Today marked the day where Kids in Glass Houses announced their ending. To be quite frank with you, there's nothing new about a pop-punk band shutting down shop and moving on. It's life. We'll get over it. They weren't chart toppers, they didn't end world poverty, but KIGH provided me with an introduction to the world of live music and local talent. And for that, I am entirely indebted to them.
Music didn't interest me until I had my first iPod for my birthday, aged 12. I was never particularly into music; none of my friends were, and I had had a crack at playing the cello in primary school, only to realise the lack of talent I possessed and promptly returned it. However, that iPod Shuffle got me into music. Its sole function was to play hours of music, and there was something alluring about an iPod to a 12 year old. Anyway, I digress. I started listening to music, and got myself into the usual blur of Blink 182, Slipknot, punk, and the heaviest possible noise Limewire could muster for me. Anything remotely poppy was frowned upon.
As I had become more interested in music, so too had the rest of the people around me; it must be a puberty thing. A neighbour of mine had started having guitar lessons, and we spoke very regularly on music; namely what was the heaviest thing we had heard that week. Like all good music 'passing down' sessions, his had started with his older sister. This time she mentioned her friend's band. They had just released a demo, and she had kindly (and rather forcibly, as big sisters are) introduced their sound to him, who then played it to me on his phone in the street. The song was 'Me Me Me'.
Jump to a few months later, and I was sat in a music lesson. They weren't fun or enjoyable at this stage in school; we were a bunch of snotty nosed, bum-fluff toting hormone bags that had the sole objective of obliterating everything in our path, so it's quite obvious why the music teacher didn't allow us near anything of any value. This particular lesson, however, involved her testing us to see how much we knew about chart music. She plugged her Mac into the stereo, held both very close to her chest and out of our zone of destruction, and played us various chart songs and some more niche offerings. Lostprophets had a play, so to did Metallica and whatever else was in the charts at the time. The last thing she played was a rather familiar but nameless tinkling of guitar chords: 'Me Me Me'.
'Anyone heard this before?' she quizzed, eyes bright and a bit too eagerly. I raised an unsure hand, owning up to potentially embarrassing myself at my lack of knowledge. Smile still plastered on her face, she had great pleasure in explaining that the band was in fact called Kids in Glass Houses, and that they were local and going places, and the guitarist was from our school. It had a quick acknowledgement from us as a class, and then we carried on dismantling the tables and generally being young offenders.
As my interest in music grew, the next step was to scour music channels for days on end, searching for something new and exciting. Still on a diet of heavy metal and noise, it seemed weird that a music video adorned with pink neon lights and leather jackets would interest me. It had a familiar tone, something recognisable. It was the music video for 'Easy Tiger' on Kerrang. So, the local boys were doing alright. I didn't realise people from The Valley's could 'make it' and be on TV. Crazy.
That summer, they played the Big Weekend in Cardiff. I went down with a few mates and it was a fantastic. It embodied so much of what was important to us as teenagers; loud music, a day without parents, and plenty of awkward encounters with members of the female sex. I entered my very first moshpit (we all remember our first), and as a group, we managed to push, claw and bite our way to the very front. Ben Fogle may have been on some pretty epic adventures, but none were as amazing, tiring and downright impossible as ours. We made the front.
Soon after, they opened for Fall Out Boy in what used to be called the CIA. Life was better when the CIA was actually called 'The CIA'; the Motorpoint Arena sounds as appetising as the collection of liquid that transmigrates from food in a food recycling bin. Again, more biting, stamping and pushing got us respectably close to the front of that gig. My skin had been peeled by a mixture of girl's makeup and everyone's sweat, but the gig itself was utterly incredible.
A friend's Mam happened to be the person in charge of writing the music for the string sections in Dirt. As a very kind lady, she offered us to go into the studio in the Atrium (something else that's had a pretty diabolical name change to something more corporate) and listen to it being done. We got to spend some time in a rather sweaty studio with our idols at the time, their producer (the guy from A. I know, who?) and some musicians swiping away with their bows and sheet music. Getting to hear one of your favourite band's tracks before anyone else was the biggest 'fuck you' to all my friends that I have ever had. I tried desperately to memorise the rhythms and melodies, but like everything when you're 16, it floated gently into one ear and straight out of the other. Pretty cool though, eh?
To this day, I still place their Christmas show in 2009 in Clwb Ifor Bach as one of the top three gigs I have ever been to. I'm pretty sure it was around the 23rd of December, and snow brought the UK to complete and utter pandemonium, so much so that the first support band didn't turn up. Instead, Aled, Iain, and two of their friends came out and filled the opening slot with some Glassjaw covers. They really went for it, guitars and heads flying everywhere. It was a nice contrast to the poppy melodies of KIGH; to hear Aled covering Glassjaw's 'Tip Your Bartender' and the gentler, but still encapsulatingly dark 'Piano' seemed bizarre and yet utterly right. These were the bands they listened to as teens themselves, the seeds that KIGH had stemmed from.
Due to the snow, Clwb was at about half capacity, but everyone clambered to the stage. Everyone suddenly became friends, and we were all out for good time. We screamed and chanted along with them, and they even kindly covered 'Killing in the Name Of' and Mariah's 'All I Want for Christmas'. Everyone danced, smiled and screamed their way through the gig, and no-one left with anything less than a Cheshire Cat's grin.
Most recently, I met one of my best friends through a mutual liking for KIGH. We now share a house together in our second year in Uni. How weird is that?
Basically, Kid in Glass Houses aren't a groundbreaking or particularly big band, but they provided me with a soundtrack for my teenage years. Through the shitty bits of growing up and girls, to getting drunk for the first time, KIGH weren't far away. Listening back to recordings of the band I was part of when I was 16, it's amazing how much they permeated our sound. My bassline carries a rather large whiff of 'Easy Tiger' about it, all done subconsciously. Rather aptly, as they come to an end, so to do my teenage years. Now at the respectable age of 20, I am now expected to start thinking of work, of life, and monotony. Shame. I quite liked the teenage years.
Cheers, Kids in Glass Houses. It was a pleasure. See you in October for the farewell tour. Smart Casual is currently nestling between Queens of the Stone Age's 'Songs for the Deaf' and Rage Against the Machine's self-titled debut record in my top 5 albums of all time. You want it all, but you want more.
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Wednesday, 26 February 2014
Sunday, 17 November 2013
Who Lets the Dog's House? (WHO, WHO, WHO, WHO)
I have a thing for puns in the title. Sorry.
So who lets the dog's house. Who? Who? Who? Who? Every time I venture into Uni, I am forced to walk through a triangle of letting agencies that pretty much control the vast population of Cardiff and Cardiff Met's students' dwellings. They are in charge of providing, receiving payment for, maintaining, stealing deposits for, and of course, forcing down students' necks, housing for Mummy and Daddy's precious little Prince or Princess. In all honesty, I don't see a problem with this; business is business, time is money and all that.
What I do have a problem with is the sheer juxtaposition between the lives these letting agency folk live, and the lives of the cash cows (us faithful ol' students). As I walk through the Letting Agency Triangle, I feel the opulence-level rise faster than the bank manager's eyebrows when asked for an overdraft extension. Gone are the cantankerous doors and shifty-eyed windows of studentville, and in with the Cheshire gates and perfectly tanned façades of the Letting Agency Triangle. Metallic cans once containing watery hops do not stray into the Triangle. Neither do the homo sapiens that thrive on the alcoholic beverage stay for longer than is absolutely necessary. The buildings stand straighter than everyone else's; they stand like worthy war heroes: 'Look at the shelter I am providing you with, the space in which you sleep and study. I'm only asking for your praise and admiration', they say. Again, I don't see a problem with this. I'm not going to part with my hard applied-for money and hand it over to some shabby little squat-shop occupied by a man chewing on a matchstick flipping a coin in his hand. Of course I wouldn't. I'd much rather hand it over to a nicely groomed man or woman in a suit, a warming smile, and your best interests at heart. If only.
Being a petrol head, I have mixed views when walking through the Letting Agency Triangle. The cars that adorn the pavement are as flashy as a Chav's knuckles. BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Bentley; they're all there. A nice BMW M3, brand new: £55k, minus extras. A BMW 535d, again, brand new: £45k. Audi TT, private plate, £35k. Bentley Continental (the W12 one, not the V8, you pauper), fresh from Crewe: £135k. And there's another one, convertible this time, in a delightfully discrete crystalline white: another £160k. This is my equivalent of walking through a street where pretty girls come out to greet and flutter their eyelashes at you. Yes, I realise how sad it sounds that I prefer cars over scantily-clad women. There is a big impact of seeing so much wealth nestled in poverty; it's like a jeweller placing a 12 carat diamond atop a ring made of pig iron. It is the hyperbole of juxtaposition. And what places me into despair is knowing my money went into it. I paid for someone's Bentley, someone's holiday to the Bahamas (first class, of course), someone's wife's botox. And yet I live in a house where we don't mark each other's heights, we mark how far up the wall the damp has grown. Posters have become structurally integral. Radiators have become vast metal ornaments because placing hot water in them is too expensive. We've even had a few furry neighbours, one of which we caught. The carpet in the hall can only be described as 'corpse grey' with filth (it's described on our itinerary as being 'dark cream'), and doors refuse to open because the frames in which they inhabit have nervous breakdowns and collapse onto them. I could go on.
And so I shall. The shower likes to descend water upon anyone eating downstairs, the walls lean like they're awaiting a hip-replacement, there is enough fridge/freezer space for 2.5 people (there are 5 of us) and I'm pretty sure my mattress has assumed the lotus position, because it is not the flat and comfortable haven it is meant to be. Alas, I have picked many holes. I should also add that I do enjoy living in my wonky, arthritic house, and yes, it's the 'experience' and the people you live with who make the experience yadda yadda yadda.
It pained me to know that the Letting Agency people live not just humble lives, but extravagant ones. Excessive displays of wealth in a place where £20 will get you a night out is just a monumental show of bellendery. I even thought that these people should be monitored by an external source and money regulated, but after a bit of thought, I suppose I'm just jealous. I felt like complaining at someone else's success. I would've been no better than anyone who slandered Bill Gates, Richard Branson or Wayne Rooney when they first looked at the sky and thought 'that's the limit' (except Wayne, who saw the sky through the hole in the top of the potato bag he arrived in). I'd be no better than those horrendous people on Points of View, who scream bloody murder at the prospect of a repeat of Pointless being shown whilst the current series is ongoing.
In truth, I am jealous that I didn't get the idea first. They live financially rewarding lives, void of the choice between eating or going out. They saw an opportunity and capitalised on it. I can't comment on the rest of their lives for they may be utterly miserable in every other way. I just wish I could've secured my slice of the cake before it became their monopoly (and may I add that the houses I would let would be worthy of human living, and may even be described as 'quite nice'). My only wish is that they would be more discreet in their earnings. We students are a poor bunch, and months of procrastination have meant that many of us have turned to less-honourable pastimes, say, lock-picking, for example. Or the ability to fraternise and seduce wealthy business people. I'm not saying much, I'm just saying.
(Sidenote: I'm not completely wrapped up in how much money people earn or how much people own in terms of material goods, as my blog may denote. I enjoy a success story, and at the end of the day, we all sort of want to be rich. Don't lie, you self-righteous little shit. Get your arse back down here with the rest of us. There you go. Do you feel that? That's called acceptance. Now keep your head down and shut up, you'll do as your told.)
So who lets the dog's house. Who? Who? Who? Who? Every time I venture into Uni, I am forced to walk through a triangle of letting agencies that pretty much control the vast population of Cardiff and Cardiff Met's students' dwellings. They are in charge of providing, receiving payment for, maintaining, stealing deposits for, and of course, forcing down students' necks, housing for Mummy and Daddy's precious little Prince or Princess. In all honesty, I don't see a problem with this; business is business, time is money and all that.
What I do have a problem with is the sheer juxtaposition between the lives these letting agency folk live, and the lives of the cash cows (us faithful ol' students). As I walk through the Letting Agency Triangle, I feel the opulence-level rise faster than the bank manager's eyebrows when asked for an overdraft extension. Gone are the cantankerous doors and shifty-eyed windows of studentville, and in with the Cheshire gates and perfectly tanned façades of the Letting Agency Triangle. Metallic cans once containing watery hops do not stray into the Triangle. Neither do the homo sapiens that thrive on the alcoholic beverage stay for longer than is absolutely necessary. The buildings stand straighter than everyone else's; they stand like worthy war heroes: 'Look at the shelter I am providing you with, the space in which you sleep and study. I'm only asking for your praise and admiration', they say. Again, I don't see a problem with this. I'm not going to part with my hard applied-for money and hand it over to some shabby little squat-shop occupied by a man chewing on a matchstick flipping a coin in his hand. Of course I wouldn't. I'd much rather hand it over to a nicely groomed man or woman in a suit, a warming smile, and your best interests at heart. If only.
Being a petrol head, I have mixed views when walking through the Letting Agency Triangle. The cars that adorn the pavement are as flashy as a Chav's knuckles. BMW, Mercedes, Audi, Bentley; they're all there. A nice BMW M3, brand new: £55k, minus extras. A BMW 535d, again, brand new: £45k. Audi TT, private plate, £35k. Bentley Continental (the W12 one, not the V8, you pauper), fresh from Crewe: £135k. And there's another one, convertible this time, in a delightfully discrete crystalline white: another £160k. This is my equivalent of walking through a street where pretty girls come out to greet and flutter their eyelashes at you. Yes, I realise how sad it sounds that I prefer cars over scantily-clad women. There is a big impact of seeing so much wealth nestled in poverty; it's like a jeweller placing a 12 carat diamond atop a ring made of pig iron. It is the hyperbole of juxtaposition. And what places me into despair is knowing my money went into it. I paid for someone's Bentley, someone's holiday to the Bahamas (first class, of course), someone's wife's botox. And yet I live in a house where we don't mark each other's heights, we mark how far up the wall the damp has grown. Posters have become structurally integral. Radiators have become vast metal ornaments because placing hot water in them is too expensive. We've even had a few furry neighbours, one of which we caught. The carpet in the hall can only be described as 'corpse grey' with filth (it's described on our itinerary as being 'dark cream'), and doors refuse to open because the frames in which they inhabit have nervous breakdowns and collapse onto them. I could go on.
And so I shall. The shower likes to descend water upon anyone eating downstairs, the walls lean like they're awaiting a hip-replacement, there is enough fridge/freezer space for 2.5 people (there are 5 of us) and I'm pretty sure my mattress has assumed the lotus position, because it is not the flat and comfortable haven it is meant to be. Alas, I have picked many holes. I should also add that I do enjoy living in my wonky, arthritic house, and yes, it's the 'experience' and the people you live with who make the experience yadda yadda yadda.
It pained me to know that the Letting Agency people live not just humble lives, but extravagant ones. Excessive displays of wealth in a place where £20 will get you a night out is just a monumental show of bellendery. I even thought that these people should be monitored by an external source and money regulated, but after a bit of thought, I suppose I'm just jealous. I felt like complaining at someone else's success. I would've been no better than anyone who slandered Bill Gates, Richard Branson or Wayne Rooney when they first looked at the sky and thought 'that's the limit' (except Wayne, who saw the sky through the hole in the top of the potato bag he arrived in). I'd be no better than those horrendous people on Points of View, who scream bloody murder at the prospect of a repeat of Pointless being shown whilst the current series is ongoing.
In truth, I am jealous that I didn't get the idea first. They live financially rewarding lives, void of the choice between eating or going out. They saw an opportunity and capitalised on it. I can't comment on the rest of their lives for they may be utterly miserable in every other way. I just wish I could've secured my slice of the cake before it became their monopoly (and may I add that the houses I would let would be worthy of human living, and may even be described as 'quite nice'). My only wish is that they would be more discreet in their earnings. We students are a poor bunch, and months of procrastination have meant that many of us have turned to less-honourable pastimes, say, lock-picking, for example. Or the ability to fraternise and seduce wealthy business people. I'm not saying much, I'm just saying.
(Sidenote: I'm not completely wrapped up in how much money people earn or how much people own in terms of material goods, as my blog may denote. I enjoy a success story, and at the end of the day, we all sort of want to be rich. Don't lie, you self-righteous little shit. Get your arse back down here with the rest of us. There you go. Do you feel that? That's called acceptance. Now keep your head down and shut up, you'll do as your told.)
Sunday, 29 September 2013
The Beautiful People, The Beautiful People
Yes, this is another semi-rant with a conclusion strapped to the end of it. What I'd like to share this time is a rather rare opportunity that was given to me recently. I had a rare glimpse into another world. A very exclusive club with a cut-throat membership and no way back in once you're out. Think the opposite of Live Lounge. I am of course talking about the world of 'Beautiful People' - the club reserved for size 6 girls with perfect tans, perfectly natural and expertly applied make-up who socialise exclusively with 6 foot-something chiselled rugby and lacrosse players who have an All Saints label jutting out of every item of clothing and more. These people have perfected smiles, teeth so flawless that a diamond evaluator looks at them in envy. They smell of pure happiness and the petals of some obscure flower that only flowered once on a secluded island in 1789 and was captured by a perfect mix of fairies and angels. Cameras spin on their axis, aiming at these people square in the face, careful to include the mixture of smiling mouth with eyes that say 'You want me'. I have seen these people in their otherwise completely elusive habitat, and I have good news. These people do not live the fun and interesting lives that they show us.
I know, I know. I'm generalising. I'm sure there are plenty of 'Beautiful People' about who are perfectly normal and accepting of everyone and are fantastic people. But what I saw on that faithful night was beyond anything I ever expected.
I had been invited for pre-drinks over at a good friend's house. She lived with 5 other girls in a rather wonderfully decorated house that reflected them brilliantly. The long, full room-length sofa that leaned against one wall. Opposite, a pair of crisp, sharp fireplaces, and a rather large TV craned out on its movable mounts to welcome the faces of whoever walks into their living room. The wooden floor complimented the girls' foundation perfectly, and a massive sound system stood guard either side of some French doors. My friend's housemates welcomed me with big smiles, glassy, crystalline eyes and fanned, floating lashes. They made pleasant small talk, briefly telling me about some small trials and tribulations with the house and asking about how my friend and I met. All seemed good. I felt pleasantly surprised at how welcoming these people were.
A quarter of an hour or so passed, and soon came another knock at the door. Expecting maybe another 5 or 6 people to enter, I was taken aback when close to 30 people strolled in, each and every single one of them looking roughly like they could and have been featured in each respected brand's catalogue. The hallway became a catwalk. It was actually intimidating, especially considering each person's stance and stride when entering the room. Confidence oozed from every delicately cleaned pore; every single piece of stubble had been manicured to the appropriate length, every single millimetre of the girls' nails had been touched up with the same accuracy as da Vinci would've shown whilst perfecting the Mona Lisa. I was, we shall say, 'out of my depth'.
One housemate glided over to her Macbook, adjusted the volume on the remix of some house song to near club level, and then swanned back over to her perch near a group of lads. She then commenced in some small talk, perfected responses and eyelash flicks adorned every line. And then, less than 5 minutes later, nothing. There was no more talking. The once suave groups of guys had now relaxed into their iPhones, half-filled cups positioned directly between their legs. The girls had relaxed into theirs, occasionally glancing at each other and communicating in a way that the Enigma Code would be jealous of. More of our friends arrived through the sea of 'Beautiful People', and snuggled themselves into the corner I had so graciously prepared for us. We started talking, laughing, asking each other how our Summers went, shared jokes and stories. We drank, we laughed and we soon started about the elephant in the room: we were the only ones enjoying ourselves. The others looked decidedly bored and unsure of how to go about their evening. They were too conscious of themselves to drink, too afraid of judgement to talk. The girls stood on one side whilst the boys sat on the other, and they just existed together in a beautiful cocoon of sterility. The music, despite being dangerously loud and obscure enough to scupper most attempts at a lengthy conversation, was indecipherable to man or beast, and filled the room in place of human interaction. Essentially, those beautiful girls and handsome guys had put on their gladrags to be placed opposite each other in a loud room and pretend that they were texting other, 'cooler' people. One girl proceeded to take a few photos on her iPhone, at which point the boy who she grabbed pulled the muscles in his face into what seemed like a trademark smile, whilst the rather lovely looking girl contorted her face into the shape of enjoyment for the purpose of the photograph at least. This happened a few more times before I realised what I had seen. I had seen the conception of 'fun'. This is where all those exclusive photographs are taken, the very same ones that normal people like me look at and think 'God, I wish I had their life'. It's a sham.
To cut a long story short, I now realise how incredibly boring these 'Beautiful People' are. It's an image, and an illusion. These people probably don't even like each other, they just like being seen with each other to boost their self esteem and fuel their egos.
I will conclude by saying that the people who had asked me to join them were in fact the beautiful people, as they are the most fantastic and lovely people I could ever wish to meet. We didn't get into the club where the 'Beautiful People' fled to, despite an hour's waiting. We ended up going to the ropiest, cheapest club we could find and continued what we started; conversation, enjoyment, laughter. And you know what? We had a fucking amazing time.
I know, I know. I'm generalising. I'm sure there are plenty of 'Beautiful People' about who are perfectly normal and accepting of everyone and are fantastic people. But what I saw on that faithful night was beyond anything I ever expected.
I had been invited for pre-drinks over at a good friend's house. She lived with 5 other girls in a rather wonderfully decorated house that reflected them brilliantly. The long, full room-length sofa that leaned against one wall. Opposite, a pair of crisp, sharp fireplaces, and a rather large TV craned out on its movable mounts to welcome the faces of whoever walks into their living room. The wooden floor complimented the girls' foundation perfectly, and a massive sound system stood guard either side of some French doors. My friend's housemates welcomed me with big smiles, glassy, crystalline eyes and fanned, floating lashes. They made pleasant small talk, briefly telling me about some small trials and tribulations with the house and asking about how my friend and I met. All seemed good. I felt pleasantly surprised at how welcoming these people were.
A quarter of an hour or so passed, and soon came another knock at the door. Expecting maybe another 5 or 6 people to enter, I was taken aback when close to 30 people strolled in, each and every single one of them looking roughly like they could and have been featured in each respected brand's catalogue. The hallway became a catwalk. It was actually intimidating, especially considering each person's stance and stride when entering the room. Confidence oozed from every delicately cleaned pore; every single piece of stubble had been manicured to the appropriate length, every single millimetre of the girls' nails had been touched up with the same accuracy as da Vinci would've shown whilst perfecting the Mona Lisa. I was, we shall say, 'out of my depth'.
One housemate glided over to her Macbook, adjusted the volume on the remix of some house song to near club level, and then swanned back over to her perch near a group of lads. She then commenced in some small talk, perfected responses and eyelash flicks adorned every line. And then, less than 5 minutes later, nothing. There was no more talking. The once suave groups of guys had now relaxed into their iPhones, half-filled cups positioned directly between their legs. The girls had relaxed into theirs, occasionally glancing at each other and communicating in a way that the Enigma Code would be jealous of. More of our friends arrived through the sea of 'Beautiful People', and snuggled themselves into the corner I had so graciously prepared for us. We started talking, laughing, asking each other how our Summers went, shared jokes and stories. We drank, we laughed and we soon started about the elephant in the room: we were the only ones enjoying ourselves. The others looked decidedly bored and unsure of how to go about their evening. They were too conscious of themselves to drink, too afraid of judgement to talk. The girls stood on one side whilst the boys sat on the other, and they just existed together in a beautiful cocoon of sterility. The music, despite being dangerously loud and obscure enough to scupper most attempts at a lengthy conversation, was indecipherable to man or beast, and filled the room in place of human interaction. Essentially, those beautiful girls and handsome guys had put on their gladrags to be placed opposite each other in a loud room and pretend that they were texting other, 'cooler' people. One girl proceeded to take a few photos on her iPhone, at which point the boy who she grabbed pulled the muscles in his face into what seemed like a trademark smile, whilst the rather lovely looking girl contorted her face into the shape of enjoyment for the purpose of the photograph at least. This happened a few more times before I realised what I had seen. I had seen the conception of 'fun'. This is where all those exclusive photographs are taken, the very same ones that normal people like me look at and think 'God, I wish I had their life'. It's a sham.
To cut a long story short, I now realise how incredibly boring these 'Beautiful People' are. It's an image, and an illusion. These people probably don't even like each other, they just like being seen with each other to boost their self esteem and fuel their egos.
I will conclude by saying that the people who had asked me to join them were in fact the beautiful people, as they are the most fantastic and lovely people I could ever wish to meet. We didn't get into the club where the 'Beautiful People' fled to, despite an hour's waiting. We ended up going to the ropiest, cheapest club we could find and continued what we started; conversation, enjoyment, laughter. And you know what? We had a fucking amazing time.
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