Shibuya-Kei: A Brief Primer

 Whilst finishing off my next 2000s musical review - technically the first until real world events dictated otherwise - I noticed that a genre overview might be needed for those who lack my particular proclivities for musical geekery. So the following is extracted from said review, a classic from Japan's old alternative pop scene, Shibuya-Kei:

The now-dead - and resurrected - scene they contributed prolifically to, Shibuya-kei, deserves its own article or, better still, a link to a better overview and dissection than I could hope to manage, lack of rest or no. Suffice to say, it centred around an auspiciously fashionable and lively area of Tokyo - the titular Shibuya - and its harmonic proponents became known for recombinant, idiosyncratic, heavily detailed and often exuberant and kitschy forms of Western pop history. It was the 1990s incarnation of the DIY spirit of punk and golden age hip hop, yet almost everything had a whispy voiced Japanese femme on vocals and it all sounded like it was created on an unlimited budget, even when it wasn't

   And those links are the preserve and insights of Japanese-but-actually-American alternative/blender pop artist, journalist and cultural disinterrer Marxy, as detailed in six parts. The Legacy of Shibuya-Kei is a vital and excellent read, examining and championing well over a decade of a landscape changed by reinterpreting and reshaping Western music into something familiar but utterly new. And sometimes far more interesting:

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

   Give Marxy's songs a try. I'll be returning to his output in the near or distant future

Outfit - The Temperley Party

   Courtesy of my new acquaintances at Prendas Publicas, whom I met at the Temperley party at Sketch last week:

   The shenanigans that followed are to remain the stuff of legend, naturally. Though I suppose that it isn't every night that bloggers meet on a dancefloor

Sugababes - One Touch (2000)

   I had an entirely different, and, some might argue, more "sophisticated" record review to address the Broken iPod Blues I've been feeling. But then the news broke that Sugababes had finally become utterly akin to Menudo, Morning Musume and Trigger's Broom, so this response is wholly dictated by the fickle whims of current events. An easy mark for Pop Culture Thumbs-Down News of the Month if I ever saw one. Good times

   It's strange to settle in with their first, and best, album and note that in spite of the considerable charm, ranges and talents of the three founding - and now utterly departed - girls, Mutya, Siobhan and Keisha, that it was not immediately apparent that this was Britain's most successful female pop act in the making. At least, if you analysed the sales figures instead of scrutinising the music. But then the marketing for the group's introductory period demanded an appreciation of the little differences between themselves and their peers. They had a cutesy name but were not being promoted on the basis of their looks (though it's worth noting, now that the girls are in their early 20s, that those looks are more highly rated than popular myth might have it); they were 16 but neither cute like The Jackson 5 nor disquietingly sexualised like Miley; they were a girl group but instead of an abundance of plastic exuberance moulded as Spice Girls in waiting, the public were presented with a youthful, contemporary British pop band pitched somewhere in the hinterland between All Saints and En Vogue. And they could sing

   Quite the curious beastie, pop singing. To the average person, it's an area wherein if the voice conveying the lyrics doesn't make one reach for a rusty cleaver with which to pay personal tribute to Van Gogh then it's fine. Unless there is a panel of at least 3 overly self-satisfied judges on hand to make repeated complimentary remarks about a nascent singer's voice and the transformative effect it's had on their lives, sex lives, rheumatic problems and bank balances on live television or the vocalist on the radio or television is widely recognised as a diva, then no one cares how well the girl(s) in question performs. Especially if she has a face made for posters in a supermarket

   So, Sugababes at the start were different. No smiles, no sex, all 16, all sass. The music and the singing had to be front and centre, and it was rather helped by, as well as hinged on, the fact that the performers all seemed older than their years. Indeed, when they sang such a line in 'New Year', perhaps the least nauseating Christmas song in over two decades, it actually seemed plausible, the way that little Michael projecting age old heartache about the lover he spurned moving on from him did. The album's thematic elements are generally uncontrived - the usual hazards and happy times with boys and girls are mingled with deftly handled singalongs about teenage angst, musical escapism, breakdowns in communication and social alienation, much like a teenager's diary (thank you, Popjustice message board). Alongside this, the production was utterly different to their various peers - sparse, oft-times downbeat, barely melodic in most places and more in the mould of trip hop's pop excursions than the post-Spice World environment

   And these girls could not only sing but harmonise. Unexpected multi-part vocals are a particular highlight in 'Look At Me' and 'Promises', wherein the girls' voices cascade across each other without overwhelming themselves or the listener, while the vocal interplay, while not necessarily unconventional, strives to be interesting, whether through all 3 girls singing the second verse of still memorable debut single 'Overload' or ending an ensemble-sung bridge with a couple of solo lines. The combination of vocals is also a strong selling point, mixing as it does Keisha Buchanan's slightly tremulous r'n'b stylings, Siobhan Donaghy's sweet melodies and somewhat detached delivery, and Mutya Buena's strong range and interesting mix of honey and husk. Emerging as the band's best singer over 3 subsequent albums before resigning, Mutya gives the album moments of added punch, even managing to sound as if she's making little effort at the same time. This becomes particularly evident in the title track, which makes a 15 year old calling her beau "my dear" the most natural statement of declaration for a young 'un whose adulthood is still a few years away (by all accounts, the girl also makes for an excellent mother)

   The most interesting aspect of the line-up changes is how it reveals how each of the founders have shaped their particular tenures, notably in hindsight. Sugababes Mark 2 was filled with fuzzy basslines and grit and spikes in a way that particularly suited Mutya, who moved on to take the majority of first verses and leads on choruses, as well as typifying the "non-traditional" image of the band with her offbeat dress sense, tattoos and piercings. The recently ended Mark 3 focused on Keisha's enthusiasm for American r'n'b, more facile pop and high energy numbers. And so, Mark 1 seems to match the rather indie Siobhan the most through its heart on sleeve-approach, minor keys and utilisation of sunny and plangent strumming. And while this is the record of theirs that I'm most fond of, it does them no end of credit that amongst all the changes, there's still something to enjoy. I only hope that Mark 4 can keep it up

Blue Gas (We Got)

Photograph courtesy of James Lewis

   My latest visit to The Crate Gallery involved appraising and enjoying the work of James Lewis,  a skilled conceptual artist whose Blue Gas installation brought a certain showstopping grandeur to the usual near-clinical confines of its three day abode

   Naturally, the neon words and numbers created for the show utilise the titular blue gas to achieve their illuminating effect. A number of pieces, such as those that I'm photographed with, crossed over from James' previous Value and Worth show, which addressed the intrinsic value of his creativity head-on, displaying the cost of the time, effort, design and even the electricity invested in the project. The end result was a series of price tags in lights, and very attractive lights they are too - I derived a thrill from having the issues of the pieces' fair value and fiscal effort posed to myself and to others in so forthright a manner

   The artist's methods and thought processes are detailed on The Crate's website; this excerpt addresses Lewis' approach:

 [Lewis] tries to prevent his Conceptual Art practice from being cold and stale. He does this by trying to place a narrative within his work, be it through photographically documenting his physical capabilities during a project or saving his income so that he can produce a series of neon signs. Lewis plays upon a personally devised formula of achieving a finalized “art object”¹. Which often means he financially or physically suffers for his art practice.

   As is common with such work, the viewer may transpose their own views and deductions even if they've been made aware of the concept. One of the first reactions I discussed with the artist was a certain nostalgia of 1980s apartments and the neon decorations that adorned many of them, as well as the use of such lighting and design in public advertising, my supposition being that this was a thoughtful and honest take on an iconic and ubiquitous practice

   I certainly appreciated Lewis' sense of perspective in addressing the true worth of his work in an analytical manner; some might argue that this kind of self awareness is sadly absent in the contemporary art world, although I have always felt that talent and effect should dictate prices. Lewis' projects are all worthy of further investigation - his end results are always well considered, technical, aesthetically interesting and unpretentious

   Perhaps the most delightful thing about viewing them is that not only do they all have something to express but they also seem to have yet more to say

Pop Culture Thumbs-Up 14/09/2009: What We Learned at the 2009 MTV VMAs

   Madonna can give a truly heartfelt speech. And Janet gets fiercer and more powerful with age

   We learned nothing new about Kanye's lack of class, however

A Placeholder Post

From GlaxoSmithKline's blog. No, really

   I'm doing it again: leaving far too much time between posts, even though I genuinely have material in the pipeline (and I mean actual events, musings and writeups, not only narcissistic outfit diarising)

   The demands of the offline existence I'm eking out (long, fruitless jobhunting) places a small strain on the old thought processes, but combine that with a persistent sleep disorder (oh, and I've also been watching that Shakira video several times too many) and it's only a matter of time before the aforementioned narcissistic outfit diaries start to feature a dark skinned, Afro-haired incarnation of  Christian Bale in The Machinist El maquinista.  Even this is taking around 20 minutes to write, and it's only meant to be a quick missive to paper over my lack of attention.  And I'd rather like this here online ideaspace to last longer than my Livejournal

  One quick thing: Ryan, if you're reading, thank you very much for what you wrote at Final Fashion (enjoyable reading, by the way). Winston indirectly brought it to my attention by mentioning that he'd seen me namechecked by one of my own "confreres". I'm surprised and glad it was you

NP: V/A - We Are Escalator Records No. 5, mixed by Masashi Naka

Teleportation

 

   I've no idea how the effect came about, but it's an amusing one. It's also a sign that my camera is incrementally inching towards death as I type. Good times

Necktie Abuse (Adventures on High Street)

  Be far from it for me to discourage creativity, especially when experimenting within the myriad offerings of the British High Street, but some things need to be considered inviolable, in the name of not looking like an idiot if nothing else

   Exhibit A: sporting a bow tie on a recent visit to Uniqlo begat a conversation with an enthusiastic young salesman in a hipsterish uniform of plaid shirt, jeans and braces. We exchanged friendly, if perfunctory, insights about menswear, such as ongoing preparations for the incoming season (bright accents on duller palettes, the apparent return of corduroy jackets, and fair isle vs. argyle, in case one's wondering). He offers that bow ties are too old fashioned for him. I don't mind because I'm fairly certain he'd simply buy clip-ons if he was so inclined. It's his next pronouncement that reminds me that we're only conversing because he has the capacity to work the buttons at a till*:

"I like to use regular ties like bow ties. Have you ever tried it? You just tie it up and it just sits across your collar like a shoelace"

'So that's how those Face Hunter kids are doing it,' I think. I respond:

"That just seems excessive. It's also likely to damage the tie. Why not wear a bolo tie?"

"What's a bolo tie?"

"...Thanks - gotta run!"

   Even to me, the fact that my first reaction was to stifle laughter and my second was to avoid a double-take appears childish. And considering my own penchant for offbeat and non-traditional uses of accessories, I should have admired his gumption. But I couldn't. Because his ingenuity seemed misplaced where it should have been clever. Neckties aren't generally built for such use - their very design and proportions go against it. The wonky, stringy mess of silk and pattern his iconoclasm conjured up in my mind was second to the fantasy image of Dali productions created after a 96 hour crack binge that was followed with a ketamine chaser

   Funnily enough, I haven't seen the guy since

  Exhibit B: while I don't want Gok Wan's job for love nor money (alright, I'd like the money), I was approached by a fellow in H&M as he closely scrutinised his own appearance in the mirror. He was sporting one of the new season's TREND(Y) print shirts with the same line's Dries Van Noten-esque jacket currently on sale as a suit separate and for whatever reason, he wished to benefit from my wisdom. I told him he was making a mistake. Actually, two. The first was in thinking me to be wise. The second was the silver skinny tie that adorned his neck like a Junk de Luxe cast-off faux cravat. But he was not to be put off. And in my head I heard two words: "Diplomacy Time"

   The upshot was that the intrepid shopper left the store with the jacket and shirt in the correct size - for what it's worth, both suited him well, unlike myself - the conviction that he should cut open the jacket vents when he reached home, and the persistent notion that he should buy a nice scarf with which to decorate his neck because what did a tie ever do to him?

   I should have charged a fee


   * I actually wish I could work a till. It's not like I'm doing much better

Outfit Digest - Bold/Sobriety