Out From Behind The ApronStrings

"Coldplay's keyboard player". Sends a trickle of cold, shivery sweat a-tricklin' down the spine, don't it? A ghastly world of emotion-by-numbers piano plonking, distinguished from Elton John only by being less camp and less fun. So we were not completely sold on this being a winner. Chris had waxed effusively about the winning electronica and atmospherics that this guy produces, so on the hottest night of the year, we pitched into the black hole that is the ICA concert room to find Jon Hopkins a gawky, geeky, bony individual swigging from a Beck's bottle and putting gaffa tape over the manufacturers' logos on his equipment. So far, so home-for-sandwiches-at-mummy's-place. However, his opening gambit was a wide-eyed euphoric techno workout that went on for far too long to be an accident. Increasingly the music got glitchier, acidic, Acidic, and clearly made by repeated pressing of the button marked "Autechre". Better, in other words. Even the three occasions he switched off the software and played the piano, the tunes were obviously a nod to the total uselessness of his paying job (anodyne sub-soundtrack doodles), and only threw the excitment of the computers into sharp relief. It was hard not to be wearing a smile at the end.

The People's Choice

Chris and I were at Dingwalls in Camden for my much-delayed first (and maybe last, by the look of the health of their guitarist) experience of the mighty, unquestionable NoMeansNo. They are practically progressive punk, with none of the archness that this might imply. Relentessly aggressive, in an inclusive and cheery fashion. They churn, accelerate, stutter and plunge on the head of a pin. "The Night Everything Became Nothing" and "Every Day I Start To Ooze" flash by in a torrent of gurning, precision-tooled sludgerama, and terrifyingly well-organised drumming. Seeing guys who are 10 or 15 years our senior belting this stuff out with no hint of a second thought is inspiring and disquieting. We should also mention the very dysfunctional support act, 'Todd' but only because of Chris's pithy-to-the-max assessment: "Like Unsane, before they started rehearsing".

Now that's no way to be.

"Hotel! Hotel!"

So, it's Sunday morning and we have some time to... watch 'Psycho'. It occurs to me that the individual humans who come into contact with Bates are defenceless and doomed; simple inquisitiveness, vulnerability, are barely registered on the scale of his libidinal drive to erase relations inimical to that with his mother. The crucial moment is the arrival of the couple. Despite it being an asexual pair, the sororitous fearlessness and knuckleheaded masculinity are contriving to protect each-other without even realising it. (The figure of the married hunk is a pitiful one; he is by far the most directionless, tw0-dimensional, easily-led character in the movie). So the murders and explanations are simply 'events' to stage the real film around: Bates scrubs ineffectually at the blood on the tacky plastic bath panel; his neck is gruesomely exposed as Arbogast asks to see the handwriting sample. The dread-ful and fore-boding, fuelled with a painful-to-watch psychical unravelling. Almost too good, even now. Shame on Gus Van Sant!