bombay bicycle club - always like this

Video link: Bombay Bicycle Club - Always Like This

Bombay Bicycle Club, one of my 2009 favourite muso-romances, has been on repeat in my house for weeks. Not only have they acquired a fantastically applaudable name, they’re a bunch of extremely talented kids. There’s something very distinctive about a Bombay Bicycle Club song. Like so many of the big name bands before them – Muse, Radiohead, anything sung by Pete Doherty – there’s a certain Bombay Bicycle Club quality which stops them from falling into the melting pot of pretty good but fairly ambiguous indie music.

Always Like This, which is still doing the radio rounds, is the kind of song that comes on and systematically forces you to want to dance. It’s something about that almost pop-like repetition that encourages dancing that verges on the ridiculous - the sort of dancing that you did when you were eight. In fact, the sort of dancing that your self-claimed 'wacky' uncle probably still does now. Thankfully, YouTube has confirmed that it's not just me that thinks this.

GregoryKimberleyMoss, I salute you. Take a couple of girls and a video camera, get them to dance and jump around in less-than-usual places in a manner that suggests they’ve just injected a load of caffeine, whack it on YouTube and there you have it. It’s one of those simplistic ingenious ideas, like Post-Its or hammocks. To date, the video has had nearly 36,000 hits. Which isn't bad, considering she's still doing her A levels.

an interview with linda grant

Hanging over the painted balcony in the wall mural in Linda Grant’s north London sitting room is a picture of her 1996 novel, The Cast Iron Shore. Having won the 2000 Orange Prize for When I Lived in Modern Times and been shortlisted for the 2008 Man Booker for The Clothes on Their Backs, it would be easy to suppose that these were her greatest achievements. In fact, it’s the completion of this, her first novel.

‘Half the people in the world say they’d love to write a novel. Many people will start but the sheer challenge of finishing a novel; that was the achievement,’ she says.

The Clothes on Their Backs also won the South Bank Show Literature category. The award was presented by Tom Stoppard, a moment she considers the greatest honour of her career. She modestly describes her achievements as ‘rubber stamps’; hugely appreciated, undeniably valuable for recognition and sales, but incomparable to the feeling of knowing, mid-completion, that a novel is progressing well.


All her novels are about outsiders. This stems from her own experiences growing up. Born in Liverpool, Linda, 58, is a second generation Jewish immigrant – her mother’s parents are Ukrainian and father’s Polish. Of her childhood, Linda says: ‘I felt a very strong sense of being able to operate in two different cultures, probably much more than my parents did, feeling really quite comfortable being English or Jewish and being able to do either.’

Her current novel, two thirds complete, contains two very English characters. She explains the challenge: ‘It’s not that I don’t know them; it’s just there’s something awkward for me having to write about people who aren’t on the outside looking in. It has allowed me to probe my own ideas of Englishness.’

Linda began her career as a journalist, writing for the Guardian, Telegraph and Vogue. She studied English Literature at York University, before moving to Canada to complete an English MA and post-graduate studies. She considered journalism glamorous; a way of earning a living, but her passion and undoubted skill lay in writing; her first freelance piece was bought instantly, just as her first novel was.

She’s still an occasional journalist, but it now acts as a release for something she passionately wants to say. An October piece for the Guardian on Clarks’ shoes came about because, she explains: ‘I felt that I had to say this thing about shoes because it was annoying me so much.’

Fashion journalism is something she’s enjoyed doing recreationally for ten years, following a request from Alexandra Schulman, Vogue’s editor. She’s quick to admit she’s not a fashion writer but holds the rare combination of being interested in both fashion and writing. Specifically, her interest lies in the human relationship with what we wear.

She explored this in her 2009 non-fiction novel, The Thoughtful Dresser. Since its completion, she has taken a step back from fashion: ‘You just feel this profound sense of ennui which just rises from [the journalists and the people in the business]. Where I sort of turned against not fashion itself, but the world of fashion, was this sense that the people who work in fashion are terribly insecure and have to be seen to be wearing the right thing. I think that is my objection to fashion; its ferocious conformity.’

Whilst fashion and the blogging worlds may be colliding – she follows Manolo the Shoeblogger (whose identity she knows) and Bag Snob – blogs are not, for Linda, something that will replace novels. ‘It’s the difference between fiction and non-fiction,’ she says, ‘but as a precursor for creative writing I’m much less certain. And part of the reason is that in a way writing fiction is about privacy. It’s about going away on your own and making your mistakes and I certainly wouldn’t want to make my mistakes in public.’ She blogged temporarily; a research tool for The Thoughtful Dresser. It was her way of creating discussions, to unearth the public’s preoccupations and a means of thinking aloud.

As to her career so far, Linda reflects on her ‘oh my god, I’m being given an award by Tom Stoppard’ moment: ‘I don’t look back on my life and think what am I proud of? I’m much more about thinking what in my life has been interesting. And often those valuable and worthwhile things become apparent a long time later. There are things in your life that go on having significance.’

Without writing, she says: ‘I would have been very thwarted and very frustrated. I was always quite single-minded because I felt that I would be so poor at the alternatives. From the moment I could, I would write.’ She recalls a quiz in the Observer, which revealed her secret career as Tina Turner. It’s something she’d love to do...if she could sing.

tana toraja: the dangers of organised tourism

In Bululangkan Village, nestled in the mountains of Tana Toraja, the soul of Mr Lamba was finally laid to rest. For Torajans, the funeral ceremony was simple, lasting five days, with hundreds of guests and ritual slaughter of 20 buffaloes.

Last year saw the considerably more elaborate ceremony of Toraja’s last ruler, Puang Sombolinggi. Lasting two weeks, it attracted an estimated 100,000 guests. Sombolinggi passed away in 2003 but Torajan culture upholds it takes months, even years for the soul to be truly gone.

Pete Owen-Jones’ BB2 Around The World In 80 Faiths, which aired earlier this year, gave the British public a glimpse into Torajan ceremonies. Shrouded in tradition, Tana Toraja lies in southern Sulawesi, Indonesia. Dubbed ‘one of the most disaster-prone nations on earth’ by Lonely Planet, Indonesia has had its fair share of natural and human-provoked tragedies. Christian-Muslim unrest continues in central Sulawesi and the 17 July Jakartan hotel bombings at the Ritz Carlton and Marriot prompted the Indonesian Tourism Report to predict a fall in visitors in 2010. Coupled with Indonesia’s history of natural disasters; volcanic explosions, the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami and the 2009 earthquakes, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office is obliged to issue warnings to would-be visitors.

But the country is keen to revive the positive image it deserves. In July, the Deputy Governor of South Sulawesi met the Dutch ambassador to promote southern Sulawesi’s tourism potential. And those who bypass this vast archipelago miss cultural wonders; the Indonesian Ministry for Culture and Tourism named Tana Toraja one of the best travel destinations of 2009.

The Ministry reported 6,429,027 visitors to Indonesia in 2008. 5895 of these visited Tana Toraja. So what is all the fuss about? Anthropologists believe Torajan presence dates back to 3,000 B.C. and although Protestant Christianity and the modern world has had its effects, the ancient beliefs and ways, aluk to dolo, are still preserved. Death in Toraja holds none of the Western taboos; funerals are the most important event of their lives. In some sense they live to die, working hard to save for the ceremonies.

Funeral season begins when the last rice is harvested, running through Sulawesi’s driest months of July to September. One ceremony occurs immediately after death. A second, aluk tomate, can occur up to ten years later. Mourners hold a great feast, dance and chat animatedly in specially-erected bamboo huts while loudspeakers spill out music. The ceremonies express grief, but also honour the dead on their long journey in the afterlife. As Slamet Riyadi, from Jakarta blogged: ‘What do you do if someone you really love has passed away? Cry all the time? Not in Toraja.’

‘It was interesting to see a culture that embraced death so openly,’ said Amy Fowler, 26, from Oregon. Kelsey Penner, 38, from Manitoba, Canada, added: ‘What struck me most was how death was regarded and respected as part of life, suggesting the continuation of a relationship.’

Visitors are embraced as family; greeted with Torajan coffee, palm wine and cigarettes. Dina Hervi, 26, from Jakarta, explained: ‘There is no prohibition or taboo that they shouldn’t come to the funeral; the more people who come to bury and pray, the better.’ Mark McQuillen, 36, from Cornwall said: ‘A complete stranger being allowed into a place of family privacy took my breath away.’

Water buffalo, Torajans’ pride and joy, play a vital role. They imply status; the greater the importance of the deceased, the more buffalos and pigs sacrificed. 80 were sacrificed for Sombolinggi. Vegetarians should be warned – the squeals of fated pigs are unpleasant. Worse still are the mounds of corpses in the centre of the circle of huts. But the animals are killed humanly and not wasted.

Buffalo aren’t cheap. It’s understandable then that many Torajans embrace the economic boost tourism has brought. Diana, a spokesperson for the Ministry said: ‘Many tourists visit the unique ceremonies. It’s good; tourists make jobs for Torajans.’ Ade, a spokesperson for the Tana Toraja Tourism Arts and Culture Department agreed: ‘The visitors have expenses in Tana Toraja and it helps the people here.’

The success of tour companies has prompted positive responses from locals. Paul Edmundus, owner of Floressa Bali Tours, whose company reported 503 clients in 2008, said: ‘Tourists increase the local economy and number of human resources. And they give the locals an opportunity to get to know people from other countries.’ Wanto, owner of Adventure Indonesia agreed, adding: ‘Tourism encourages the local people to become aware of their heritage.’

But a high influx of tourists could threaten Torajan traditions. ‘Especially in young Torajan people,’ the Ministry reported. ‘The worst thing about tourists is their awareness of cleanliness, the environment and public order.’

More damagingly, the main town, Rantepao, is already beginning to suffer the effects of organised tourism, becoming choked with guesthouses, restaurants and internet cafes. A future akin to Kuta in Bali or Bangkok’s Khao San Road, undoubtedly the ringleader in backpacker ghetto, would destroy Toraja’s cultural beauty.

Worse still is the realisation of where tourists’ money is actually going. Mark Gudmens, 26, from Ohio, said: ‘Local people see very little of the money from tourists and yet somehow have become the attraction. The rich continue to get richer.’ Mark is right – the money doesn’t go to the families and friends of the deceased, but to the tourism companies, who effectively make money at the locals’ expense.

It is possible to bypass plugging these industries and explore Toraja without a guide. Since most Torajans have links with a tour company, extracting from them the locations of ceremonies is like trying to separate a Torajan from their buffalo. Evenings will be spent with tour guides hanging around like vultures, determined to recruit tourists. But it is possible. And once diehard independent travellers find themselves a mode of transport – ojek (motorbike) was my choice – the hills, valleys and acres of lush green paddy fields are there for the taking.

Tracking down ceremonies independently is vastly rewarding, ensuring you are safely installed before the guides arrive, trailing tourists behind them and parading around the ceremony as if it were a showground. ‘Westerners flock to these funerals and snap photos at these people as if they are animals in the zoo,’ Mark commented, ‘When you take the time to try and meet the people and not just spectate, the hospitality shown is beyond amazing. Without responsible tourism, the effects are inevitable and irreversible.’

Tana Toraja is still, undeniably, uniquely spectacular. But as Jeffrey Papayungan, owner of Toraja Sulawesi Travel, insists: ‘Come and visit Toraja Land while its culture is still intact.’ And hire yourself an ojek.

christmas...a time to gender stereotype

Looking around my house on Christmas day, it’s almost as if scientists still believed men were the cleverer gender and women never got the vote. Somehow we all revert back to our supposed gender stereotypes. The women are in the kitchen, wearing aprons, fluffing up roast potatoes and peeling sprouts and the men...actually I’m not really sure what the men did, because I never left the kitchen. But I’m sure they were drinking brandy and smoking pipes and talking business.

Occasionally, a man would cross the invisible gender barrier...I mean, take a stroll into the kitchen, mostly I assume to see if any parsnips needed ‘testing’ and attempt to offer advice like ‘make sure you don’t burn yourself with the oil’ and ‘it’s probably time to start making the bread sauce now, isn’t it?’

These comments were generally either a) extremely obvious because who on earth would choose to burn themselves with oil unless it was for one of those television programmes where people do it to show off or b) utterly incorrect because in my house we swear by Delia Smith and she said it wasn’t time yet. Her word is gospel.

One year in the Ross household, when I wasn’t there, the men had to do the cooking, because the women were ill. The men claim it was the best Christmas dinner ever. The women claim it was the best Christmas ever, because they didn’t have to do anything. The meal, however, didn’t quite earn the same adjective so lovingly bestowed by the men. In fact, I think the word ‘worst’ was used, but don’t tell the men; they were so proud.

I’m not for a second suggesting that this happens in every household. I know two male friends who make the Christmas dinner every year. And they are very good cooks. But in my house, it means shooing the men out of the kitchen, waving tongs at them when they try and sneak mince pies.

f my life

Even the greatest procrastinators amongst us will eventually hit a brick wall. After you’ve Facebook stalked your head off, explored BBC news so extensively you now know what the weather will be like in Bangladesh, MySpace-d a trillion aspiring rock bands, set up various dating profiles on websites you’d previously dismissed as ‘desperate’, planned your next Come Dine With Me menu to perfection (get them all drunk and never, ever make risotto) and all the other manner of techniques, sometimes you just need something new to get your teeth into.

May I present F My Life. Not the new PostSecret, which keeps followers biting their fingernails down to the next Sunday update. And it’s certainly not as deep and profoundly moving. But in its own way, it’s a stroke of absolute genius.

The premise of F My Life is that anyone who has had a day which makes them think (pardon my French) ‘f*** my life’ uploads a short account onto the website, beginning ‘Today...’ and ending ‘FML’. Viewers to the site are then encouraged to decide whether; ‘I agree, your life sucks’ or ‘you totally deserved it.’

The genius of F My Life lies partly in the fact that updates happen all the time, which usually means a whole fresh page of scandals every day, but also that it’s so genuinely funny and yet so sad at the same time.

The level of hilarity is almost decadent, given that you are laughing at others’ misfortunes. Perhaps it’s a worrying reflection on us as a society that we use the mishaps of strangers to make ourselves feel better. But it’s also a form of release for the person who is telling the story. And in the meantime, they get to see that plenty of other people have had it far worse than them.

The sad but true tales of love. The absolute shameful foot-in-the-mouth moments that have your toes circling in absolute agony on their behalf. The endless slapstick accidents, where people invariably fall over and seriously injure themselves. Lessons about things you shouldn’t put into your mouth. The crashing reality of what other people think. Trouble with all areas of the emergency services. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The list of bad things that can happen on just another day is endless. And all of these have a ring of ‘thank god it’s not me’.

There’s an odd part of me encouraged within the whole world of F My Life that almost makes me wish I could have a terrible day just so I could submit my own horrible incident. Luckily (?) there’s what has been described as ‘arctic conditions’ by the BBC outside (somewhat exaggerated I feel, but for us Londoners, I suppose it is practically Lapland). Which means there’s a significant amount of what looks dangerously like black ice. Perhaps I should go out. In heels.

the cribs @ o2 academy, brixton

‘We’ve been on tour for six years,’ announces The Cribs singer and guitarist Ryan Jarman as he’s busy shaking up Brixton’s O2 Academy. The Wakefield brothers, plus latest recruit Johnny Marr – as ex-guitarist of The Smiths, it’s hardly right to label him ‘new’ – hit the crowd with a sledgehammer of raw energy. After six years it’s clear they’ve got this tour thing down.

Their 80 minute set hits you with the indie rock punch in the mouth The Cribs are famed for. It’s edgy, dramatic and it’s fast. There’s barely time for stage talk as they throw themselves into a raucous performance leaving you wondering when you’re going to have time to breathe. The crowd is exuberant, wound up by the furiousity of being hit with extravagant, intense song after song. There’s no time to be shy.

And it’s still got that era of lo-fi scruff. The boys have survived the danger of slotting into indie band drudgery and robotic strumming. Sure, they try to pull off the ‘yeah whatever’ look but they can’t hide the ‘down the local with your mates and having a laff’ vibe.

Meanwhile, you’ve got Ryan doing what he’s known for; a spectacular stage dive, leaving him with a ripped shirt. The audiences’ raw enthusiasm indicates no one would be particularly devastated if he launched crowd-ward again.

Marr adds a touch of sophistication to the boys in the band feel. He’s quiet; rocks up with his guitar, pulls out some spine-tingling sounds and leaves Ryan, along with twin brother and bassist Gary, who shares the lyrics, to jam in the spotlight. Marr’s ‘leave it to the kids’ attitude doesn’t dampen the sound but it would be nice to see a bit more of him. Ross is more sedate in his enthusiasm, choosing opportune moments to stand on his drum kit.

It’s their fourth album, Ignore the Ignorant, which gets the most air time. It’s also the album tipping them from slightly obscure into talked about in the indie circle. We Were Aborted, Cheat On Me, We Share The Same Skies and Hari Kari get the crowd singing along in almost mob-like chant. But they flick to favourites from older albums – Men’s Needs and Moving Pictures, even pulling out classic indie anthems Mirror Kisses and Hey Scenesters! from second album The New Fellas.

The chants are on to request Men’s Needs, Women’s Needs, Whatever’s single Be Safe, which is surrendered in an onset of purple lights to the screen backdrop of Sonic Youth's Lee Ranaldo delivering the spoken commentary.

Amidst the chaos, The Cribs allow you a short intake of breath; an inch of mellow creeps through during Last Year’s Snow and Save Your Secrets. It’s not angsty, but haunting melodic, the creep between the shoulder blades giving a hint that the boys aren’t all riotous guitars and moshing action.

It’s been a Wichita heavy night. Supporting act Sky Larkin, also from The Cribs’ turf, leaves not much more than an unassuming ripple though the crowd but Cardiff’s offering electro-indie Los Campesinos! cause a bit of a stir in gearing them up.

There are no encores; these boys don’t mess around, they’re off. January; America awaits. But they leave you bruised, restless and wound up for more.

The Cribs played O2 Academy, Brixton on 3 December.

rage against the machine versus x-factor

I think I’m now able to breathe a sigh of relief that X-Factor is finally over. I am shocked – in fact, ashamed – of the number of conversations I’ve had to bear witness to that concern X-Factor.

I don’t watch X-Factor. I don’t think I’ve ever religiously watched any of the seasons. The only ‘singing competition’ (debatable) I ever really paid much attention to was this years’ American Idol and that was only really because I wanted to see whether the American population would allow Adam Lambert, an extremely talented, eyeliner and black nail varnish wearing, gay performer to win.

They didn’t. They chose a clean-cut all-American boy in the undeniably sweet Kris Allen. Surprised? Not really.

But back to the X-Factor...

The pub. It’s a typical Friday night. It’s busy. The girls aren’t wearing enough clothes and consequently suffer from goosebump-ridden legs. The boys are ordering Apple Sourz and pretend they’re hardcore (they aren't, Apple Sourz tastes like sugary mouthwash). Someone gets pepper sprayed in the eyes by the police. And everyone talks about the X-Factor.

The pub. It’s a typical Saturday night. And...it’s empty. Not because it's cold, not because everyone is saving for Christmas, but because everyone is at home, watching the X-Factor. And no, you aren’t allowed to phone them because they need to have all available phone lines free to call for their favourite.

I need an escape route. I’ve been living in Asia for about fifteen months. The guilt factor sinks in; I should probably stop complaining about the cold, eating cheese and Branston Pickle and go and visit my family. An X-Factor free environment, surely?

Fifteen minutes later, I realise they’re still talking about the X-Factor and I still don’t have any idea what they’re talking about. Can’t we talk about something else, please? Handbags? The state of the economy? Whether Santa Claus exists or not? How to make the perfect sandwich?

So buy Rage Against The Machine. Join their Facebook group. If only because I, like the 54,607+ others, don’t believe winning X-Factor should guarantee you a number one. And more conversation time than your fifteen-minutes of fame is worth.

what your car says about you

My recently deceased Mazda has been scrapped and replaced thanks to the scrappage scheme and suddenly, I’m no longer road kill in the eyes of fellow motorists. Somehow, by driving an A-registration 323 Mazda, it is generally assumed that I am a seventy year old woman and therefore drivers think it is completely within their rights to cut me up or even better, pretend that I don’t exist.


The week before my Mazda reached his untimely death, a woman driving an unnecessarily huge people carrier forced me to back all the way down the road, scraping my car along a skip. She then proceeded to roll down her window and shout at me. 


In the defence of other road users, driving a car which is almost twenty-six years old, has a fine layer of rust, occasionally grows moss and has no power steering does not make for the best image.


And perhaps Jefferson did tend to stall, but I blame that on the choke and the fact that he didn’t like the cold weather. Or more accurately, in the months between October and March, he would acquire a fine layer of ice and condensation inside the windshield. The numerous visits from the AA proved my validations that Jefferson was, in fact, a classic rather than a wreck. I have heard many delighted variations of ‘I haven’t seen a car like this in years’.


Now that Jefferson has joined the great car park in the sky or, more accurately, been crushed into a cube thanks to the scrappage scheme, I am driving a Fiat 500. Essentially I’m driving a bubble. The inside resembles a Roberts Radio. The outside is so shiny and new that there will be no reversing near skips. Ever. Although I do now have a radio that works. And a CD player, which means I can finally bid a tearful farewell to my early teen collection of cassettes, the only entertainment system that Jefferson could digest.


The biggest difference, however, is that I seem to have magically earned the respect of other road users, despite the fact that, if anything, my driving has become worse as I adjust to a new car. The man at the petrol station where I buy my newspaper feels the need to compliment my car every morning. Horns honk in admiration, heads turn. It seems that even in the world of motors, we still judge on looks.