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Friday, 16 May, 2008

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Jay1 of Outlines graffiti

Jay1 of Outlines graffiti

So desperate were we for inspiration in our offices to match the genius of Vault49 and M.I.A, to do homage to their presence on our cover, and so panicked were we by this Midsummer Madness that was overcoming us all , that we thought the only way to put some zest into our drained creative glands was to get an artist working in our office. And boy-howdy! did we manage. One of our interviewees, Jay1 of Outlines, happened to be one of the most important graffiti artists France has ever produced: the perfect spoonful of sugar. Refreshed and revitalised, we managed to produce this fantastic issue. Here’s how our man did it for us...

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Electroma

“ROBOTS ON A QUEST TO BECOME HUMAN”? WE WANTED DAFT PUNK’S DEBUT FEATURE FILM, ELECTROMA, TO BE A GRAND FOLLY OF PRETENSION AND HUBRIS – BUT THEN WE SAW IT AND REALISED THEY WERE PROBABLY GENIUSES. GUY-MANUEL DE HOMEM-CHRISTO EXPLAINED TO MICHAEL LEWIN WHY CHALLENGING THEMSELVES WAS MORE IMPORTANT THAN LITTLE THINGS LIKE DIALOGUE. AND NARR ATIVE. AND PEOPLE. AND THEIR OWN MUSIC. One thing Notion was often fond of speculating with regards Daft Punk was why they seemed so desperate to escape the magnificent constraints of humanity. They perfor m as robots. In their music, they generally eschew all those instruments associated with earthly tones, and instead, from bleeps and beats, force our bodies to contort in unnatural dance moves more suited to cyborgs in a seemingly aggressive demand that we negate our God-derived physiques and attain un-humanity. Then, we realised they were French and so well within their birth right to be contrarily and unnecessarily pretentious; and so, rather than declaim them heretics and demand their barbequing, decided to chuckle along with them when they called their third record Human After All. ‘Touché,’ we thought, ‘kudos and, indeed, olé.’ — Then we heard that they’d decided to make a film about robots on a quest to become human, the opaquely-named Electroma, and thought that maybe the boys Bangalter and de Homem-Christo might have taken the whole thing a bit too far; it seemed self-regarding and pretentious beyond even the nortorious standards of the French. Nevertheless, we found ourselves curiously excited – surely as deliciously hubristic an event as hitherto flawless musical pioneers coming a cropper in art house cinemas would be a perfect cure for the mundanity at the root of our midsummer madness? This, we thought, would be a clunking nonsense, a chance to turn the legs of idols into clay! — But, alas, BOOM! went our mean-spirited intentions on first viewing; instead of pleasure taken at the fall of former greats, we were confronted with two chaps of distinction in need of a new challenge, brave enough to seek them out beyond the realm of the familiar. Electroma is a considered, meditative affair, occasionally moving, often infuriating but undoubtedly worthwhile. The film is laudable because it is neither the superfluous act of bored rich men nor a gratituitous exercise in ego – the two most likely results of musicians branching out. It turns out schadenfreude wasn’t to be our midsummer medicine in this instance – rather, it was humility. We were indeed right about one thing though: Thomas and Guy-Man are French to their very core. “We don’t expect that this is a film for everyone,” Guy-Man justifies when I remark that the film is perhaps a little difficult for the majority of their pilled-up stadium rocking audiences, “but there are some people who have tears in their eyes.” Certainly, there is a fair deal of emotion - but to say the emotion is obfuscated is to understate the issue somewhat... — It’s fortunate that the Punks are quite wealthy: we can barely imagine them begging for Hollywood gold. “So, famous musicians, tell me about your film...” “Well, two robots are given human faces which then melt and then they walk through the desert for forty minutes, before committing suicide in different ways. Also, there is no dialogue. And we’re not using our music.” “Come again? Actually, don’t. Leave.” Oddly, it is in fact the most objectionable qualities of Electroma which make it so impressive, so worthwhile an enterprise for these kings of dance. Still, we felt there were questions that had to be asked. First: why the hell are you making films, oh Guy-Man? — “We decided to make the film because it was a natural continuity from what we were doing with the first album, just having fun and not caring about any rules or what existed. It is a very free approach that represents our creative process. With the first album and its music videos, we were always taking care of the visual aspect as well as the music.” Consider the directors they’ve worked with as musicians: Spike Jonze, Michel Gondry and Roman Coppola amongst others. The latter is a member of Hollywood’s first family, the former two now at the fore-most edge of great indie-mainstream crossover cinema. That’s gotta be a boon, right? — “Of course. On set with them, it was just like being little children watching them and trying to lear n from them, seeing the way their brain works. With Gondry, he is like a child too – but at the same time he is mathematical . Working with men like that is a very powerful experience.” Though Electroma might otherwise have been represented as a nihilistic exercise in audience endurance, there is such a child-like naievety and wonderousness to both the robots and imagery that it is impossible not to be charmed – a child robot with an ice cream that it can’t possibly consume dropping it in terror at a melting face? Delectable. A desert turning into a close-up of a vagina? So silly it’s lovely. These lighter touches, which season Electroma and undermine its weighty pretension, have at their root that childish desire to be irreverent - children’s only redeeming feature, one that Electroma shares. — Of course, one thing children have over the denizens of Electroma is the art of speech. So, you’ve got your existential-yet-whimsical road-trip plot, fine, y’know, we can accept that with a lightness of touch. But no fucking dialogue? “For us, the excitement of the project was in the challenge. With no dialogue, with no Director of Photography, it makes more of a challenge. Film can transmit emotion, and we wanted to make it harder to have emotion when you watch. The soundtrack is full of emotion – but no dialogue makes it harder.” — By rights, such selfish reasoning should be grounds for vicious retribution on the behalf of the listless, increasingly infuriated viewer – but, rather, these are the very motives which we find praiseworthy and which catapult Daft Punk into an exclusive canon of pop artists with the right to lay claim to that second word “artist”. Bangalter acted as DP himself, and prepared by reading 200 old volumes of American Cinematographer. He rose to this challenge exceptionally – the lensing of the film is perhaps its most sublime aspect. Shot on Kodak 35mm, a heresy in these technophiliac digital days, the barren, anonymous Californian wastes, which lend the film it’s setting, are captured in a majesterial, sun-bleached-bleak haze. Sudden focus pulls switch the eye’s allegiance and the heart’s sympathy between robots, while epic framing of the vast desert exemplifies the daunting loneliness and futility of their quest. — For every challenging aspect which seems pretentious and wilful in conception, there’s another reason to enjoy Electroma. High-concept insanity like “Robots on quest to become human” is justified by method – as Guy-Man tells me, “robots aren’t human, they’re not supposed to give you emotion.” This is key – the Daft quest parallels that of the robots, where that goal of humanity is defined by the experience of emotion. The laudable challenges they set themselves, designed to obstruct the easy transmission of feeling (robots, no dialogue, etc) result in emotion achieved only when deserved, so all the more intense and fulfilling for it. A perfect example of this occurs when the two robots, having been given faces, discover these faces are melting and – pursued by robot townspeople – hide out in a public toilet. There, beneath flickering flourescent light, the more maudlin of the two (don’t ask how you know, but you do) undergoes an experience kin to a K-hole as he watches his dream of humanity literally disintegrate on his face to the suicidal folk tones of Sebastien Tellier. “Just music alone is emotional,” Guy-Man offers, “so what if you are looking at something which is completely unemotional? What does that do to the emotion?” Maudlin Robot is, at that moment, a more compellingly tragic figure than, say, De Niro reciting On The Waterfront into the mirror at the end of Raging Bull (well, almost). — The prerogative of many a Parisien, Thomas and Guy-Man’s cineaste qualities permeate the film throughout – while some might compare equivalent desert follies like Van Sant’s Gerry and “Ego” Gallo’s Brown Bunny, the style of Russian genius Tarkovsky seems more apt – “Yes, we are both big fans of Tarkovsky; the films we love best are where the imagination is working twice as hard.” It is with such an idea that Electroma is best understood, best appreciated and hopefully enjoyed: “The whole movie is full of gaps the viewer can fill. The film gives room for the imagination to be put onto the screen.” — Is Electroma for you? Let’s see. You! You’re eagerly anticipating the new Will Ferrell film. Well, piss off. But you! You’ve read books. You flirted with the idea there’s more to cinema than a continuous series of ever-greater explosions interspersed with grotesquely overdefined jaw-lines. If you can sit still for 70 minutes and keep your mind open, who knows? Perhaps, as Guy-Man hopes, you’ll shed a tear at the plight of a poor robot in an existential crisis. — The reason Electroma jolted me out of this debilitating Midsummer Madness, the reason I shan’t demand the heads of these chancing French charlatans on sticks for the criminal answer to the math problem “vanity + aspiration x pretension = ?” – the reason is that the sight of enquiring minds challenging themselves instead of taking the obvious path to money is a refreshing experience; and so their success becomes an inclusive pleasure. By setting themselves such obstacles and leaving emotion solely to music, they seem to be challenging the power of the medium they’ve found so much success in, questioning whether music is as grand a pursuit as they thought it thus far. I suggest this idea to Guy-Man; he responds with a nonplussed “er...non”. It would in fact appear that my pretentiousness out-weighs their ’s, forcing this article into a volte-face from it’s initial intent so fierce I may eat myself. Regardless, Electroma is such a sumptuous-looking, reflective mood-piece, successfully avoiding arsey theorising; it’s a delight for anyone wishing to join in, to challenge themselves as Daft Punk do the same. ELECTROMA WAS SCREENED IN THE UK DURING JULY AND AUGUST VISIT WWW.ELECTROMA.ORG . DVD RELEASED SEPTEMBER 3RD .

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Straight 8

I had already heard of straight8 as I plodded hot and tired between the bra-cup pavillions spread along the International Village, a carpeted camp-site for industry posturing, at Cannes 2007. I headed for the Kodak tent, where there was a party quite unlike anything I’d seen in that peculiar town... quite the cure for this intoxicating mundanity, don’t you think? Straight8’s screening hosted no Linen-suited mafiosi spraying Gray Goose and Bollinger at cheeping chicks gasping for free intoxication, no sauve young producers exhibiting Blaine-inspired tricks (“you’ll remember me when your pockets are so full of business cards your hands freeze off in the arctic chill, baby”), no tuxedoed impressarios swaggering the jive they know is necessary for the next blag. That’s it: the real difference between Straight8 and the rest of Cannes was the lack of blag. — Instead, here was euphoria: none of the audience, including the film-makers themselves, had seen any of the films screened. So when something went spectacularly well, there were whoops, hats flung to rafters, riotous laughter, much spilling of wine- but most of all a potent and palpable passion for film, the unrepeatable instant of light first hitting an eight millimetre rectangle. — And Ed Sayers is a human distillation of that passion. He started Straight8 in 1999 as a ‘public experiment’- a means to explore as directly as possible the process of film-making. Straight8 stripped away the traditional backand- forth time-machine of the film-set, with all the editing in-camera , and the results of the shoot remaining secret to all until the screening. People liked the idea, so they ‘took out these old cranky cameras from friends’ lofts, dusted them off, got shooting and the films were amazing’. — There’s a polyester friction between creativity and obstruction- if there are no bars over the window of your cell, you’ll invent some, secure in the knowledge there’s nothing as scary as a free reign. But there’s always a workaround- so that obstruction is never more than another invention. Strict limitations force people to rely on ingenuity and originality, and that is liberation in the unwavering rules of Straight8- ‘it might be a stressful shoot , but when you finish shooting that’s it- you don’t ever have to try to polish it, or airbrush it , you don’t have to fiddle with this and that’. This presents an entirely new set of problems to the film-maker. There’s no going back- ‘if you happen to bump the trigger as you’re crossing the road, and get a shot of your feet , then that’s in your film. You could take the next shot, or work it in, or if it’s short enough maybe people won’t notice. Sometimes it comes out cool, sometimes it doesn’t.’ — So you have to rely on your luck, on ‘happy accidents’, coincidences you wouldn’t notice... But you can improve your luck- every year people are more inventive, more ambitious with the medium. At Cannes 2007 we were treated to the first Straight8 underwater shooting (Josh Sanders), fractal vertigoinducing stop-motion from scientist/director Colin Dewar, and Nick Scott’s split-screen Timecode homage examining the two halves of a relationship..The bar is raised year on year. — Since stipulating that all music must be original and copyright-cleared, Ed saw the originality in sound increase exponentially- ‘Because all the editing has to be done in camera, and you can’t see the film as you’re making the soundtrack, its quite an interesting process for a musician who’s brought into it- they’re asked to write something for a film they haven’t seen.’ — Shooting his own Straight8 for the first time in 6 years- ‘I needed to feel the fear again myself, having encouraged all these other people to do so, and it doesn’t get any easier’, Ed enlisted the help of musician Mary Mary (of Apollo440). He found himself ‘writing these descriptions of a film I hadn’t filmed yet, describing shots that hadn’t been shot yet- about how the mountains would look stopframe from a bicycle’. On seeing the film with the soundtrack for the first time, in front of 250 people, ‘some things came out better than [he] imagined or could have planned- little incidences in the timing of the music track’ — This year people sent 131 Straight8s, with 12 winners selected. And it is this positivity which drives the competition (and Ed himself) onward- ‘the reason I do it, and that I continue to have the energy to do it, is that the parameters and the strangeness of the process of Straight8 somehow drive a certain kind of film maker to just make a film... just having the balls to go for it- make a film in what can be a very punishing way- you’ve got to have a plan, but you’ve got to be able to change it if things go astray.’ There it is. Balls, plans, changing plans. And no blag. Or the purest form of blag. Choose your own obstruction. MAKING A STRAIGHT8 COULDN’T BE SIMPLER. IT COULD PROBABLY BE EASIER, BUT THAT’S NOT WHAT I SAID. THESE ARE THE RULES: · YOU SHOOT ONE CAN OF SUPER8MM FILM- CLOCKING IN AT AROUND 3MINUTES 20 SECONDS. · ALL EDITING MUST TAKE PLACE IN-CAMERA: SHOT AFTER SHOT. YOU DON’T EVEN GET TO SEE THE FOOTAGE UNTIL IT’S BEEN SELECTED FOR SCREENING. · ALL MUSIC AND SOUND TRACKS MUST BE ORIGINAL AND COPYRIGHT CLEARED- SUPPLIED ON A CD WHICH IS STARTED BY THE PROJECTIONIST ON THE FIRST FRAME OF THE FILM. http://WWW.STRAIGHT8.NET FOR FUTURE SCREENINGS .

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Circus front at the Roundhouse

Circus front at the Roundhouse

Circus Front at the Roundhouse No wonder old school circuses are in decline: deformed freaks, ordinary people willing to humiliate themselves for a little attention… yeah, you see where we’re going with this. So how can the circus shake us from our BB-induced coma? With talent, intelligence, astonishing physical feats, an artistic sensibility and disturbing tricks involving penises. Presenting: Circus Front. Circus Front grabbed our attention for several reasons. First: spectacle. Really, really big, mad, eye-raping nonsense is fantastic. We were all kids once – what is the elegant, ever-slipping remembrance of sensual minutiae in Proust, for example, when compared with the ‘WOOOOOOOO-YEEEEEAH!!!! KILL DEM GUYS!!!!!!’ thrill of seeing a man with a massive jaw blow up half of the Middle East (as children we’re all a bit more like American presidents than we really want to admit). Traditionally, we’d recourse to cinema to fulfil that particular, testosterone-charged urge (fact: after watching action films men have better sex – let’s hope it’s a biological thing, rather than a latently homosexual one), but the release schedule for this summer has contributed to the rising insanity of the style media. Threequels! Mundane, tired continuations of franchises, donkeys whose backs are slowly breaking as they tread the paths to the multiplex overloaded with back-story, pomposity and flaccid love stories designed for the purposes of… bathos? Seemingly. The point is: we want ballsy-ness and the blockbusters are eunuchs. Fortunately, Circus Front is so ballsy it enters a room preceded by a wheel-barrow to carry them. Cinema has always been concerned with showing the best of life: the danger of death, glamour, breasts, sensual overload, animals and deformed people. Added together, such ingredients attain the quintessence of spectacle . However, now that they’re all daily occurrences in the life of a two year old, what with ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ and everything, the power of all circuses (except for Disneyfied vomitopia Cirque du Soleil) seemed to be waning. Happily, though, Circus Front exemplifies everything resurgent, vibrant and disturbing about the circus nouveau movement collated into a handy six week programme. Why has Circus Front shocked us out of our midsummer madness? What spectacle can it offer to compete with a mass brawl of pink-belt-wearing Lifestyle editors in a gallery four foot wide? Well, we’ve seen many an editorial shanking and – brutal though they are – never have we seen a man pull a tennis ball from his foreskin. Never. Honestly. That is something we have never, EVER seen in our life – and we’re not sure we ever wanted to, either. But, thanks to Australia’s Acrobat, it’s a sight we can take to the grave, our likely dying words something along the lines of: “BUT HE PULLED A BALL FROM HIS DICK!!! A FUCKING TENNIS BALL!!!!” It wasn’t what we had in mind when we said we wanted a spectacle with balls, y’know? Nonetheless, that is merely one of life-changing experiences the programme offers. Media as we are, cock-shocks aren’t quite revolutionary enough to dispel the malaise that has set in; even astonishing spectacle alone might not have been enough. The four collectives who comprise the bulk of Circus Front, however, combine spectacle with art, play the grand circus tradition against avant garde experimentation and confront spectators with death, beauty and, well, the aforementioned cocks. There’s also the extra bonus of Jacques Tati-esque slapstick – nothing makes us laugh like guys falling over repeatedly for an hour. Shit never gets old, like kicking someone in the ass. Collectif AOC choreograph feats of physical wonder within what is an almost painfully cynical attempt to be hip, with roller-skating, break-dancing and DJs. It is only when one realises that they are French, and therefore A) honestly believe they’re being cool, not trite; and B) the French support circus as an art-form seriously and are so actually really damn good at it. The brashness of AOC is contrasted by a sublime, understated turn from Collectif Acrobatique du Tangiers: director Aurélien Bory has brought out of these former Moroccan beach performers a medley of mercurial slapstick and elegant cultural commentary (a combination which had until then seemed impossible). NoFitState prove British circus is in recovery, and Acrobat – yes, there’s a lot of cock, but the nudity only intensifies your all-too-real fear that the man falling fifty feet down a rope is about to die. While Circus Front itself, in what Programme Co-Ordinator Verity McArthur calls their “Big Top made of Bricks” (the Roundhouse), ends on August 5 th , McArthur’s brave programming has given us hope that the nonsensical PC campaigns objecting to the abhorrent treatment of animals and the worse treatment of disabled people haven’t ruined this classical form of entertainment with its roots in Ancient Greece. The circus speaks to everyone: it appeals to that part of us which revels in stuffing our faces with junk and braying like apes as real human beings put their lives in great danger for our own amusement. Spectacle has history – grand dramas, bold statements, massive balls, all of them shock us out of the mundane. It’s what we want from all our art and entertainment. The reason Hirst’s stupid skull was so good was that it was fucking EPIC. So, with the clear-headedness of those who’ve escaped midsummer madness, we cry: more spectacle! More showmanship! More balls!

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Midsummer madness

Midsummer madness

Think Tank Midsummer Madness The style media: don’tcherjusthate’em? A-walkin’ and a-talkin’ as if they’re party to a Masonic society of cool which excludes all but their own inbred social sphere (simpering fashion pricks with socks worn as hats and ugly, superior post-intellectuals incapable of speaking without an arched eyebrow of disdain). For those of you who wish biblical plagues of pustules visited upon the faux-grimy streets of Shoreditch – glad tidings! A peculiar malady has descended upon E1 and we in Notion towers are not immune… ‘So what’s happened?’ you cry, ‘And, more importantly, why should we do aught but rejoice? For is it not true that the style media’s constitution is exclusively people who pride themselves on their inability to be offended by, say, films about new forms of “cock fighting”? Those who would merely smirk at the sight of a man’s penis pecked to a pulp by a steroid-loaded rooster before a crowd of distressed, wailing orphans instead of being morally outraged? Fie to them! We wish them death by laxative!’ While we admit we’re yet to be convinced of the style press’ actual worth to the moral quality of society, you’ve gotta hear us out on this. You ask what’s wrong? This summer, in the private viewings and preview screenings we all frequent, the atmosphere of insouciant cultural critique has descended into tempests of partisan fashionista violence, all of us irate at this or that lacklustre piece of contemporary art rather than taking our usual joy in dismissing it. What had happened? Had we become so human as to no longer see others’ failures as an opportunity to re-assert our own fine taste? We were all perplexed (unusual in itself for an industry of know-alls). Whenever such storms would break out, we began to reassure one another by quoting the Bard – “Why,” we’d say, “this is very midsummer madness!” Thus spake Olivia in Twelfth Night, comparing the behaviour of her besotted servant Malvo’lio to the actions of rabid dogs beneath the glare of the June sun. Slowly, we realised the aptness of this statement – it was indeed a form of midsummer madness that had afflicted us all. But this summer it could hardly have been the glare of the sun which had sent us all mad. Nor, we hasten to add, is anyone at Notion afflicted with rabies (except, perhaps, the Editor). Still, when torrential rain and gales put a crimp on our wine-and-olives summer-park habits, we need some art that’s going to chase us down alleyways, up fire escapes and across the roof-tops, art that runs us so hard the act of breathing feels like it might break our chest bone in half, art that dangles us over the edge of a 15 storey building for shits and giggles. We need art that’s not afraid of breaking our face with stiletto heels, films that can illuminate the filthy crevices of our mind and live spectaculars like bombs in our crotches. Our midsummer madness, this debilitating malady laying waste to Hoxton, we realised, it’s brought on by the complete dearth of decent shit . So what’s this midsummer madness? It’s a poncy way of saying: WE’RE BORED! You’re boring us! Artists! Musicians! Filmmakers! Theatres! What’s this shit you’re showing us? How the fuck are we supposed to proclaim our superiority from our artfully designed pages when what you’re showing us to write about is B-O-R-I-N-G?! This is the reason exhibitions frequented by lifestyle editors are beginning to resemble illustrations from Dante’s Inferno , limbless torsos wailing that they’re doomed for eternity to wear tanktops and shorts. Festivals are obvious, line-ups uninspired. The multiplexes are filled with continuations of franchises that we really couldn’t be arsed with to begin with – “amazing, it’s Arachnidboy 14½! Let’s spend forty quid on popcorn RIGHT NOW!” is exactly what we haven’t been saying this summer. We’ve now seen so many retrospectives of Surrealism that when we need to make a phone call, we dive into the nearest seafood restaurant and order lobster. We were beginning to doubt we’d get the art-exhilaration vaccine we needed to survive the next few months. Without it, the style media might perish… But, Deus Ex Machina, we were saved! We began to come across events that bombed out the auditorium with muscles and nudity, the promise of death and slapstick comedy. We were rejuvenated by artists over-reaching and over-achieving, and by filmmakers ripping it up and starting again. Artists challenging themselves, vainglorious failures and supreme successes at once. This is what we want to write about! And you, you who snort and guffaw at we pretentious fools’ pain – be glad! For as we fell upon it all like some hipster Lawrence of Arabia would fall upon crates of Redstripe and Stoly after crawling across the desert, we realised that there was more and more – not merely an oasis of a crate, but an ocean of a free bar. We can hope again! We can tell you all about it again, and be superior again. We present to you just a few of those things that re-invigorated our passion in culture – in the hope that our passion might inspire you to find medication for your own midsummer madness. When you do, you – like us – will know the joy of displaying your superiority through your supreme good taste. It’s wrong, but it feels so good…

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Culture Vulture - Child's Play

Culture Vulture - Child's Play

CULTURE VULTURE: CHILD’S PLAY Martha Cooper’s Street Play The Vulture sits perched atop the Gherkin, torpid and full, digesting the exquisite morsels he has recently purloined from some cultural cadaver. Ruminating as he does this, he concludes that now is the ideal time to tell you about a worldwide network of remarkable artists, who combine arts brut and povera, Duchamps’ ready-mades and a Surrealist re-signification of objects and acts. They are, of course, the Children. And he really does mean kids, wee bairns, the little darlings. See, the sight of children at play is a remarkable one. Outside the window of the office where the Vulture dictates this piece to his assistant, five children stand atop a beat-up Nissan and, in a sublime piece of performance art, take turns to jump on it in a Mexican wave of derision towards the capitalist model of consumption and obsoletion. When quizzed about their inspiration for this protest piece (much better than Wallinger’s State Britain ), these proto-Zapatistas simply stopped, climbed down, and, prior to dispersing, advised the Vulture: “Fuck off, gayer”. What wisdom! The one problem with observing these great artists’ works is that the presence of an adult shits on the whole reason for it existing and makes it stop. Adult-accompanied, a child is a lazy little fuck seeking only to freeload your evermore-depleted reserves of fun and money whilst taking every opportunity to be obstinate. Alone, it’s different: what seems like a caustic verbal assault on the Vulture’s sexuality was in fact a plea to protect their precious creative process. The transgression of rules and common sense which defines child’s play exists only without adults, so rarely do we glimpse it. Martha Cooper’s Eastpak exhibition Street Play is a singular peek into this unfathomable creative world. In 1977, Cooper used up film stock left over from work for the New York Times by driving around the impoverished, derelict Alphabet City on the Lower East Side, just “looking for creative things kids were doing when their parents weren’t watching”. The Vutlure opines that the resulting collection is an illuminating chronicle of the ephemeral, perpetual novelty defining children’s art. Their act of play leaves no record; it is judged purely on its ability to sustain entertainment (like drunken conversations with tramps). The photos should already be a creative bible – like Subway Art , her legendary chronicle of early 80s graffiti. So why is this vital document only reaching us now? “B ecause no one wanted to publish it. [The photos] have acquired a vintage patina over the years. When they were first taken I think they were just too ordinary.” The years of illumination we’ve missed out on! “My idea of documenting kids being creative grew into documenting hip hop. I don’t consider myself a hip hop photographer – the term didn’t exist. Graffiti is very much connected, because of that sense of play.” These children and their ilk - bored, poor and probably higher than the Vulture has ever been - would create the zeitgeist of the decadent end to the millenium. Do you see already, now, the brilliance of these creatures and what it can lead to? While these kids might have been wearing enough gold and surrounded by enough whores to corrupt a Pope in their imagination, we’ll settle for what we can see. The Vulture likes the sweet-natured series involving kids setting up a pretend bar using rusting cans, before staggering around pretending to be drunk. Another series sees boys “cooking” leaves in a club house, followed by the house collapsed into rubbish a day later. In a fit of pretension which might well see him ejected from real life, the Vulture associates the drunk’s tin cans with a Warhol-turned-binman pop art, and indicates parallels with the post-war Italian art povera movement, where natural objects become buildings and furniture. The images serve as a how-to for artists everywhere. “I’m proud of those pictures because they’re intimate – how many pictures have been taken inside a children’s playhouse?” The photos are, in a way, the kids’ own – as if they used this adult as a tool for their art. I wouldn’t put it past them; children are evil as well as genius, as we all know. Cooper describes herself as an ethnographer: “my form of documentary photography is a very literal, specific sort of historic preservation.” With Street Play , she’s documented the child’s world of inspired artistic genius – something, perhaps, for Tracy Emin to learn from before she makes any more flimsy shit, forcing the Vulture to read her precious explanations in ALL NEWSPAPERS FOR A MONTH - without realising that what she’s done is in fact merely a CHARLATAN’S IMPERSONATION OF ART. Cooper worries that “you’re not gonna find kids roaming Manhattan using raw materials the way they used to.” About that, she’s wrong – children are born artists. To win a copy of Street Play, turn to Lucky Buggers, page 97 www.e-eastpak.com Read (Imperative)! See through the eyes of a child. The Vulture forthwith suggests some themed reading matter. Writers, as adults, look hazily back on youth in the hope they might find how to recapture the pure pleasure of throwing stones at cows . 1. Arthur and Guinevere – James Schuyler – Philandering gay poet’s only novel, a dialogue-only story of the imagined world inhabited by a brother and sister avoiding family troubles. Light and charming like a kid in a bow-tie floating into the sky with a balloon. 2. Cider with Rosie – Laurie Lee – Professional Old Man Lee writes about the bucolic beauty and hardship of Gloucestershire in the age before technology ruined everything. Lots of corn and illness. 3. Les Enfants Terrible – Jean Cocteau – Sublime tale of another brother and sister’s fantasy world which leads to sexual deviance and death. Savour with red wine and prozac. 4. Le Grand Meaulnes – Alain-Fournier – The consuming adventures of childhood striving for love and fantasy worlds, ultimately disappointed by the realisation that other people are selfish c***s. 5. Bonjour Tristesse – Francoise Sagan – Teenage girl leads romantic fantasy life and accidentally perverts hordes of men old and young; like if Lolita wrote her own story.

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Vault 49

You might have noticed how the stunning M.I.A cover binding these here pages bears the signature stamp of some special guest designers, Vault49. Who else would surprise us by gently taming the technicolour queen, flushing the brights from her outfit and enveloping her in soft, enchanted foliage, all the while hinting at her turbulent history with their unique visual language. Not only have they done Notion the honour of crafting our cover design, but they’ve also spoiled us by taking care of our M.I.A feature inside. Close inspection of their intricate style will best acquaint you with their inimitable style. Whether you recognise the name Vault49 or not, chances are the independent design gurus have invaded your consciousness at some point. Remember the Pepsi cans, each only subtly altering the geometric background from the last? That was them. The E4 campaign where seemingly innocent pictures are juxtaposed with sinister words, such as ‘paranoia’ and ‘corruption’? Them again. The pseudo-classical, floral-patterning, dreamy artwork now ubiquitous on dance music pack shots was of course first created by Vault; no doubt myriad design agencies set about aping characteristics of their work. And who can blame them? They’ve designed everything. And when I say ‘everything,’ I really mean it. Coca Cola, Smirnoff and MTV? That’s not just a winning combination as the precursor to a big night out; they’ve all felt Vault49’s artistic touch. From billboards to boxes, clothes to credit cards, nothing’s proven out of their creative reach. So with a client list reading like a who’s who of, well, just about everything, what made the British duo look to swap the Big Smoke for the Big Apple? Are you sitting comfortably? Then read on and I’ll tell you a tale… In 2003, John Kenyon and John Glasgow (yup, perhaps a tiny ounce of Vault49’s magic derives from its creators’ matching names!) attended a client’s party in New York, and within a week of being back in London the team had committed to a transatlantic transfer. Fast forward less than a year and they’d made the move. John Glasgow explains, ‘For a change of scenery and life, and to explore a new city and another part of the world’; an experience which has now doubt fired their creative flair further. And with New York’s outlook being, ‘on the whole, much more positive,’ Vault49 has gone from strength to strength. But what’s been the biggest difference in Vault49’s work since the move? ‘One of the most inspiring aspects of working in the US has actually been our interaction with the advertising agencies,’ says John. ‘They’ve been more adventurous in the briefs they’ve given us and have really put their money where their mouth is.’ So although Prince may have recently branded America ‘creatively stagnant,’ for these Brits abroad the change has been far more than ‘as good as’ the proverbial rest. And anyway, ‘many of the best aspects of US graphic design trend to reference European design for inspiration.’ But no one ever said change was easy. In fact – although I’m not certain as to why – David Bowie once told us to ‘look out, you rock n rollers.’ But whether the team consider themselves rock n rollers or not, with change invariably comes some level of sacrifice. Although the two Johns have no regrets about the move, it did bring about the sale of their Old Kent road screen printing studio. This has particularly affected Glasgow as it’s ‘without question’ his favourite medium with which to work. ‘It’s the most creative process we know,’ he says. Further, screen printing is ‘where accidents are often more welcome than the intended results.’ Expertly printed, graphic t-shirts and apparel have always been an integral element of their work. They formerly ran a clothing brand called Roule, but as this proved ‘too time consuming,’ they’ve replaced it with a collaboration with Artful Dodger. But before you scream ‘Bo!’ this is nothing to do with UK Garage. Or, for that matter, Dickens. Artful Dodger is a hot New York clothing firm specialising in directional streetwear, now distinctive for Vault’s ornate, colourful embroidery and curious printed imagery. It’s in menswear that John has noticed the biggest difference between London and New York. ‘Men’s apparel is taking a turn for the better over here,’ he says. ‘With the softening of macho ideals comes lavish embroidery, delicate tailoring and even some sequins for the brave! Beautiful tailoring with elaborate detail is no longer the reserve of women.’ Amen to that! So as we bring this tale to a close, do they have a favourite commission? ‘That could be the carpets of a Las Vegas casino,’ begins John. ‘Or the decals and interior of a nitrus-fuelled Porsche 911, a global campaign for Samsung, the Guardian marquee at Glastonbury…’ Although favourite should really be only one, the rules were apparently made to be broken by agencies like Vault, so I’ll sign off by letting that fly. Just this once. www.vault49.com

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The designers republic

The designers republic

OK. Pop quiz, hotshot! What do Coca Cola, Swatch watches, mid 90s Indie-pop heavyweights, Pulp, and Sony’s quaint little artificially intelligent robotic dog thing have in common? No, it’s not that each has their heyday firmly in the past, oh cynical reader. Well, OK, I suppose it is that (although Coke can’t really complain at the moment). But the link I’m referring to is that they’ve all been encased in packaging created by Sheffield based design giants, The Designers’ Republic (tDR). — But designing watches, CD cases, bottles and toys is far from the limit of one of British graphic design’s leading lights. Since Ian Anderson set up the company in 1986 as an alternative to the era’s mainstream design community, they’ve been at its cutting edge. First producing flyers, they’ve since broadened their horizons by designing posters, album sleeves, books, computer games, TV advertisements, various corporate images and were even asked to pitch when Slovenia wanted a redesign of its national flag! — They’ve drawn influences from everything from early 20th Century Soviet constructivism to Japanese Anime and used creative vehicles as diverse as t-shirts, flyers, video and modern art. Ask which is the enigmatic Anderson’s favourite medium though, and the only response is a cryptic ‘Ideas. It’s all we have of any value.’ — While a quick glance down any of the nation’s high streets shows their work’s inspiration to today’s designers – that famous abuse of the Coca-Cola logo contorted oh so hilariously to read ‘Cocaine’? Thanks to tDR, dance-rock pioneers Pop Will Eat Itself had their initials on a manipulated Pepsi logo way back in the 80s. And yet despite this – and industry specialists rating tDR as one of the UK’s coolest brands last year – to the average (wo)man on the street they’re as little known as to how to detect the sex of an octopus. — So what is it that’s made them so unique? ‘We aren’t other designers,’ says Anderson bluntly. And it’s this defiant ‘fuck you’ attitude which so encapsulates the brand and its work. For starters, take their refusal to leave their home in the UK’s cutlery capital. You may expect sitting outside of London’s creative hub to be detrimental but Anderson counts it as a definite positive, confidently declaring: ‘We’ve made sure it is.’ — It’s then further emphasised in that even though clients include gargantuan corporations such as Sony, Proctor & Gamble and Powergen, the company has never sold out its ideals in pursuit of the Yankee dollar. Take slogans such as ‘Buy nothing, pay now,’ ‘Customised terror’ and ‘Work, buy, consume, die’ for instance. Or their systematic bastardisation of various company logos; each accompanied by subversive messages. They aren’t just biting the hand that feeds them. They’re taking huge mouthfuls and not stopping until they reach the shoulder. And yet the commissions from multinationals continue to flock in, perhaps realising that a little bit of humility on their part is worth the bottom line results that tDR’s work yields. — So would a lucrative job ever go against the company’s principles to such an extent they wouldn’t touch it? ‘Yes,’ is the monotone response from Anderson, but with little more information forthcoming, I guess we’ll never know where that dividing line would lie. Perhaps a clue comes from the brand’s ethos, summed up in Anderson’s esoteric statement: ‘Information should be achieved, not given.’ www.thedesignersrepublic.com

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Culture Vulture

Culture Vulture

Foul, distended, rotting and, above all, tasty – these are the corpses of Culture littering the British landscape, and the Vulture is perched considering each vile hulk with eager anticipation. The Vulture reflects that perhaps the flesh of the season’s contemporary classical music might best be enjoyed with a sharp Muscadet and olives... Turning to the stars of the celebrity firmament, he gleefully imagines savouring Russell Brand’s inevitable downfall with a hubris-rich Béarnaise sauce. — “It was a mark of his absolute civility and culture,” wrote W. Somerset Maugham, “that he had achieved nothing in his life bar absolute mastery of the Art of Conversation.” Dilettantes everywhere pay heed – culture is most enjoyable when wielded to display one’s superiority. Anticipation ( 111 Great Titchfield St , London ; 24/05-07/06 ) is this summer’s exhibition to wryly condemn others for missing during casual chat. Run by three art world-hardened harridans of sublime judgement, the show collates work from the most exciting recent graduates; in particular, Boo Ritson’s photographs of painted models revel in everything grotesque about people while celebrating (only slightly) our humanity. — For those who consider America crass and vulgar, good news! New York magazine has officially passed the crown for world capital on to Lahndan Tahhhn, apparently in a ceremony witnessing symbolic copulation between both city’s representative Allens: be-cardiganed Woody and gauche Lily. Consolidating this hideous spectacle is the Mayor’s Lates campaign , which is facilitating museums and galleries across this still-idiot-riddled city to make said idiots less idiotic by opening late on weeknights. — Aside from providing the Vulture’s recommended way to artistically cop a feel, Lates is also bringing us First Thursdays , a Whitechapel-led initiative organising late night openings and events throughout east London. May’s inventive programme saw a vast, suggestive Hoxton Square pillow fight and the Art Hunt though the infinite galleries of Hipster Central. Such should be the gregarious public spirit created by late night viewings and extended Tube running times that the event of la Brand being hanged from London Bridge by one of his stringy, effete little scarves (this year’s preferred equinox celebration) will be a moment of community spirit to rival the Blitz. This might briefly distract the Vulture from the fact that Europe’s Largest Cultural Quarter is about to be flattened by bulldozers paid for with all the Arts Funding gobbled up by the giant Olympic folly of 2012. — In the spirit of community, the Royal Festival Hall (08/06-10/06, London Southbank) reopens in June with 48 hours of free concerts . Come see what 23 months and £91 million can make, whilst also basking in the glory of others’ artistic endeavours for free. The Vulture also recommends Tate Modern’s Long Weekend (25/05-28/05). — Though he lingers immovably on his perch atop the Gherkin, the Vulture is aware of a world beyond Zone 2. The first Manchester International Festival ( 28/06-15/07, city-wide ) is the world’s largest gathering of new exhibitions, including the sight of Damon Albarn’s ego (which long ago consumed his body) collaborating with Gorrilaz’ artist Jamie Hewlett on an opera of Chinese mythturned- cult-70s-TV show “Monkey” – I believe they call it “high concept”. — Meanwhile, concrete wasteland Birmingham hosts a festival to comfort its citizens: New Generation Artists ( 14/06-29/06 ) will feature cultural names as big as Germaine “compromised credibility” Greer debating regional art and workshops for budding creatives, all under the ever-relevant theme of “Identity and Diversity”. The NGA should provide Birmingham residents something to do other than gouge out their own hearts in despair. — Finally, the Vulture implores you to remember that, for all his culture, he is still a bird and loves nothing more during the summer than to take flight on the warm breeze and survey all there is around him. He advises there is nothing more cultural or educational than simply taking a walk with your eyes open. It’s amazing what morsels you might feast on. WHAT: Atlas Gallery WHERE: 49 Dorset Street , London W1U 7NF EXHIBITIONS: Floris Neususs’ exquisite photogram light-paintings (27/04-02/06) will be followed by Vintage and Recent Acquisitions (14/06-14/07), highlighting the best of 19th and 20th century fine art photography, including the revolutionary Man Ray and controversial Nazi propagandist Leni Reifenstahl. Art Date WHAT: “Sleep”, Andy Warhol’s 18 hour film of his then-lover, poet John Giorno, asleep accompanied by the performance that inspired it, John Cage’s staging of epic 18 hour repetitive work “Vexations 1893.” WHERE: Tate Modern, Southbank WHEN: 19:30 27/05 – 14:00 28/05; ticketed. The Vulture compels you to disobey self-styled “poet” Scroobius Pip’s 193 rd commandment thou shalt always use art and music to get into someone’s pants. Where better than in the iconic Tate Modern, during this gruelling and impossibly pretentious (but doubtless fantastic) 18 hour film and music performance? While the rest of the audience is either following the lead of Giorno (asleep) or Warhol (too whacked on speed to touch their own noses), you and Date can shove hands knicker-wards guilt free, whilst also luxuriating in the knowledge that you’ll have been a part of this high-brow nonsense without needing to appreciate absolutely anything about it.

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Travel to...Manchester!

Travel to...Manchester!

It’s grim up north? You obviously haven’t been to Manchester recently. Once a city of mills, filthy canals and smoggy air, today the place is transformed. Think more Footballers Wives than Dirty Dives, and trust me when I say that’s a good thing! Sure the miserable heroes of yesteryear have left their mark; Joy Division, The Smiths... But now it’s the upbeat Hacienda vibe that lives on. ‘And on the eighth day God created Manchester,’ was their favourite phrase. Clubbers raved on to the Happy Mondays, Primal Scream, Stone Roses and the Inspiral Carpets (the ugliest band in the world ever, possibly). Today’s generation has never had it so good, with some of the chicest British boutiques. You could make a pilgrimage to follow in Morrissey’s footsteps, lurk around the famous Salford Lads Club, skulk around graveyards if that’s your thing. Laters, we’re hitting the town! IT’S A FACT! · MANCHESTER SET UP THE FIRST PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL LEAGUE IN 1888. · LOCAL PREACHER REV WILLIAM COWHERD INSPIRED THE FORMATION OF THE VEGETARIAN MOVEMENT IN 1815. · MANCHESTER WAS HOME TO THE WORLD’S FIRST INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION. · IT IS NOT THE WETTEST CITY IN THE UK. IT COMES NINTH BELOW OTHER CITIES SUCH AS GLASGOW AND PLYMOUTH. TONGUE-TIED? “NOT SEEN YOU FOR TIME!” – “ I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU FOR AGES! ” ”NOT SEEN YOU FOR PURE TIME!” – “ I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU FOR A REALLY, REALLY LONG TIME! ” ”NO MITHER!” – “ NO WORRIES! ” ”EEE YAR!” – “ EXCUSE ME ” ” DO ONE! ” – “ GO AWAY! ” ’ MINT ” – “ GREAT ” “ STOP TALKING RUNCORN YA LITTLE WHOPPER! ” – “ REFRAIN FROM TALKING GOBBLEDEGOOK, YOU CRAZY CAT! ” CHECK THIS OUT Manchester has shopping to rival London in a compact city centre. Selfridges is right beside Harvey Nichols, which is next to the Arndale Shopping Centre. Some shopping centres get bad press - the Arndale was gutted by an IRA bomb in 1996. Rebuilt, it’s now a glittering retail palace with a great food court and market. The Manchester City Art Gallery (Moseley Street) has fine old masters. Or the Urbis Exhibition Centre (Cathedral Gardens) explores global cultures, covering photography, design, architecture, music and art. Tram it to Salford Quays, the city’s revamped docklands . Here you’ll find the Lowry Outlet Mall with top brands at low prices. The Lowry Art Centre is an architectural flagship offering ace entertainment andhouses LS Lowry’s art collection which includes his world famous city scapes with ‘matchstick men and matchstick cats and dogs’. The Imperial War Museum North is a must-see. The building itself is an award winner from Daniel Libeskind. Inside you’ll discover people and their stories; how lives have been and still are shaped by war. GET AWAY AND STAY Go carbon friendly and leave the plane behind. Virgin Train runs regular services to Manchester. Their new website makes it easy to find the cheapest fare. Upgrading to First Class at the weekends costs just £15 . Go on, spoil yourself. www.virgintrains.co.uk The Ibis Hotel ( 96 Portland Street ) is right in the thick of things. A hop, skip and a jump from some prime shopping and the city’s bars and clubs makes its location perfect around the clock. Rooms cost just £59 a night making it easy on the wallet and breakfast is served till noon to oust that morning after. www.ibishotel.com ON THE PULL ‘Queer As Folk’ put the city’s gay village squarely on the map and it’s been paying the price ever since with hen party invasions. Canal Street is central to all things queer. You can’t really go wrong with the likes of Spirit , Taurus , Tribeca , Queer , and Velvet . The Rembrant is older and ‘rougher’ but they’re all just pussycats underneath the leather. Hotel bars have had a bad name in the past. But the new Hilton ( 303 Deansgate ) is the hottest ticket in town, with the Cloud 23 bar offering chic drinks and spectacular views. Alternatively, the Northern Quarter is drawing them in with Bluu , Odd , TV21 , Trof and Socio Rehab . Or if it’s summer hit the Castlefield area for Barca , and Dukes 92 . Fancy hitting the dancefloor? Sankeys on Great Ancoats was only refurbished earlier this year, or head to Club V on Deansgate , or alternatively Ampersand , behind Deansgate . IT’S A DATE! 28th June – 15th July The first ever Manchester International Festival presents unseen work and fresh ideas from the most talented innovators. August . Manchester Pride is one of the biggest gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender (keep it PC!) festivals outside of London. There’s film, arts, community events, entertainment and a big ole parade. Remember, heels mean pain! October . Manchester Comedy Festival brings laughs from its creme of comedy talent.

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Mean Streets

“SUMMERTIME AND THE LIVING IS EASY...” COMES OUT OF THE STEREO; IT’S SET ON A WINDOWSILL, AND BEHIND IT ARE GREEN TREES, BLUE SKIES, BIRDS, FLOWERS. THIS IS IT, BABY, THIS IS THE LIFE – IT’S SATURDAY MORNING AND IT ’S SUMMER AND YOU’RE GOING TO TREAT YOURSELF REEEAL GOOD, MEDIA STYLE. YOU’VE GOT YOUR FRESH-GROUND FAIR TRADE COFFEE, YOU’VE GOT YOUR PASTRIES, YOU’VE GOT YOUR TABLE LINEN; YOU JUST NEED THE PAPERS. GO ON, THEN – OFF YOU GO TO THE SHOP DOWN THE ROAD. Got ‘em? Great. Sit down, pour the coffee, eat a pastry and have a read... SHIT! You’ve just spat your pastry and coffee all over the front page, right? Apparently, you’re lucky you made it down the street to the shop just to buy the papers. Let’s run through that walk again, shall we? You stepped out the door. BISH! You were filmed by seven hundred CCTV cameras, five government agencies immediately located you via your mobile phone’s unique signature; you were lucky not to be transported on a late night CIA extraordinary rendition flight to a torture den on the moon. You made it to the pavement . BOSH! By a geographical sleight of hand, you avoided being gunned down by immigrant mobsters – but only because you live in Dulwich and they all live in Tower Hamlets. You never know, they may have just abducted you and forced you into one of their brothels or cockle-picking projects. You’re walking along the street. BASH! Those two policemen you just passed, yeah? Well, don’t you feel lucky they didn’t take offence at your race/height/demeanour/rucksack and gun you down like so much Menezes on their shoe? — You’ve made it to the shop. BOOM! That’s the noise a terrorist’s bomb would have made. Then, you would have had to walk back, doubtless through the gangs of braying, spitting four year olds swearing like seamen and trying to slice your head off with their ASBOs. And Christ help you if you were smoking a cigarette – you thought you were in danger? Everyone you passed while you smoked DIED IMMEDIATELY as a result of your second hand smoke. These streets, kiddo... they’re pretty mean. But by now, you’ve calmed down. You’ve wiped the pastry and the coffee from your paper and your trousers, and you’re staring disdainfully at the news that startled you. In that crass, cocksure manner of yours, you’re saying, “Like, get with it – get out of 2005 already. That shit don’t scare me no more.” So, fair enough. Maybe your friend has been mugged, but it was more an annoyance than life threatening. You haven’t been blown up, though some people were a while ago. Neither you nor your friends have been held prisoner for 28 days without charge. Those streets ain’t so mean. You’re so laissez-faire, so oo-la-la, you’re over your fear and you’re worrying about what you’re gonna do tonight , how you’re gonna score a gram you don’t give a fuck about what might happen in the name of mean streets. — WELL. FUCK. YOU. We care. We care about being watched 24 hours a day. We care about having 52 different forms of our genetic data being stored on a national computer system, without knowing who has access to it. We care that we are no longer in charge of our own health, that someone decides what we can and can’t do – and often according to long-obsolete moral codes. We care that all of a sudden we’re under suspicion for walking down a street. We care that we’re told we’re in danger from all sorts of threats every day and that the only answer is to clamp down on everyone’s freedoms – and we care that the problems aren’t being solved, just reacted to. We really care that we can’t even protest about it in front of Parliament without giving written fucking notice in advance. We care that we’re living in a society with the worst record in the developed world for spying on its citizens. We care that we’re living in a Police State. Related Articles: Notion gets mugged What we fear Shami Chakrabarti Privacy - CCTV & ID Health

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Health

WE’RE BEATEN AND DOWN. WE’VE BEEN FLAYED AND THRASHED – OUR SKIN HANGS LOOSE IN BLOODY STRIPS. WE CURL ON THE FLOOR, FOETAL, BY OUTDOOR WALLS AND BAGS OF FETID GARBAGE. WE DON’T KNOW WHERE THE NEXT ASSAULT IS COMING FROM, BUT WE KNOW IT WILL. Our attackers are relentless in their persecution, ferocious in their means and unforgiving of our every cigarette. They are the anti-smokers: now, they’ve succeeded in turning those who would harbour us, provide us room for a night and shelter from the cold, into criminals. They’ve banned smoking in public places and they think they’ve won. We can’t let them! Smoking has been ingrained in British cultures for centuries, if not millennia. From the Shisha bar to the Teesside working men’s club, smoking has played its role in the havens where people escape from the empty toil that constitutes their worthless lives. These dens of iniquity are to lose a defining aspect of their atmosphere completely, a deeply saddening fact that is worsened when we look at the opposition more closely. — These mercilessly healthy hounds, these anti-smokers, how they make us fear! How they chant their slogans at us, that smoking kills, that passive smoking kills! How they bombard us with figures seemingly guaranteeing the immediate, hideous death of all we love before eventually we will succumb ourselves! How they jam into our mouths the rotten lungs of smokers and pour the thick black tar of a thousand cigarettes through tubes in our ears! — Enough! Let’s fight back with some statistics of our own: NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON HAS EVER, EVER DIED FROM PASSIVE SMOKING. There are no death certificates with the cause of death listed as environmental tobacco smoke, not one. Smokers dying of lung cancer? 99.8% of us will not. Does it upset no-one else that the World Health Organisation spends more money on anti-smoking campaigns than curing AIDS and Malaria in the developing world? — We live in a society that is scared. We cower, waiting to discover which next dayto- day occurrence will be pronounced deadly by our new Gods, the Doctors, spouting facts from Science our faith to lead us to Health our Heaven. What is this society which has descended into such a fear of risk? Must we demand our every pleasure comes not only guilt-free, oh my fair-trade poseurs, but also risk-free? What is this ridiculous fashion? And what business is it of theirs if we smoke? Aside, that is, from their health products and services business. It’s not just the smoking ban Notion wants to challenge – it just typifies this pathetic fad, this fear of nothing, this doomed pursuit. What is it that your vitamin supplements and your cod liver oil provide you that simple fucking food cannot? Honestly, quanti-fucking-fiably, how much better are you than us because of it? Why do you desire so much to become an Aryan Uber-mensch that you will condemn yourself to a life of anaemic pleasure? You strive against some future inevitability and forget the pleasure of your youth. And what was that pleasure? Once, it was the giddy glee of discovering the forbidden without knowledge of danger, like playing in spooky derelict buildings. — In maturity, we suggest that pure, beautiful vice is the greatest source of pleasure, all the more divine for knowing the dangers of the forbidden and finding solace in that infinity of risk anyway. Every now and then, Health must go fucking scream into the wind – we need to not care about danger because it makes the pointless toil bearable. — So let us praise vice for it is pure humanity! Let us build a society that acknowledges that we are human and so builds a place for vice because we need it sometimes. Let us respect the government that acts, not like the erroneous nanny slapping the cigarette from our lips and dragging us home by our ears, but who cares for us enough to regulate us. Let’s condemn the society that governs drugs on the word of obsolete science and puritan morality long since broken. And let’s just kill those who’d take the urge to vice and danger out of life because they obviously don’t appreciate living enough. — See, Notion knows smoking makes us smell. It makes us cough thick streams of oleaginous brown phlegm into the sink. It might kill us. We dearly hope that our smoking won’t kill someone else. We’ll be considerate. But we’ll enjoy every damn fag. We’ll enjoy the romance of sitting in train stations with a fag and a book, imagining we’re waiting for a returning lover. We’ll love lying on our backs, in grass, smoking and looking at the sky. We’ll revel in smoking in bars because it’s illegal. We’ll smoke because it makes us happy, and we’ll smoke towards the revolution.

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