When Sammy met Terry… and Jared.
‘When you least expect it’ is a phrase (or at least sentence) that has been drilled deep, deep into my tender cranium.
Love – ‘when you least expect it.’
Luck – ‘when you least expect it.’
Pain – ‘when you least expect it.’
It’s remarkably true.
I’d taken time out for the evening. Actually, I’d made a long and tedious journey to work only to find out that I wasn’t actually working. Pissed, I came home in disgust and disgrace realising the only thing this night now had to offer was a packet of cigs and the Internet. A lot of people would argue that that seems like their perfect night in, but I sincerely hate to waste my time.
So I decided just to walk. At least ‘just walking’ offers the chance of spontaneity. I strolled to the East River, sat on a log precariously positioned in the river itself, and smoked my little lungs out. Sometimes the act of concentrating on something so small and insignificant gives your brain the opportunity to relax. Relaxed and calmed, I walked home.
I’d come within two blocks of home and, with my stomach crying out for food, I made an about turn and headed toward a lovely little Chinese take-away I know, hidden away just off Broadway. On the return leg, when I was least expecting it, that’s when he arrived.
This is my LOVE moment: Those big brown glasses. That receding hairline. The unmistakable unorganised efficiency of the team that works around him. Yep, Terry was just standing there, casually using a point and shoot in Jared Leto’s face. Flashing away on a back street of China Town. As an aspiring professional photographer, I couldn’t allow myself to just walk on by.
My LUCK moment: So as Terry Richardson steps back I pounce like a tiger trained by the Marines. I introduce myself, I compliment and then I sink my teeth in.
‘Terry, I’m actually looking to assist and would love to just come and help you guys out, for free, obviously.’
‘Yeah, of course. We’re always open to free help. Look, email Seth in my studio and tell him we met and he’ll help you out.’
We shake hands, smile, look lustfully into each others eyes and then I leave him to his business. In my mind ‘lustfully’ is correct. In his, I’m sure the complete opposite is more appropriate. Anyway, I leave with a spring in my step but not before Jared Leto gets the opportunity, topless, to look at me like I’d just farted (loudly) at his grandmother’s funeral as I offer to hold his jacket while he shoots a scene, rather than place it on the cold New York ground. He finds a distant car and puts it on top instead.
And the PAIN: I sleep with a Cheshire cat smile. Planning my next move on the Terry Richardson chessboard. I’m not aiming for his King but instead for his Queen, Seth.
That morning the construction begins. This is an important email. How do I go about this? Do I go short and snappy? Or do I go professional? Do I attempt funny? Or is that inappropriate? Am I generally inappropriate?
I went short, snappy and to the point. I had to think about Seth, and Seth doesn’t have time to waste. This email had to effectively massage Seth. But to be honest, Terry had made the whole process sound so easy, so why was I worrying? Send the Goddamn thing.
SENT.
————
I wasn’t expecting Seth to be so short and snappy in return.
Hello, thanks for your email. However at this time we are fully staffed.
I tried to explain I just wanted to come help out, for free! And Terry said I could!
The response was brutal.
Again we are full.
I just didn’t expect any of this.
The One That Makes Me Quiver
She’s an illusive beauty. I don’t know much about her. She gives very little away, apart from the work that is presented as a gift to the world. I’ve tried to track, I really have. But nothing.
Vanina Sorrenti. She is the one that made me ‘click’. She is the one who gave me this passion that I cannot say no to now. She is the one that made me really believe how beautiful fashion photography really can be.
Vanina Sorrenti, sister to fashion photographers Mario and the late Davide, and daughter of fashion photographer Francesca, was always destined for great artistic success. But Sorrenti hasn’t just rested on her laurels and taken great photographs, she’s pioneered photographs. Sorrenti has a distinguisted style which I feel now, is hers and hers only. No one can copy what she does. It’s her style. The key to Sorrenti is two, maybe three classic images blended into one to create an overload of visual impact. There’s so much to look at and to take in, I could literally study her images forever. Sometimes I just look and wonder. I aspire to this girl.
Williamsburg Waterfront Summer Pool Parties, New York City
Mystery Jets at The Mercury Lounge, New York, 17th September 2010
How to make a Mercury Lounge Wednesday Pie:
- 7000 lbs of British Accents (Ripened and Pale)
- 7000 lbs of Pure Aussie-ness (Seasoned and Tanned)
- 2 tsp. of New York Peeps
- 50000 lbs of Black Hip Glasses – Top-siders included
- Denim Jackets – ready-made from any vintage store
- Body Odour
- One pair of crutches
Put all your ingredients into one room and soak in PBR until pleasantly merry. Then expose your dish to Roadie sauce for 60 minutes at approximately 375 degrees (this won’t be enjoyable for the crowded dish, but don’t worry, they’ll get over it). You want to cook until there is a B.O. stench from at least one sweaty man. Right at the time when the dish seems to have had enough of it, throw in your Mystery Jet juice and watch the Mercury Lounge Pie come to life…
Considering they missed their twin show on Tuesday (not their own fault), took more than an hour to make it onto the stage and dealt with technical difficulties, they still provided a performance that gave every punter within the Mercury Lounge the most pleasant form of amnesia… they must be good.
I was getting riled. An hour to get your arses on stage! ‘C’mon people, I’ve got work at 7am!’
Regardless of the wait, Mystery Jets were on form Wednesday. By far the best band I’ve seen grace the Mercury stage, they really made up for what was a tiring hour. The Eel Pie Island-based band confidently took the stage, gave their apologises and broke into a smart, crowd pleasing set. A few songs from Serotonin, their latest album, but more from Twenty One, their more established and stronger record.
Mystery Jets come from a breed of British bands which sit under an umbrella of sound referred to as Thamesbeat, mixing folk with experimental electronics. Much more indie than Mumford and Sons yet a little less progressive than the Klaxons, Mystery Jets perch somewhere in the middle.
This was the first time I’d seen the band, who I had a fond love affair with during my college days, and what struck me was the stage presence of each of their four members. Each member was a lead. If Blaine Harrison, rooted to his stool due to his spina bifida condition, wasn’t positioned centrally, anyone one of the band could have been in the ‘controlling spot’. Because of this, boredom was never an issue, and someone always had something to say. Mystery Jets are known for sharing vocals, and it provides spontaneity, intrigue and the element of surprise.
On this night, the band piled through hits such as “Two Doors Down”, “Hideaway” and “Flakes”, sliding effortlessly into each and fusing the crowd who were beginning to unsettle beforehand. Hands in the air and awful dancing white kids galore, the people showed to be having fun.
Mystery Jets ended on “Behind the Bunhouse” and to huge applause, which at one point looked like it would take the power of Moses to achieve. Through technical difficulties, no shows/late shows and Blaine Harrison’s hair, Mystery Jets filled me up.
I am stood next to the dude filming this…
The Strokes at The Met Opera House, New York, 14th September 2010
No Dom, Dick, or Harry has this opportunity. This was huge. This was massive. The chance to see The Strokes play in their home town, their mother land, the place that made them what they are today, New York City, for the first time in four years. This was big.
The Strokes played their first gig in New York City for 4 years at the Metropolitan Opera House on Sunday night as part of the Tommy Hilfiger 25 year anniversary celebrations (is that something worth celebrating?), at an exclusive invite only bash as part of Fashion Week. Don’t ask how I got in, I just simply found myself there, taking advantage of the free champagne and nibbles, and waiting in absolute anticipation for a show that 2 hours previously I had no clue was even happening.
When you’re a band that has a place in music’s unofficial hall of fame and your homecoming gig is announced, you want it to be epic in some sense. You want it to have a buzz. You can’t simply come home and play the standard Terminal 5 or whatever.
‘Let us fucking inspire you,’ should be your mindset. ‘Let us FUCKING inspire you.’
So when Julian Casablancas and Co. sauntered on to a stage that elevated them one floor up, overlooking the grand red carpet and across this vacant space of the opera house entrance from three floors of transfixed eyes, and shouted down the mic, “What’s up? WHAT IS UPPP?” they’d already ‘fucking inspired me’. This was more of a showpiece than just a show. These five guys were here to be looked at, listened to, and seriously be heard. How can you not be heard when you also then put on a show that features 8 hard hitting, sing-a-long-friendly, Strokes’ classics?
Ok, so because of the corporate-ness of this gig, you ain’t gonna have your sweat dripping from every orifice you own or a cup of piss nearly knocking you clean out on the back of the head, but this was simply, as was the whole pattern of the night and indeed fashion week itself, a spectacle. And because of that I won’t be forgetting this gig for a long, long time.
The Strokes’ themselves were tight, enthusiastic and energetic. From “Hard to Explain” and “Reptilia” to “You Only Live Once” and “Last Nite”, they were up for this one. And I know in the past they haven’t always been known to be up for their gigs!
After giving us all the perfect dose of a Strokes back catalogue, Julian Casablancas casually looked up at the epic venue and pronounced ‘Thank you, we had fun.’ When he says that, I believe him.
The Strokes Set List: “New York City Cops”
“Hard to Explain”
“You Only Live Once”
“12:51″
“Last Nite”
“Reptilia”
“Someday”
“Juicebox”
The Library is on Fire at The Mercury Lounge, New York, 26th August 2010
I was already in a bad mood. I was hungry. I’d been up since 6 a.m. And in fact, my arse was uncomfortably sweaty from the brisk walk I’d had to make to get to the show on time. And then I discover that The Library is on Fire are playing thirty minutes later than expected. I could have sauntered up. Not the end of the world. I sat to listen to a band I’d not researched or even been interested in seeing,I Am Giant. Initially I (very wrongly) gave them a quick once over and decided that this four-piece looked like a set of over-aged, avid Guitar Hero fans. You know, the guys that are still rocking out in front of the television screen when they’re hitting their early thirties, dreaming, and believing, they’ve still got what it takes to sell out Madison, week in week out. But in actual fact, this band had the credentials. Their songs were very well polished, the guitarist had the swagger and style of John Frusciante, and the singer had an essence of Brandon Boyd (minus the hair). I really liked them, and the other fifteen people in a quiet Mercury Lounge dug them too. Sixteen people have unearthed something very interesting. Talking to the band afterwards, it turns out they’re signed with Sony in Australia and New Zealand, and now trying to create a following in the USA. Something tells me that they might have more luck on the West coast but they are definitely worth a look here. Welcome, The Library is on Fire. I was looking forward to being blown away by a band who’s hype I had bought into. I was looking forward to being picked up and whisked away. I had given them a few listens and was liking exactly what I heard. They reminded me of an early Weezer – young, reckless and raw. Too raw, maybe. I can’t put my finger on what was wrong. They just missed the target. I like noise, I promise you, but this was just simply noise; at least, tonight it seemed that way. There was no presence or confidence. There was no rapport between band and audience, or even attempt. Maybe it was just me, with my bad day and sweaty arse, but their sound was… incomplete; I couldn’t comprehend the songs. I look back now and I can’t even remember which song was which. On reflection, I’ve listened to The Library is on Fire again, on MySpace, and I like them. But live, they just weren’t the same. This is a band where I’d expect the reverse effect. Here, the personality of punk sits well on record but quite uncomfortably on stage.
Great Elk at Rockwood Stage 2, New York, 24th August 2010
If one day, for reasons unknown, a genie, leprechaun or magic fish, were to offer me the chance to see Great Elk anywhere in the world, I would be debating intensely over the choice of one of two places. First and foremost the scene would be this:
I’m in Fairbanks, Alaska. Actually, I’m just outside the town, sat in the foot of a valley, looming with dramatic ridges and draped in tall spruce. About 30 feet away, there’s a river running through. The river’s not large; in fact it’s more of a stream – enough to be pleasant but not overly intimidating. I’m lying back, wrapped in my warmest attire, watching the incredible light show unfold in the sky. I’m wondering if the Aurora Borealis has, for this one night only, been commissioned by the band that are playing directly in front of me, because, believe me, the music they are playing feels like it’s being dictated by this incredible conductor that stands strong and majestically in the cold night sky.
Throw a cute girl into my arms for good measure and that, for me, is wish number one.
Wish number two is as follows:
I’m in a venue as elegant as the music itself. The lights are low and the surrounding company is as equally engaged with the sound and vision taking place on a stage that automatically draws eyes, bodies, minds and souls toward it. The candles are dancing, like that of the Aurora Borealis, to the harmonic, encapsulating music, and beer, wine, and spirits are being served and sipped in a fashion where by they are treasured every time they reach the lips of their keeper. Nearer the stage, various ladies are sat back, eyes closed, nodding their heads and wearing a shy smile upon their face as they, obviously, escape into a world of their own that Great Elk are providing, free of charge for the entirety of their set, to all those passionate enough to do so. A view of the scene is available from two levels and everyone within it is happy…
Shit, hang on a minute.
Wish number two already has come true. Yeah, I’m sure about that. In fact I’m positive. Rockwood Music Hall last Thursday night, I believe?! Fuck me. In that case, round trip to Fairbanks, please!
So, I know now that that was no fairytale wish. But that’s the extent of how Great Elk managed to move me and so man others that night.
This was the first time I had encountered Great Elk and I was blown away immediately by the professionalism and the seriousness of the musicians under that collective mammoth of a name. Led by Paul Basile and Patrick Hay, Great Elk managed something that I have seen few times in a live performance. They, and their band, produced a certain equilibrium between a harmony that engulfs and then, effortlessly, fulfils your want for pace and passion, at precisely the right time. With rousing drums and crescendo of voice, you can personally feel the extent of meaning behind both Basile and Hay. These guys are passionate about everything they are doing and everything that they are trying to accomplish, and that comes across in how they perform.
Great Elk reminisced me with a familiar London sound, in a band called Cherbourg. A folk induced sound but that which also builds like something I would associate more from Explosions in the Sky,or even Fuck Buttons. I’m not suggesting Great Elk are giving us ten minutes of electronic beat but the way the songs are weaved and concocted can be viewed under the same light.
Great Elk offered me something I was looking for and I sensed the same in every other being in the beautiful Rockwood Music Hall.
In Latin, it should be highlighted, that Aurora Borealis directly translates as ‘the dawn of the north’ and this is how, decipher it how you will, I would describe the sound of Great Elk.
Chris Shiflett at The Mercury Lounge, New York, 20th August 2010
It wouldn’t take a genius to have worked out who everybody had come to see tonight. Although pleasant and melodic, Ari Shine were merely a warm up for the proceeding band with whom they have been touring, Chris Shiflett and the Dead Peasants.
Chris Shiflett’s latest project, Chris Shiflett and the Dead Peasants, were culminating their month long tour of the States tonight, promoting their self-titled debut album, at a predominately female-filled Mercury Lounge. Within seconds of Chris appearing on stage, the crowd had moved in and filled any space that gave them the opportunity to get closer to the Foo Fighters’ guitarist in order to prepare them for the Americana/country induced set that was to follow.
Opening with “Helsinki”, the emotionally charged statement of intent, the band got the audience swinging with immediate effect and where it was soon obvious who knew the lyrics, by the end pretty much everyone couldn’t help themselves at least miming along. This was to be the pattern of the evening.
Although a super talented backing from the Dead Peasants, Chris’ charm, charisma and serious credentials are what people had come to see; and with a sound far and away from the vicious rock of the Foo Fighters and more honed on a Ryan Adams/Wilco groove, they got all that and more. One lucky lady even fought the dim light of the floor and the feet of other Shiflett-tranced women to locate and cherish the ‘first broken string of the tour’, that Chris had tossed needlessly away.
Playing a full 13 song set with favourites including, “Baby, Let It Out”, “An Atheists Prayer” and “Get Along”, the Chris Shiflett and the Dead Peasants-express fulfilled expectation and opened a country-fied door to this indie/electro, English music photographer’s previously cotton-filled country ears.
The gig was great, the company was fantastic and would I see them again? Yes, yes I would.
