A massive screen was set at Queen Elizabeth Hall to welcome The Goddess, a standout achievement of the silent era starring an iconic figure of the Chinese cinematic legacy, Ruan Lingyu. Part of the Electric Shadows, a year of film collaborations between Britain and China, The Goddess, meticulously restored by the China Film Archive, included the UK premiere of a new score by prominent Chinese film and classical composer Zou Ye.
Against an imposing room, the musicians of the English Chamber Orchestra with their strings and horns and general sonic paraphernalia sat ready to support Lingyu in her dreaded misfortunes in the streets of Shanghai.
Her deep-felt sorrow, enhanced by a rough personal tale in its own right, didn't have the outlet of loud words, but it shot through a wide spectrum of nuances in the actress's expressive eyes. Ye segued compositionally through his silences and crescendos, giving body to a humanistic tale not of a prostitute, ultimately, but of a mother like any other.
A story and a score not pursuing the groundbreaking in their concept, they flee melodrama with subtle interpretations and grounded realism. A prostitute who fights for the right to education as a weapon, despite the miseries indiscriminately thrown at her, she touches the emotions with her unyielding sense of perception, to the film's true credit. A soprano's final mourning wail followed the heartbreak, but Lingyu's conviction, newly as a jailbird, was ever present. "Goddess" is an ironic term for a prostitute, but the heroine brought down all stereotypical behaviour thrown at her profession with levelheadedness and dynamism.
Behold the true Goddess, and in the Queen Elizabeth Hall she found a new voice.
The good, the bad and the ugly seeds of King Ink's creative process
There has been much debate about Cave's authenticity - or is it pretension? - in this surreal and transcending documentary - and documentary, in its truest and most transparent form, it is surely not.
It doesn't have to be.
It all really begins from the question does an artist belong to "his" people - should he, if at all? (No). People are possessive by nature, they have to grab hold of any piece they can get. Cave seems to share big chunks of his routine (if you can call it that), without actually indulging his audience's possessive tendencies. He does it the artist's way, as an introvert: He makes it obvious that he has planned this, and he delivers another, rather casual artwork with it. The intrusive moments of him waking up next to his wife (who remains hidden behind protective waves of black hair), or coming face to face with himself in the bathroom mirror, are all choreographed. Hell, his long conversations with his psychoanalyst could only be that. But there is great accessibility in revealing the instrumental choreography of his everyday life, and, if anything, he makes you part of his bonkers artistic methods. In the end, you get in touch with what really matters in this life. [Plus, Blixa Bargeld finally spelt out why the hell he left the band. The last thing we had read about it was that he sent an email saying he's leaving, Cave commenting that "he's always been a technocrat", and we had left it at that...].
Compliments to Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard for delivering one of the most original and creative rockumentary-type works we have ever seen, an immersive experience that, like some of the best Bad Seeds gigs, it triggers the audience to run home and scrape together some lyrics and drag over their music freak friends and bang on the piano and the drums and set the violin on fire (hopefully not torture the wife with their quirks and moods, like Cave repeatedly admits..). 20,000 Days on Earth brings together the bad, the good, and some even ugly seeds of Cave's creative puzzle - reflective, introspective, electric, explosive.
Jubilee Street wraps it all up in the most galvanizing of sonic backdrops, where a thunderous succession of Nick Cave images from the past 20,000 days flash like lightening. Your blood is pumping, your skin is sweating and your eyes are almost in tears. Only this time, you know (quite a bit more of) what lies beneath. And that is no small thing.
Kicking off with a Joy Division warm-up in the early evening hours of last Saturday evening, Hooky soon took the Empire by storm. Masterfully building up on the broodiness, from Atmosphere to She's Lost Control, via Isolation and Shadowplay, the playing was fierce and cathartic - this tempestuous trip down memory lane seemingly wrapped up way too quickly.
Old fans of the band(s) walked around with Hooky t-shirts and youngsters too young to have experienced Ian Curtis's spastic on stage dancing declared their obsession with Joy Division. It was a win-win situation, and we lost control. Again.
My fear when booking for Goblin was bruising that unbeatable image I had of them while watching Dario Argento's Suspiria and Profondo Rosso: A bunch of unorthodox Italian psychedelic adventurers engaging in cult '70s giallo like no other.
Coming face to face with an unadventurous 21st century reunion trying to relive past glories through dead bodies (on the screen people, on the screen!)? A tad too tacky for my taste..
But Claudio Simonetti, co-creator of Goblin and restless music demon, along with a team of new collaborators, still jams like nobody's business. More than that, he knows how to deliver a spirited Q&A when he has to. From laughing to himself reminiscing past "funny" incidents, effortlessly igniting interest and laughter among all of us, to sassily calling...well, basically crap an unsuccessful remake, he was a treat. As it turns out the band have a huge lady fan in the Vatican radio, who plays their music often ("they are pretty open minded"). His response to her invitation? "Are you sure about this? Well, demons and angels - we're in the same business after all!"... When he took his place behind his keyboards, with two guitars brutally synchronizing in the front opposite him and the drums on the further end, that's when it got intense - with or without the zombies eating human flesh. Romero's flick, as Simonetti pointed out himself, is a political and social commentary way beyond the '70s tacky aesthetics. The walking dead returning back to the mall, that's where their affection lie of all places. Is that all their past lives amount to? Despite its unholy looks, the film knows how to reverse a stereotype or two.
The music was there to poignantly point the finger at the human anomalies in a double allegoric attack of vision and sound. The guitars energized the horror. There were truckloads of talent and brains vibrating behind those dead-eyed killing machines. As a-live as it gets.
It finally dawned on me: Simonetti's Goblin are 21st century innovators that still have a good scare or two under their sleeve. No freaking doubt about that.
London's historic Tin Pan Alley will shut off for utter make-over come October 2014, with the trademark music shops and businesses on Denmark Street having to close their doors, for reconstruction purposes, over a period of at least six months. Chief among them, the historic 12 Club, which wants to make sure that its long history and support to local and international music ambassadors continues for years to come.
An article on this month's Mojo highlights some of the Tin Pan Alley history, which dates back in the 17th century. You can also take the matter into your hands and sign the relevant petition that shows your support. London has seen enough renovation lately with only the rich and the richer in mind.
It's high time we started a revolution conducted under the blitz of electric guitars.
Soundtrack:Iron Man by Black Sabbath, who have recorded, among others, on Denmark Street.
