Latest news with #LondonSS
The Spinoff
2 days ago
- Entertainment
- The Spinoff
Review: Life in One Chord and Anchor Me linger on two tricky yet brilliant artists
Documentaries on Shayne Carter and Don McGlashan make our past gleam, and show success can take very different forms and paths. Shayne Carter and Don McGlashan are a similar age, and their careers follow an uncannily similar arc. Inspired by punk; early bands blown up through accidents; second acts which looked destined for greatness but burned out early; peripatetic late careers which somehow find them at peace, perhaps for the first time. Both are now subjects of documentaries which trace their lives in music, each an exceptional example of the form. Yet it's also telling that there is no crossover between the talking heads within these respective documentaries. You can almost feel old simmering tensions between the alty, boozy Dunedin scene and the (only slightly, with hindsight) more establishment Auckland set. Life in One Chord is the story of Shayne Carter, which had its Auckland premiere in a rammed and transfixed Hollywood in Avondale on Sunday, to close out the NZIFF for the city. The crowd was ageing, but you got the feeling many would have been in the crowd for some of the electrifying live archive. That this documentary was both about Carter and about a generation of people in and around music who had no place to go, so built one for themselves. It traverses his whole career, from sneering punk, to the more artful DoubleHappys, to the searing Straitjacket Fits and the moody Dimmer. Much like her previous film, on Christchurch's dank, drunk, art-damaged band Into the Void, Margaret Gordon's Life in One Chord is a quite wilful object. The subject is beloved but not quite famous. Spending years following Carter around is not a fiscally rational decision. But that obsessive interest in him radiates through the documentary, lovingly fixating on elements it would have been easy to gloss, while (comparatively) flying past those too-brief moments of international fame. His childhood in the thoroughly ordinary suburb of Brockville is a location we return to throughout. Carter, now 61, walks its streets, which seem almost entirely unchanged, and makes a return to his childhood home, welcomed by the gracious current inhabitants. He wanders from room to room, recalling a Bruce Lee poster and Friday nights which inevitably turned violent. He heads to his school, reading multiple reviews (!) of his first band, Bored Games, playing a talent quest in the late 70s. The principal walked out in disgust, twice – a badge of honour. This was a different era, where offence was very much intended. A bandmate was called Basil Spaz, and Carter adored the London SS. That attitude naturally brought confrontation. Carter visits the Maori Hill (no tohutō back then) Community Hall, where his early bands played alongside the nascent Clean and Chills, while boot boys waited to bash them when they got off stage. You can really feel the two New Zealands of that era, epitomised by the Springbok tour in '81, which probably still exist. The staid conservatism standing arms folded and glaring at those seeking to push well past those constraints. Gordon asks Carter if he has anything good to say about the Dunedin of his youth: 'can't help you there', he jokes. It's to the film's immense benefit that Carter remains so charismatic and funny. A scene with Steve Braunias interrogating him at the Dunedin launch of his superb memoir, Dead People I Have Known, is gorgeous. Throughout Life in One Chord we're treated to passages from that book, read initially by him, then by Carol Hirshfeld. It's a joke which got out of hand, and initially jars, but you get used to it soon enough, and the contrast between the grimy scenes of the early years with Carter and Hirschfeld's laconic reflections ('Brockville smelt like stew') provide insight that Carter can sometimes struggle to generate; he's rightly suspicious of earnestness in musicians. As the 80s develop, this punk starts to sense that he has more than just rebellion in him. The death of Wayne Elsey is an emotional gut punch, even when you know it's coming, and results in Carter's first unalloyed masterpiece, the single 'Randolph's Going Home'. The pace picks up from there, with Straitjacket Fits getting agonisingly close to the big time their songs and look (Carter, who 'looked like a criminal', according to Miranda Harcourt, was maybe the most handsome guy in the world from '87-'93) deserved. An interview with co-leader Andrew Brough, conducted before his untimely death in 2020, provides good humoured insight into the ego-driven tensions which eventually broke the band. Too much talent to coexist. Then it's on to his reinvention in Dimmer. Carter's obtuse nature is to the fore. An extraordinary singer and songwriter, he stops singing and writing, devoting himself to snarling improv guitar squalls, like 'Crystalator', the heart-stopping single which opens the film. Then the project evolves into something entirely different – the smouldering I Believe You Are a Star, his favourite album and the closest he got to a true mainstream acclaim. Instead of pushing on in that direction, he kept taking left turns. The sections of him caring for Chris Knox post-stroke are deeply affecting, and Peter Jeffries points out the profound lunacy of his creating an album for piano, an instrument he had never before played. Then writing that memoir. Carter explores his status as a Māori / Pākehā dude, living in the space between, and the way his parents' very difficult upbringings echoed down the generations, while seemingly landing in reflective, reformed behaviour from Carter and his sister, Natasha Griffiths. Griffiths saw Carter tear up her teddy live on stage at the age of seven. Carter started life boiling with talent and resentment, yet today is gentle, funny and wide open. Life in One Chord captures that whole strange trip (apologies to the Grateful Dead, who he memorably insults) and when the credits roll it's hard to think of a better film about music out of this country. Anchor Me – the Don McGlashan Story isn't quite its equal, but doesn't miss by much. McGlashan can feel like the nearly man of New Zealand's singer-songwriter pantheon, lacking the global fame and acclaim of Neil Finn, and not quite recipient of the national treasure status which has accrued to Dave Dobbyn. This view is somewhat supported in Anchor Me, a beautifully made documentary from the prolific Shirley Horrocks, in periods which assess the material gains which accrued to McGlashan. He reflects apologetically on the beans and rice his kids grew up on, while Moe and Louie speak, without rancour, about living in army barracks-style housing at a time when their father was touring the world. But if McGlashan didn't get the rewards of his songwriting peers, that's perhaps less due to his manifestly extraordinary talents, and more due to the unconventional and somewhat restless way he assembled his career. Like Carter, his best moments are scattered amongst at least five distinct acts, which, along with an uncommon introspection, is precisely why he's such a strong subject for a documentary. McGlashan is old enough, at 66, to have played in a club perched atop the North Shore City mall while well underage. He played with the Auckland Symphonia and was a meaningful part of punk and new wave scenes, along with the unclassifiable From Scratch and musical comedy-performance art group The Front Lawn. All before turning 30. The two most popular periods of his artistic life compose the bulk of the film. The Front Lawn both predicted and influenced Flight of the Conchords, and looms as a great what-if story, wowing the Edinburgh Festival and turning down opportunities in TV others work their whole lives just to glimpse. The Mutton Birds, on the other hand, burned bright but perhaps too briefly, due to the prickly nature of their membership. Their best songs remain incredibly potent, and Horrocks, like Gordon, has the good sense to just let them play often enough. This is all supported by stunning archive, both the visually compelling videos created for those bands, and intimate footage from, for example, the first Mutton Birds show, or an early sound check in a grimy flat. It sags a little around the third act. There's a hole in the timeline in the 2000s, which feels somewhat glossed, and McGlashan's personal life can feel too shrouded. There are references to the temptations of the road, and his first marriage is replaced with a second without much explanation. Similarly, sections with him extolling the virtues of New York feel mawkish. By comparison, Carter is much more candid about how destructive his drinking became, at least until a strong dose of MDMA pulled his head out of his ass. But McGlashan is still a very magnetic figure, never more so than when explaining his process of writing both music and lyrics, justifiably inspiring awe from his peers. At times McGlashan comes off as almost burdened by his talents, so multidimensional that they can't be channeled. Both Carter and McGlashan appear as rugged individuals who could never quite get comfortable in a group setting for too long. Neither could they intellectually tolerate just showing up and playing the hits forever – they'd rather leave that money on the table in search of something new. For McGlashan it's soundtracking the animated hit Kiri and Lou with his longtime collaborator Harry Sinclair. For Carter it's learning to play piano, and write. Two originals, from opposite ends of these long slender islands. Neither content to play it straight.
Yahoo
07-03-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Brian James, guitarist for The Damned, The Lords of the New Church, dies at 70
When you buy through links on our articles, Future and its syndication partners may earn a commission. Brian James, a legend of punk rock guitar who helped pioneer the genre with the Damned, has died at the age of 70, according to a post on his Facebook page. 'It is with great sadness that we announce the death of one of the true pioneers of music, guitarist, songwriter, and true gentleman, Brian James,' the post reads. No cause of death was revealed. Born in London in 1955, James, was, by his teens, already touring Europe with a hard-nosed, proto-punk band by the name of Bastard. Mostly ignored in the UK, Bastard would dissolve by the mid-'70s, leaving James to return to London. Once back in his home city, James formed – with, among others, Mick Jones, later lead guitarist for the Clash – the controversially named London SS. Though never successful in their own right, the London SS would spin off multiple bands that played an incalculable role in shaping what would come to be known as punk rock – the aforementioned Clash, and the Damned, which James would eventually co-found after the London SS. Comprised originally of James on guitar, Dave Vanian on vocals, Captain Sensible on bass, and Rat Scabies on drums, the Damned got their start shortly after the Sex Pistols, but beat the Pistols to the punch in releasing their first single. Written entirely by James, that 1976 single, New Rose, is nothing less than a milestone in punk rock history. Relentless in tempo, anarchic in energy, and driven by a haywire rockabilly riff, strains of its DNA can be found in just about every subsequent song with the word 'punk' attached to it in any way. Months later, in early 1977, the Damned would repeat the punk pioneer feat with their debut album, Damned Damned Damned. James wrote the overwhelming majority of its songs, one of which was another all-time punk classic, Neat Neat Neat. Though the band's subsequent American tour made them trans-Atlantic punk pioneers, trouble began brewing by the year's end. Produced by Pink Floyd's Nick Mason and written – once again – almost entirely by James, the band's second album of 1977, Music for Pleasure, proved to be far more polarizing. Its disappointing reception, and the band's chaotic, non-stop schedule, led to James' disillusionment. Amidst the chaos, The Damned broke up in early 1978, but would reunite later that year. James, however, did not return, and would only rejoin the band – who have stayed together more or less continuously to this day – for a couple of years beginning in the late '80s, and again for a tour in 2022. James' musical versatility is evident in his post-Damned resumé. He toured with Iggy Pop, and recorded with MC5's Wayne Kramer and the Police's Stewart Copeland, while also playing with the Belgian band the Dripping Lips, recording film and television soundtracks, and fronting his own band, the Brian James Gang. James' most notable post-Damned turn, though, was in the Lords of the New Church, a punk supergroup of sorts featuring the Dead Boys' Stiv Bators. Though never reaching the high profile of the Damned, the Lords of the New Church were an indie favorite on both sides of the Atlantic in the early- to mid-'80s. Of his musical philosophy with the Damned, James told Louder in 2022, 'We weren't shouting about anarchy or giving it the big Clash number but that was never what we were in it for. 'We just loved music and we just wanted to play. It was about expression – action, y' know? The fun was a bonus. We might've been larking about a bit onstage, but we were still coming up with the goods.'
