – and lasted until the release of Oasis’s Be Here Now in August 1997, saw the quashing of the sense that outsiderdom was the defining feature of what was known as “indie” music.”—- Michael Hann
I feel like I should address an old post that’s sort of blown up in the last week or so. I have no idea how/why. His management politely (and indirectly) asked if I would take it down because he’s getting asked about it in interviews, and I said I’d rather not. While I imagine he’s probably not a terrible person who thinks rape is funny, he said a very dumb thing publicly in an age of cameraphones and Twitter and tumblr, and there’s no getting around the fact that the night in question was fucking horrible. (Also, it won’t go away if I delete it.) However, from all the interviews I’ve read around the new album, it seems as though his remarks were a knee-jerk remark against the kind of gross bros that were populating the front rows at his gig, almost seeing how far he had to go to repel them. I mean, they’d come on the promise of drumstick-induced bumhole splinters. But he has a smart way with words and character construction. He should know that rape jokes aren’t ever funny. So I’m not going to take it down, and he should be called out for it, but to some of his fans/whoever that are semi-freaking out about it: not to defend him, necessarily, but try and look at the bigger picture, maybe. I don’t think that night was wholly representative.
“On the other hand, I sometimes worry that serious music can only be served by serious talk, or worse, that people who like serious music can only have serious reasons for doing so. The truth is that you will probably meet just as many shallow people at a National show as you will at a Miley Cyrus show, the difference being that people at the National show are more likely to think they’re important, while people at a Miley Cyrus show are more likely to think they’re having fun.”—Oh come ON. Ian Cohen put it best: “On behalf of all fans of The National, it’s an honor and privilege to be named Most Valuable Strawman by Music Writer Twitter for 2014.”
Mac's rape joke was clearly a reply to how horrible gg allin would act at gigs, no way would he say that shit seriously, you made wayyy too much of a big deal out of the whole thing
I wrote that piece ages ago and have no idea why it’s being picked up again now. I’m sure the remark was part of some character act, but it still made him the kind of guy who makes jokes about rape. However, I have a lot of time for his music and don’t think that performance is an accurate representation of his character, but an inelegant reaction against the meatheads who were coming to his gigs at the time.