Kim Jung Mi

If I were to tell you that one of the greatest records ever made came out South Korean psychedelic pop scene in 1973, you’d probably doubt my sanity. And you’d be utterly, utterly wrong.

I don’t know much about Kim Jung Mi. I know she’s backed on this track by fuzz-guitar maestro Shin Jung Hyun and his band The Men, but that’s about it. It’s from an album called Now, and that the track is called The Sun.

All that matters is that it’s like Sweet Jane crossed with Hey Jude crossed with Francois Hardy, and that every second is 24 carat, take-your-breath-away magnificent.

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In Which I Fix English Football

Years ago, when Terry Venables was about to retire as England manager, I offered my services to the F.A., and applied for the job. Rather graciously, they wrote back and turned me down.

More than a decade later, the game is still a mess. They’ve obviously learned nothing. So after the recent Switzerland game, I wrote to the F.A. again.

Dear Brian Barwick,

I went to watch England last night. It was another anxious ninety minutes, deja vu all over again. But I have a theory, and I believe I have the solution.

Collectively, England players have three major problems.

1) They assume they merely have to show up to beat ‘smaller’ teams. Quite where this misplaced sense of superiority comes from I’ve no idea, although I suspect it might have something to do with us once having an Empire.

2) Conversely, they suffer from a crippling fear that this might not be the case; that San Marino can make them look stupid (as they once did) or that ‘minnows’ like Croatia might actually be a much better side (which they are).

3) It’s obviously a psychological issue, which makes things worse, because the last thing the average English footballer – David James aside – wants to consider is that there might be a cerebral aspect to the game. It’s all, blood, thunder and God Save The Queen, innit?

So if we assume that we don’t want to return to the desperate days of Glen Hoddle’s empty-headed quackery (the man is quite clearly a maniac) we’ve got to look for a solution that relies on the few aspects of the English footballer’s psyche that might – with a little prodding – become a positive: the fear of losing their place in the side.

Assumed wisdom in soccer circles – if there is such a thing – suggests that the introduction of a new manager spices things up: with the slate wiped clean, the players who’ve been coasting realise they need to prove themselves again, while those previously excluded are given a second chance. It’s all hands to the pumps.

So here’s my solution: employ a whole series of managers, but restrict their involvement with the national side to two games apiece. In the first game of each series, the players will be fighting for their places in the second. In the second, the players will be desperate to impress the new manager they know is coming in for game number three. As an added bonus, the involvement of managers clearly out of their depth (like Steve McClaren, for instance) will be kept to a minimum.

Please let me know if you’d like to discuss my idea further.

Fraser Lewry
(England fan #55355280)

PS. Did you know that Fabio Capello is an anagram of ‘I, Capable Fool’?

And guess what? No reply.

I pay through the teeth and go to every home game. I eat the ridiculously over-priced food. I put up with the queues. I watch the national side under-performing again and again and again. I suffer.

And when I offer to solve the crisis (for free, mind), they ignore me.

It’s no wonder the sport is going to the dogs.

The Frontline Club

Had a terrific time last night at the member’s room at the Frontline Club, London’s premier watering hole for war correspondents, news cameramen, combat-weary soldiers and Jeremy Paxman. The evening, a food and wine event, was hosted by controversial wine writer Malcolm Gluck, a man whose very appearance, like that of a coal-streaked miner, gives away what he does for a living; the blotchy skin, broken veins and stained teeth marking him out as a serious, serial boozer.

He’s very entertaining, though, introducing the wine that accompanies each course (the food, incidentally, was excellent) with unbridled, loving enthusiasm, using the peculiar vocabulary of the seasoned wine-taster with near-maniacal abandon: one rather lovely red is described as “waxy, like old school desks”, but it’s not as crazy as it sounds – you can actually see what he’s getting at.

We’re asked to provide our own descriptions for each drink, and I attempt to enter the spirit of the occasion (bearing in mind that I can’t generally tell the different between a Chateaunerf de Pape and a carton of Ribena), describing one glass as “like opening a dusty encyclopedia and inhaling the pages” and another as “golden fucking syrup”. Malcolm, rather pleasingly, sees through this straight away, quite rightly mocking my insincerity. There may be something to this wine-tasting malarkey after all.

I was also interviewed by a very nice chap from BBC Radio, alongside a couple of proper food bloggers, Mrs Cook Sister and Mr Spittoon. The latter revealed that he regularly gets sent free food and wine to road-test. I, rather sadly, don’t.

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

I went out boxing on Friday night (to watch, not to take part) with Mrs Ladyshambles, Mrs Shoeboobies and Mr Quality Nonsense. And boy, what a fine time we had – there’s really nothing like brutal hand-to-hand combat to ensure that an evening out goes well.

Although I’m an occasional watcher of TV bouts, I wouldn’t generally claim that one man pummeling his fist into the face of another could provide such absolutely compelling entertainment, but it did, and all the cliches that boxing supporters tend to reel out when the sport is under-fire seem to ring true: that it is a noble pursuit, that its participants do enjoy what they do, and that every precaution is taken to ensure the safety of the boxers (ambulances on standby, doctors in the corners, knocked-out fighters expected to remain on the canvas until the medics allow them to rise, etc.). The atmosphere wasn’t nearly as leery as I thought it was going to be, either – the York Hall full of menacing-looking cockney geezers and brassy birds, but everyone was friendly, and there was no aggression outside the ring.

In the main event, Tony Oakey (who enters the ring to the jaunty strains of The Hokey Cokey) knocked out Peter Haymer in the ninth, bringing a sudden end to the shrieking of Haymer’s poor partner, who stood just to my left. All the way through the bout, she screamed: “USE YOUR BOXING, PETE!” “PISS HIM OFF, PETE!” “JAB, PETE!” “C’MON PETE!

You’d not get me in a boxing ring for any kind of money… and I don’t think it can be much easier standing helpless on the sidelines while a loved one is getting punched either.

Remind me never to marry a lady boxer.

Why this Weblog is Rubbish

It was the seventh anniversary of this weblog on December 16. No-one noticed, and it’s hardly surprising: a look at the number of posts made in each year since blogjam’s inception reveals a very ugly truth.

2008 (3)
2007 (50)
2006 (33)
2005 (99)
2004 (116)
2003 (158)
2002 (336)
2001 (425)
2000 (22)

If that’s not clear, here’s the decline in graph format.


Or, to put it another way: in 2001 I averaged 1.16 posts per day. Last year, it was down to less than one post a week. It’s a fucking disgrace.

To be honest, I’m surprised anyone still reads this rubbish, given that I obviously put so little effort into it (although I am surprised by the slightly increased post count last year over the previous). I know it’s easy in these new-fangled days of RSS feeds to monitor sites without actually having to visit them, but still… personally, I’d have gone elsewhere a long time ago.

I don’t even follow my own advice. Back in 2004, when New Zealand’s Net Guide magazine ran a feature entitled 47 key tips from the World’s best Bloggers, I was quoted (that’s how much better this site used to be) saying the following:

“Avoid ‘today I did this’ posts, unless what you did was extraordinary, or unless you can turn it into something extraordinary.”

Let’s examine the evidence, shall we? Here are ten things I did in 2007 that I didn’t blog about:

1) An amazing trip to North Korea
2) A fabulous time traveling round China by railway
3) A wonderful trip to Seoul
4) An incredible four days at a gypsy brass festival in Serbia
5) Quitting my rubbish job
6) A fantastic weekend in Berlin
7) Going to Paris on the first Eurostar train out of St. Pancras. Brilliant!
8) Holding a spectacular launch party for my book
9) Being interviewed by the BBC about kitten cuteness. Wow!
10) A brilliant afternoon learning how to bake at Paul.

Conversely, here are ten things I did blog about.

1) A track I listened to on my iPod
2) Another track I listened to on my iPod
3) Food in my larder I wasn’t sure what to do with
4) Accidentally clicking the wrong button while using Facebook
5) An Easyjet advert that looked a bit sexual
6) An e-mail I got from Amazon that contained a typo
7) Some problems I had with the Football Association website
8) Waking up and wandering round my flat
9) A friend starting a blog in Icelandic
10) Wearing a t-shirt

I really don’t know why you bother.

Highlights & Lowlights

Just in case I forget what a lovely time I’ve had on holiday, I’ve decided to list a few highlights.

1) The rabbit liver and warm ricotta starter at Peasant. Easily the most glorious thing I ate while away.

2) The American Football. The game had everything: records scattered, a great comeback, a kickoff returned for a touchdown, a 65-yard bomb for the wining score, an onside kick at the death, sporting history unfolding before my very eyes…

3) Niagara Falls out-of-season: cheap prices, no queues, hot solo jacuzzi action.

4) Philadelphia Cheesesteak. One sandwich at Pat’s, then across the road to Geno’s for another. The best? I’ll go with the more liberal snack.

5) The ice hockey. I know nothing about the sport, but it’s great entertainment; fast, noisy and violent.

6) Good films: The Diving Bell and The Butterfly: brilliant. What more could any film lover wish for than a movie devoted to a man who has a stroke and can only communicate by blinking his left eye? That’s my kind of flick. No Country for Old Men: Pretty good. The first 70% was great, but then it suddenly stopped making sense. It’s possible I fell asleep for ten minutes and missed some vital plot advances. There Will Be Blood: Good. Yep, Daniel Day-Lewis gives the ‘towering performance’ everyone reports, and is probably a shoe-in for the Oscar, but the film tries a bit too hard to be epic – lots of lingering, brooding close-ups of the actor, flames reflected in his eyes, that kind of thing.

7) Gogol Bordello, New Year’s Eve, Terminal 5. For three hours, it’s like Borat fronting the Pogues. Brilliant.

8) The Soprano’s Tour: finding myself stuffing dollar bills into a stripper’s cleavage at the original Bada-Bing at one o’clock in the afternoon wasn’t something I’d expected from the holiday, but nonetheless, it wasn’t an unwelcome distraction. Also: the onion rings at Holsten’s aren’t all that.

9) The saffron panna cotta with quince, pink peppercorn and quince sorbetto at Babbo. The rest of the meal? I fear Mario may be resting on his laurels a little, so busy opening pizzerias and publishing books that he’s neglected the restaurant that made his name. I mean, the food was good, but it wasn’t great, and you’ve every right to expect great at one of New York’s best restaurants – and judging by the website, the menu doesn’t appear to have changed much in the last couple of years. I thought it a touch on the unnecessarily stuffy side, and there’s also the weird thing of getting Batali’s choice of (rather intrusive) background music: David Bowie, Red Hot Chili Peppers… it could be worse, but either way it didn’t feel right. It’s also one of those weird places where you’re constantly aware of the other diners, unlike, say, the more crushed but somehow more discreet Andrew Edmunds in London. My starter was the lamb’s brain ravioli with lemon and sage – the sage a little overpowering and the lemon undetectable, while the main was rabbit with brussels sprouts, pancetta and carrot vinaigrette, which was good but a little on the small side (two sprouts?).

10) Series four of The Wire. Watched all 12 episodes in one 24 hour period. Genius.

11) The pastrami on rye from Katz’s Deli. Still a classic, but at $15 a pop it ought to be.

12). Getting boozy with my old friend Adrian on the Upper East Side.

And the downside:

1) My helicopter trip being canceled.

2) Gogol Bordello celebrating NYE five minutes early. Idiots. It’s just wrong.

3) The basketball. Tedious. Fire Isaiah.

4) Being humiliated onstage at the Moscow Cats Theatre, dragged up to face the audience, a stick in each hand topped by a spinning bowl, a cap jammed on my head supporting more spinning tupperware. Never trust a Russian clown, especially when you’re sitting in the front row. Still, at least I was wearing a kittenwar t-shirt, so I’ll consider it a valuable marketing exercise.

5) American Airlines from Stansted: never again.

Niagara


Me, a couple of hours ago. It’s currently -12°C. More pics here.


The view from my hotel suite. I’m just about to nip out for a steak, but if anyone wants to join me in the jacuzzi later on I’m in room 1217.

Best of 2007

Hooray. It’s time, once again, for my definitive guide to the best music of the year. This time round, I’ve decided to use the magic of embedded YouTube videos to showcase the albums do it the same way I did last year, so that you can make you’re own mind up as to whether I’m a) full of marvelous musical wisdom, or b) full of shite.

Rhubarb 20.
Rhubarb
The Julius Work Calendar

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Malcolm Middleton 19.
Malcolm Middleton
A Brighter Light

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Nina Nastasia 18.
Nina Nastasia & Jim White
You Follow Me

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El-P 17.
El-P
I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

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Burial 16.
Burial
Untrue

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Example 15.
Example
What We Made

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Jim Lauderdale 14.
Jim Lauderdale
The Bluegrass Diaries

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Okkervil River 13.
Okkervil River
The Stage Names

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M.I.A. 12.
M.I.A.
Kala

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Lucky Jim 11.
Lucky Jim
All The King’s Horses

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Wilco 10.
Wilco
Sky Blue Sky

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Gogol Bordello 9.
Gogol Bordello
Super Taranta

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Rachel Unthank 8.
Rachel Unthank & The Winterset
The Bairns

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Arcade Fire 7.
Arcade Fire
Neon Bible

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Battles 6.
Battles
Mirrored

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Friska Viljor 5.
Friska Viljor
Bravo!

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Alela Diane 4.
Alela Diane
The Pirate’s Gospel

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Tinariwen 3.
Tinariwen
Aman Iman: Water Is Life

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Imagined Village 2.
The Imagined Village
The Imagined Village

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Fanfare Ciocarlia 1.
Fanfare Ciocarlia
Queens & Kings

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Notes:

1) Only two hip hop albums, both by white artists? Ouch.

2) Perhaps worryingly, my favourite song of the year is also by a white rapper.

3) It’s a much folksier selection than usual.

4) Best gig of the year? Goran Bregovic, Guca Festival, Serbia.

5) Worst gig of the year? Easy. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Shepherds Bush Empire, London. Only show I’ve walked out on in anger since Bowie’s useless Glass Spider tour.

6) Most overrated record of the year? Stars Of The Lid’s And Their Refinement Of The Decline. Let’s compare two viewpoints:

“I simply feel that they are making the most important music of the 21st century.” Ivo Watts-Russell – 4AD label founder.

“What a load of noodley old bollocks. Don’t be suckered into buying this twaddle.” Fraser Lewry – blogjam.com

7) Tip for 2008? The Imagined Village will win the Mercury Prize.

Previously:
Best of 2006
Best of 2005
Best of 2004
Best of 2003
Best of 2002
Best of 2001
Best of 2000

The Best Walking To Work Song Ever

My walk to work takes 25 minutes. It’s a fairly leisurely ramble, certainly not part of any ludicrous fitness campaign, with the iPod generally switched to shuffle to accompany the stroll. One day last week, the following track took its turn. It’s Atlas, by Battles.

It’s perhaps the most infectiously rhythmic record of the year, and a remarkable thing happened. My stride lengthened. I walked with a greater urgency. And I seemed to get to work a little more quickly than normal.

So today I tried something. I followed my regular route to work, but I only played this track. Each time it finished, I started it again. By the time I reached the office my knee joints were aching and my calves aflame, but I’d shaved an entire three minutes off my normal journey time.

I wonder if this technique would be of use to Britain’s Olympic hopefuls. I’d certainly like to think so.

POSSIBLE FACT: When Battles signed to Warp Records, they apparently spent all of their advance on the mirrored box you see in the video. I would love this to be true.