Fosca have made their debut appearance in a national UK newspaper, thanks to a live review by Simon Price, who also gave Orlando their ‘big break’ in the Melody Maker in a past life. He makes it quite clear that Fosca haven’t yet stolen his heart in quite the way Orlando did. After initially folding myself into a predictably hysterical ball of sobbing mascara, I eventually accentuate the positive (‘a rare treat’, as more inarticulate journalists say), and concur that at least it sets Fosca up for less promises to break. The duck references are water off a Dickon’s back. And the piece is otherwise very kind: he quotes some lyrics, which is what they’re there for.
I am intrigued, though, that he thought my lyrics sounded “like a throwback to a less liberated age”. My intention, at least as I see it, is to depict a strain of English self-repression that I am convinced DOES prevail today. It’s the one that meant that the UK Big Brother show was the only one among all the European versions to feature a courting couple who shared a bed but didn’t have sex. It’s not just me. Liberation is all around, but the fact that English people (as opposed to the Dutch or Danish) choose to retain a few sexual shackles here and there fascinates me as a lyricist. That and my love of innuendo as metaphor. That’s what I’m trying to do, anyway.
And the protagonist of “Supine…” isn’t meant to be me at all. They could just as well be female. If I wrote songs about myself, they’d all be about staying indoors reading Saki, drinking sake, and being sarky, and looking haunted on Archway Road. And only some songs are like that. Honest.
After the recent news concerning members of Feeder, EMF and Big Country, I note that I can’t possibly commit suicide just yet. Or people will accuse me of trying to Join In. Over my dead body!
Wednesday January 23rd
The papers have lately been full of accounts of Prince Harry behaving like his Shakespearean namesake, Prince Hal in Henry IV. Also known as the inspiration for Keanu Reeves’ character in My Own Private Idaho. Young, good looking and rich, who can blame him?
It reminded me of when myself and the rest of Fosca went for a meal in Kentish Town before our recent show at the Verge. We went to Pizza Express, as all the cafes with bolted-down seats that I like (and prefer) were closed. Behind us was a table of a dozen VERY well-spoken thirteen-year-old-girls all out to celebrate a birthday, but seemingly without a chaperone or adult in sight. I know that’s perfectly legal as long as they don’t try to buy alcohol, and perhaps a few of them were actually a bit older than they looked, but it was still vaguely unnerving. They were all dressed in glitzy off-the-shoulder designer tops, drinking water and Coke like wine, and applauding the jazz singer raucously as if they were any gaggle of twenty-something women on a girls’ night out. Except they were children. In number. With no adults in charge. With their own money. And plenty of it. A dangerous combination. Hence I’m not in the least bit surprised at Young Prince Hal. It’s only a matter of time before his party friends will be getting the “I know thee not, old man” line.
Wednesday January 17th 2002
My predictions for 2002?
Everything will get worse.
Tuesday January 15th 2002
Terrible Things Done In The Name of Charity, Part #1468: The sleeve of the newly released “My Sweet Lord”
My jaw dropped and my stomach turned. It’s exactly the same design as “Candle In The Wind 1997”.
Except, instead of a rose, it’s a Hare Krishna lotus flower. The People’s Beatle.
“A spokesman for EMI said the company had decided to delay the release until early 2002 in the name of good taste.’It takes time to get a record out,’ the spokesman said. ‘Rushing it out in time for Christmas could have been seen as bad taste.’ ”
As Mr Fry once memorably remarked, sometimes there really is not enough vomit in the world.
