This review was originally published at The Line of Best Fit.
Hype Williams are late.
Perhaps they underestimated the time it takes to flood a venue with smoke. No exaggeration here: no-one in this dark little sweatbox can see a thing. As the doors open, the only points of light are the blue LEDs on the behemoth of a sound system that the quixotic London duo have hauled in, and the beer fridges lost in the haze.
Extricating the truth from the press release prankster bullshit that accompanies Hype Williams is an exercise in futility; and it’s frankly missing the point. Whether there’s any truth to their stranger-than-fiction ‘origins’ or supposed arrests for dead raccoon theft becomes a moot point once you’re buried in Power Lunches’ ARP-like basement, straining for air and hopelessly in thrall to Hype Williams’ slippery, hyper-fractured soundclash.
For ten minutes before Dean Blunt and Inga Copeland – if those are indeed their real names - take the stage, people lurch into each other in the grey, and a looped, baleful sample echoes through the darkness, soundtracking their enforced disorientation. It’s all a touch Guantanamo. When the two culprits finally loom onstage, they don’t so much arrive as materialise, semi-solid against a violent crackle of distant sirens, gunshots and ugly, hallucinogenic layers of war field sound that’s alternately blissed out and freaked out. Forget seeing their faces; you can barely make out an outline.
The sound system they’ve brought in is intentionally too powerful for the room, and becomes a weapon. Around you, hands cover ears and there’s a creeping retreat from the stage area – futile as the duo’s confrontational noise floods the room. Nostrils vibrate uncomfortably, and low frequencies mount an attack on your eyebrows and chest cavity. The samples range from the recognisable (Le Tigre’s Deceptacon keeps trying to find its way into the mire) to the heavily processed and barely identifiable.
By controlling their audience in the most physical way, by removing sight and replacing it with ear-splitting sound and aggressive physical sensation that catches even these careworn hipsters off guard, do HW succeed in exactly the way they intended, or do they shock and awe to distract from a lack of content? Some have suggested that Hype have nicked the emperor’s new clothes and paraded through Dalston in them, scenesters riding their coat tails.
It’s a lazy accusation, and their manically textured output discredits it easily enough. Every time you acclimatise to the noise, the clashing layers transpose and align, forming a beautiful, undulating wave of dub. And just as you begin to relax, move, slink along with it, it all separates again and the onslaught resumes.
A setting like this is where Hype Williams are at their most authentic and accurate – a dark tiny room where no-one can see a fucking thing except smoke and hulking shadows, and the cataclysmic nonsense spewing from the sound system is all. The only light comes from one slow strobe which, for forty five minutes, lashes its light out and visibly sucks it back in, over and over, incessantly until you close your eyes in submission. For six minutes one brutalising loop shakes your respiratory system out of joint. This shit makes absolutely no sense at all.
As they exit, someone shouts 'Long live Hype Williams!'.
Their response: 'Nah, kill us.'
In an offensively over-marketed world where everything is for sale and reduced to a semiotic device with a quantifiable price, this feels like a legitimate response. They lie about their names and origins, they number rather than name their tracks, they smear every whipcrack beat with cringing levels of feedback and warped, paranoid samples, and fuck you if you can’t figure it out or draw your own conclusions.
And all the while, your face and thighs and earlobes vibrate with frightening force, and your sightlessness no longer matters. They have made their live set a purely physical experience. Why? Because they can. Maybe it’s not all hype; maybe they’ve devised a genuinely new way of making and experiencing live music. Or more likely not, but we’re all too shellshocked and fooled to tell the difference. Either way, they’ve made their point.
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Friday, 13 April 2012
Toy + Savages @ XOYO, 11.04.12
Savages launch like a tomahawk, striking you hard between the eyes from the first minute. After a debut set supporting British Sea Power, the quartet wisely retreated to sharpen their sound to a deadly point, and have deployed it in short, devastating bursts upon unsuspecting small crowds. They’re fierce, androgynous, sexy and uncompromising, and onstage they form a close-knit unit.
The songs veer from insistent Section 25-esque tension to the Cure’s woebegone grandeur. At their core is a taut rhythm section, and Ayse Hassan’s belly-rumbling bass notes stretch out like a cat, embellished with shredded guitar flourishes. Fronting it all, French singer Jehnny Beth is like Ian Curtis in heels, all elbows and cheekbones and boy-hair. Having cut her teeth in arch, elegant duo John & Jehn, here she sheds her impish quirkiness and coyness to become the fully-fledged leader of the pack.
Her remarkable voice has enormous power but is kept firmly in check, only let loose at occasional, opportune moments to swoop, holler and attack. At one point she riffs on a Gang of Four lyric but this is something much slinkier. There’s no plastic sexuality or fey girliness; Savages’ approach is sensual but tough and utilitarian. Jehnny’s nonchalance gives way during Husbands, a stampy Killing Joke-esque sonic assault, as the title is whispered, gasped, shrieked to a shuddering crescendo. Savages' confidence is cool, unstudied and magnetic; it’s a perfect endorsement of the theory that you’ve either got it or you ain’t.
I really want to like Toy. They ply the sort of overwrought shoegaze that I have infinite time for, and they make a nervy, infectious noise that you can swivel to. Think the meanest thoughts you can; your hips will still move disobediently.
But something’s missing, and it’s massively conspicuous by its absence. Is it talent? No – try experience. Though they have played together before (as the Jing Jang Jong for the dubious Joe Lean), Toy are a new and wholly different incarnation, and it’s early days for them to be selling out venues like this. Their sound is compelling but there just aren’t any complete songs yet. ‘Bright White Shimmering Sun’ has a sexy, petulant hook but after the chorus, it’s unmemorable. Singer Tom’s voice needs to toughen up – it dissolves under an unedited miasma of guitar scree. At their strongest his vocals sound stroppy, but is that really what he’s going for?
It’s frustrating because I really want it to work. I first saw this band before Christmas in a small basement in Shepherds Bush, and my interest was piqued by all those squealing guitars, laid over She’s Lost Control bass references. It built to a raging climax and, staggering home, the overwhelming sense was one of ’MORE PLEASE, NOW’. They can obviously handle a headline crowd - psychologically, they’re ready for this. But watching them’s like chasing the dragon; subsequent adventures just don’t live up to the first hit, and you’re left feeling disappointed and increasingly resentful.
But as the set progresses, the hope returns. I know they can do it, and I really want them to. Every time you give up on them, they throw out a melodic phrase that buckles your knees… and then the chorus takes over, and you’re let down and bored again. “I never thought I’d lose my way over you” - that line, if expertly delivered, should hurt, should remind you of your last proper heartbreak, but the vocal needs something (anything), and they haven’t stripped all the miscellaneous shit off it, so it gets lost. Their finest moments emerge when they abandon the songs and just let a wave of densely layered psychedelia submerge them.
The rhythm, the suggestive bass, all that guitar and the staggering noise it adds up to – fuck it, the sheer amount of hair between them (they could supply weave for half of Hollywood) – it’s too much fun not to come to something, but as yet it’s a long way off. Let’s hope it happens before the hype wears off; premature success can be a destructive thing.
An abridged version of this review was also published on The Line of Best Fit.
Saturday, 24 March 2012
The Chap @ The Lexington
The Chap are a really funny band. They’re like something out of a good comic - they’re like wry, nerdy superheroes. What they are not is a comedy band, and to dismiss them thusly would be to completely overlook their worth.
Their intentions are clear from the outset. They make an awful lot of jagged, cheerful noise, and periodically STOP! And freeze pose. And resume movement, and repeat. They dress like former CBBC characters who never gave up the dream; the night’s winning look is a hard-fought battle between hairy guitarist Panos Ghikas’ neat running shorts and drummer Keith Duncan’s fabulous Wurzels-esque facial topiary, accessorised with a beaming grin. They pursue the surreal, am-dram stage attitude with zeal, but back it up fearlessly with an arsenal of infectious, upside-down pop.
Comparisons with Devo will be made, and while they perhaps share a soul and a mutual sense of determined oddity, The Chap’s output is more erratic and frenzied than Devo’s streamlined weirdness. Shredded bows hack at cellos, staccato riffs jerk back and forth and singer Johannes von Weizsäcker (what a name!) lurches goggle-eyed about the stage, losing a fight with his guitar, and announcing before every song, ‘You’re gonna love it!’. The drummer demonstrates a delighted fascination with a plastic bottle, analysing it from all sides like Kubrick’s gorillas in A Space Odyssey, before returning efficiently to the task at hand.
Despite the studied eccentricity, there’s a keen, taut sense of purpose, never more evident than during a fervent, Patrick Henry-paraphrasing chant of “Give me surrender or give me death / Give me my life back or give me death”; their ‘us vs everyone else’ attitude recalls the Fall at their most defiant. Their antics perfectly punctuate their songs, marching poses and freeze-frame shapes emphasising the frenetic rhythm and imaginative structure rather than distracting from it. Ask anyone in the front row what they think of The Chap, and... well, you may have to wait. They’re too busy flailing about and out-frenzying their heroes.
People say there’s a delicate line between finely tuned, quirky genius and ill-advised wackiness. It’s actually a really thick line, and The Chap know exactly which side they’re on. Only those with the emotional limitations of a potato could fail to be filled with grinning pleasure by The Chap. They inspire absolute devotion from a flailing, joyous crowd, and deservedly so.
Their intentions are clear from the outset. They make an awful lot of jagged, cheerful noise, and periodically STOP! And freeze pose. And resume movement, and repeat. They dress like former CBBC characters who never gave up the dream; the night’s winning look is a hard-fought battle between hairy guitarist Panos Ghikas’ neat running shorts and drummer Keith Duncan’s fabulous Wurzels-esque facial topiary, accessorised with a beaming grin. They pursue the surreal, am-dram stage attitude with zeal, but back it up fearlessly with an arsenal of infectious, upside-down pop.
Comparisons with Devo will be made, and while they perhaps share a soul and a mutual sense of determined oddity, The Chap’s output is more erratic and frenzied than Devo’s streamlined weirdness. Shredded bows hack at cellos, staccato riffs jerk back and forth and singer Johannes von Weizsäcker (what a name!) lurches goggle-eyed about the stage, losing a fight with his guitar, and announcing before every song, ‘You’re gonna love it!’. The drummer demonstrates a delighted fascination with a plastic bottle, analysing it from all sides like Kubrick’s gorillas in A Space Odyssey, before returning efficiently to the task at hand.
Despite the studied eccentricity, there’s a keen, taut sense of purpose, never more evident than during a fervent, Patrick Henry-paraphrasing chant of “Give me surrender or give me death / Give me my life back or give me death”; their ‘us vs everyone else’ attitude recalls the Fall at their most defiant. Their antics perfectly punctuate their songs, marching poses and freeze-frame shapes emphasising the frenetic rhythm and imaginative structure rather than distracting from it. Ask anyone in the front row what they think of The Chap, and... well, you may have to wait. They’re too busy flailing about and out-frenzying their heroes.
People say there’s a delicate line between finely tuned, quirky genius and ill-advised wackiness. It’s actually a really thick line, and The Chap know exactly which side they’re on. Only those with the emotional limitations of a potato could fail to be filled with grinning pleasure by The Chap. They inspire absolute devotion from a flailing, joyous crowd, and deservedly so.
Photos: Teeth of the Sea @ The Lexington, 14th March 2012
Since I got my beloved secondhand Canon EOS 350D I've mainly used it for city photography. But I really miss doing live music photography so I'm going to see what sort of results I can get with it over the next few weeks. Aside from an odd bug with shooting at a very open aperture sometimes (which I'm going to investigate and try & find a solution for), it's a lovely and intuitive camera to use so I hope I'll get some decent results soon. I suffer from a lack of flashgun and limited lenses, but money is what it is, so that won't change for a while (and I don't like using much flash anyway); I shall work with what I've got. I hate the 'all the gear and no idea' approach to photography anyway; what counts is a decent eye, understanding your environment & subject, and knowing what your camera can do.
Here's some photos of Teeth of the Sea, who are always fun to photograph. Not great pictures, but this was something of a test run with this camera, so time will bring improvement.
Here's some photos of Teeth of the Sea, who are always fun to photograph. Not great pictures, but this was something of a test run with this camera, so time will bring improvement.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Roman holiday
Typical, you wait for a year in the rain, and then three come along at once.
I think I've realised where I'm meant to be.
I spent a few days in Rome between Christmas and the new year.
Rome is a city of mixed memories for me. There was the first encounter; the whole place was cold and windy and rainy! Not whatI had hoped for. Everything since has been better, from romantic getaways to simple family returns to my favourite not-London city. It's a couple of years since I've been back, so I was excited.
It hit me as soon as I was there - I've never felt anything so powerful for a place. I knew I loved the city but I had never felt any city pull me away from London before. I dreaded going home. I didn't particularly revisit places I knew, other than the cat sanctuary I always visit. I explored Trastevere properly, and sought out vintage shops in Via del Governor Vecchio (success - the suede lace-up black ankle boots to eclipse all other boots, 80 Euros - secondhand Gucci!), and sipped Aperol alone at sunset behind Piazza Navona, and plunged into the huge Saturday fruit & vegetable / spices market in Campo del Fiori. I walked along the river for the first time for a few hours - what a beautiful, desolate, lovely, lonely walk it is. I fell in love with every single bridge. I took eight hundred photos on three cameras.
Things:
- The colour of the city. Everything is sand and sunset coloured. Even the grey buildings are warm looking. Everything is lit at night. The cobbles reflect everything. It's not a city for heels but I did admirably nonetheless.
- It's a city you can get lost in, after a hundred twisting streets explored, and think yourself miles from anywhere you know, only to find yourself thrown out onto Vittorio Emmanuele - recognisable bus numbers, and that shop you walked past two hours ago! A compass will not help you in Rome. Optimism will.
- Everyone in Rome wears puffa jackets. Everyone. Some of the men wear discreet navy options, and some wear terrifying PVC abominations with shiny jeans. Some of the girls wear short casual versions, and others wear snow-bunny style knee-length fitted puffa coats. Inflation is alive and well in Roma. If I lived in Rome, I would not succumb to this trend. I will never clad myself in balloons.
- The girls do not seem to wear high heels! It is in my nature to make an effort (to be taller), and while I thought I looked perfectly December-practical in skinny jeans, soft jumpers, a warm fluffy hat, my aunt's old plum boucle jacket and a big wrappy scarf, my stilettos seemed to attract attention. A man followed me across a piazza in Trastevere to tell me I was 'the best tourist' he had ever seen. Damning me with faint praise perhaps? They were nothing flashy - warm brown leather ankle boots, albeit mounted on lethal weapons holding me aloft. I looked at the other girls' shoes, and to a woman they were all either trainers or flat boots. I guess the cobbles partly account for that, but they really aren't that difficult to negotiate if your shoes are comfortable, heels or no. Heels are perhaps just not the culture.
Going home was awful. I didn't think I could bear to get in the taxi to the airport. A week later I am still not used to London. It feels cold and unreflective. This has never happened - I LOVE London. I think Rome is the place for me. I know no-one there but it deters me not. Time to sell some paintings and learn Italian.
I think I've realised where I'm meant to be.
I spent a few days in Rome between Christmas and the new year.
Rome is a city of mixed memories for me. There was the first encounter; the whole place was cold and windy and rainy! Not whatI had hoped for. Everything since has been better, from romantic getaways to simple family returns to my favourite not-London city. It's a couple of years since I've been back, so I was excited.
It hit me as soon as I was there - I've never felt anything so powerful for a place. I knew I loved the city but I had never felt any city pull me away from London before. I dreaded going home. I didn't particularly revisit places I knew, other than the cat sanctuary I always visit. I explored Trastevere properly, and sought out vintage shops in Via del Governor Vecchio (success - the suede lace-up black ankle boots to eclipse all other boots, 80 Euros - secondhand Gucci!), and sipped Aperol alone at sunset behind Piazza Navona, and plunged into the huge Saturday fruit & vegetable / spices market in Campo del Fiori. I walked along the river for the first time for a few hours - what a beautiful, desolate, lovely, lonely walk it is. I fell in love with every single bridge. I took eight hundred photos on three cameras.
Things:
- The colour of the city. Everything is sand and sunset coloured. Even the grey buildings are warm looking. Everything is lit at night. The cobbles reflect everything. It's not a city for heels but I did admirably nonetheless.
- It's a city you can get lost in, after a hundred twisting streets explored, and think yourself miles from anywhere you know, only to find yourself thrown out onto Vittorio Emmanuele - recognisable bus numbers, and that shop you walked past two hours ago! A compass will not help you in Rome. Optimism will.
- Everyone in Rome wears puffa jackets. Everyone. Some of the men wear discreet navy options, and some wear terrifying PVC abominations with shiny jeans. Some of the girls wear short casual versions, and others wear snow-bunny style knee-length fitted puffa coats. Inflation is alive and well in Roma. If I lived in Rome, I would not succumb to this trend. I will never clad myself in balloons.
- The girls do not seem to wear high heels! It is in my nature to make an effort (to be taller), and while I thought I looked perfectly December-practical in skinny jeans, soft jumpers, a warm fluffy hat, my aunt's old plum boucle jacket and a big wrappy scarf, my stilettos seemed to attract attention. A man followed me across a piazza in Trastevere to tell me I was 'the best tourist' he had ever seen. Damning me with faint praise perhaps? They were nothing flashy - warm brown leather ankle boots, albeit mounted on lethal weapons holding me aloft. I looked at the other girls' shoes, and to a woman they were all either trainers or flat boots. I guess the cobbles partly account for that, but they really aren't that difficult to negotiate if your shoes are comfortable, heels or no. Heels are perhaps just not the culture.
Going home was awful. I didn't think I could bear to get in the taxi to the airport. A week later I am still not used to London. It feels cold and unreflective. This has never happened - I LOVE London. I think Rome is the place for me. I know no-one there but it deters me not. Time to sell some paintings and learn Italian.
Friday, 6 January 2012
Ulterior - Wild in Wildlife
Ulterior? Ulteri-phwoar, you mean. It's preposterous that I haven't seen Ulterior before. Since HTRK knocked my socks off back in 2007 (and kept on keeping on, their recent post-Sean full-length is an inky masterpiece) and S.C.U.M. caught my eye with a live set back at Offset a few years back, I have had my eye on this whole goth revival. Fuck it, I've had to put up with people calling me a goth for years, it's about time I got something back. So how did I miss Ulterior? It's not like I never heard of them; I just never got round to them.
Anyway, last night I did, and onstage marched this gang in black (except for the keyboardist in white jeans who didn't get the memo); tall skinny guitarist with his too-big clothes pinned roughly around him, and singer who looked like the chappy from The Big Pink if you wrapped him in gaffa tape and shiny puffa cladding and made him wear leather trousers against his will. There were also some unjustifiable reflective aviators, but he carried it off because when you're wearing a pvc puffa jacket, nothing seems ludicrous in comparison. (The Italians know this.)
And it was all *SLAM SLAM SLAM* (no, NOT in a Spice Girls way) and vocals shouted into the stagesmoke and massively overstated synth drums, but it felt very industrial and brutal and empty and - key - MODERN. Something newly carved and freshly birthed, not a rehash of all the stuff that was done better by better rehashers.
I'm listening to them now on Spotify. Strange, they sound very different. It's a funny thing, when a band you like live is a completely different band that you still like for completely different reasons on record. This record is properly gothy and 80s crashdrum-laden. The vox are sung, not roared, and they have that purified quality that every singer who loves Dave Gahan tends to cultivate. It really really works because they're just harder and better than a lot of the bands that attempt this sound.
Part of me can't help but think this is the sound that White Rose Movement would have aimed for if they'd had a brain cell between them. Which is a bit mean, not to White Rose Movement (because they deserve it), but to Ulterior, because I really think they're better than comparisons to WRM suggest. But nonetheless, that's what comes to mind. It sounds like sleaze and leather jackets and tall buildings and the moon through smog and fast cars with buzzsaws for tyres. And that all sounds shittily cliched because this sound is, it's nearly 30 years old, but fuck it, if chaps like Ulterior can keep it alive and kicking, then long may the life support continue.
Anyway, last night I did, and onstage marched this gang in black (except for the keyboardist in white jeans who didn't get the memo); tall skinny guitarist with his too-big clothes pinned roughly around him, and singer who looked like the chappy from The Big Pink if you wrapped him in gaffa tape and shiny puffa cladding and made him wear leather trousers against his will. There were also some unjustifiable reflective aviators, but he carried it off because when you're wearing a pvc puffa jacket, nothing seems ludicrous in comparison. (The Italians know this.)
And it was all *SLAM SLAM SLAM* (no, NOT in a Spice Girls way) and vocals shouted into the stagesmoke and massively overstated synth drums, but it felt very industrial and brutal and empty and - key - MODERN. Something newly carved and freshly birthed, not a rehash of all the stuff that was done better by better rehashers.
I'm listening to them now on Spotify. Strange, they sound very different. It's a funny thing, when a band you like live is a completely different band that you still like for completely different reasons on record. This record is properly gothy and 80s crashdrum-laden. The vox are sung, not roared, and they have that purified quality that every singer who loves Dave Gahan tends to cultivate. It really really works because they're just harder and better than a lot of the bands that attempt this sound.
Part of me can't help but think this is the sound that White Rose Movement would have aimed for if they'd had a brain cell between them. Which is a bit mean, not to White Rose Movement (because they deserve it), but to Ulterior, because I really think they're better than comparisons to WRM suggest. But nonetheless, that's what comes to mind. It sounds like sleaze and leather jackets and tall buildings and the moon through smog and fast cars with buzzsaws for tyres. And that all sounds shittily cliched because this sound is, it's nearly 30 years old, but fuck it, if chaps like Ulterior can keep it alive and kicking, then long may the life support continue.
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Flat-hunting
Posts are a little thin on the ground at the moment, as I am spending all of my time on property websites, trying to find a nice flat to rent. Our landlord wants to sell our flat, so it looks like we are reluctantly moving on. For a dedicated follower of a fashion, it's a trying undertaking - I must have enough storage for my clothes! Right now, and in my previous existence at my parents' house, I have been lucky enough to have a spare room to put my clothes in. It's higgledypiggledy but basically organised. Except when it's not. I don't know if I will be so lucky in our next place - though we can afford a place with enough space, it's simply a case of actually finding it, in the area we want (i.e. exactly where we are now, thank you very much).
The search goes on... wish me luck.
The search goes on... wish me luck.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Rainbow warriors
I've always had a penchant for very colourful makeup. At 16 I had a Saturday job in the long-gone but legendary South Molton Street Pharmacy - a treasure chest of Spectacular and Barry M rainbow nail colours, cheap sample-size posh products (Eight Hour Cream for a fiver!), and make-up of every shade, consistency and brand imaginable. You'll be shocked to learn that I amassed quite a collection, and wore absurd eyeshadow every day. At one point I owned four hundred bottles of nail polish. Worrying.
The legacy of this still lives on in my three make-up boxes and tendency to buy everything I think I might ever need. Admittedly in recent years I have been a bit more grown-up about things, sticking sensibly to dark brown liner, soft neutrals and occasional metallics, and buying much less as a result (no-one needs ten grey eyeshadows). Nails are still fair game, although my collection's shrunk to about 40. Lately though I have felt the need to explore colour again. Music videos are a great source of inspiration for me; blame Gaga, Katy Perry or Karen O... either way, it's fun to play with colour.
Yesterday I had a bit of a splurge, as tends to happen when I go into Superdrug. Here's what I got, as well as a few of my regular favourites.
I love Gosh products. I'm wearing the nail polish above on my nails, and the green eye pencil makes a great base for green or yellow powder. I've found the products I've used to be as good as Mac, and significantly cheaper. (I strongly recommend the eyebrow pencil/brush combo.) And they have a great sense of colour - they aren't limited to traditional colours or even the very primary and secondary shades that Barry M use. Lots of weird combinations. Yum!
I'm quite impressed with this colour palette from Collection 2000. Cheap as chips, you get nine superbright shades in varying textures. It's a tiny detail but I also really like the flexible plastic overlay (like thick clingfilm - not shown) that protects all the colours once you open the palette.
And some old favourites:
I'm getting a lot of use out of this Rimmel solo at the moment - a really nice pastel aqua-green powder that's great with pale skin. A nice zing of colour without being too neon or vulgar.
I use this magenta Mac lip pencil lots. A light covering gives a soft, matte look, or it can provide a base for dramatic pink or magenta lipstick.
Regular shoppers at Superdrug will know what a treasure trove it is for affordable and modern make-up. I believe if you know your way around Superdrug you rarely need to even venture near the pricier make-up stands. Sam of make-up artist duo Pixiwoo has made no secret of her admiration for the Sleek colour palettes. I haven't bought any yet (it's only a matter of time) but I have to throw my hat into the ring for BeautyUK. Their muted forest-toned iridescent palette is a modern classic, but this rainbow palette is great fun, and less than £5. You'll get a lot of colour out of each shade, and they wear really well over a good base. I can't recommend it enough.
Best eye quartet I ever ever bought. I bought this Hard Candy quad when I was sixteen. I'm now 27 - and still using it. The pressed powder hasn't degraded at all; it's heavily pigmented and very iridescent with a thick, luxurious texture. The yellow is fantastic with a strong green shimmer and the darker shades are gold-shot. I know you're not meant to keep make up for so long but when it works such a treat, and is so irreplaceable, how can I throw it out?
I miss Hard Candy SO MUCH. I'll probably do a post dedicated to them shortly.
Who doesn't love Shu Uemura? A deliciously pigmented shimmering yellow that I like on its own with black mascara and minimal make-up elsewhere.
The legacy of this still lives on in my three make-up boxes and tendency to buy everything I think I might ever need. Admittedly in recent years I have been a bit more grown-up about things, sticking sensibly to dark brown liner, soft neutrals and occasional metallics, and buying much less as a result (no-one needs ten grey eyeshadows). Nails are still fair game, although my collection's shrunk to about 40. Lately though I have felt the need to explore colour again. Music videos are a great source of inspiration for me; blame Gaga, Katy Perry or Karen O... either way, it's fun to play with colour.
Yesterday I had a bit of a splurge, as tends to happen when I go into Superdrug. Here's what I got, as well as a few of my regular favourites.
I love Gosh products. I'm wearing the nail polish above on my nails, and the green eye pencil makes a great base for green or yellow powder. I've found the products I've used to be as good as Mac, and significantly cheaper. (I strongly recommend the eyebrow pencil/brush combo.) And they have a great sense of colour - they aren't limited to traditional colours or even the very primary and secondary shades that Barry M use. Lots of weird combinations. Yum!
I'm quite impressed with this colour palette from Collection 2000. Cheap as chips, you get nine superbright shades in varying textures. It's a tiny detail but I also really like the flexible plastic overlay (like thick clingfilm - not shown) that protects all the colours once you open the palette.
And some old favourites:
I'm getting a lot of use out of this Rimmel solo at the moment - a really nice pastel aqua-green powder that's great with pale skin. A nice zing of colour without being too neon or vulgar.
I use this magenta Mac lip pencil lots. A light covering gives a soft, matte look, or it can provide a base for dramatic pink or magenta lipstick.
Regular shoppers at Superdrug will know what a treasure trove it is for affordable and modern make-up. I believe if you know your way around Superdrug you rarely need to even venture near the pricier make-up stands. Sam of make-up artist duo Pixiwoo has made no secret of her admiration for the Sleek colour palettes. I haven't bought any yet (it's only a matter of time) but I have to throw my hat into the ring for BeautyUK. Their muted forest-toned iridescent palette is a modern classic, but this rainbow palette is great fun, and less than £5. You'll get a lot of colour out of each shade, and they wear really well over a good base. I can't recommend it enough.
Best eye quartet I ever ever bought. I bought this Hard Candy quad when I was sixteen. I'm now 27 - and still using it. The pressed powder hasn't degraded at all; it's heavily pigmented and very iridescent with a thick, luxurious texture. The yellow is fantastic with a strong green shimmer and the darker shades are gold-shot. I know you're not meant to keep make up for so long but when it works such a treat, and is so irreplaceable, how can I throw it out?
I miss Hard Candy SO MUCH. I'll probably do a post dedicated to them shortly.
Who doesn't love Shu Uemura? A deliciously pigmented shimmering yellow that I like on its own with black mascara and minimal make-up elsewhere.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Very excited
This layabout blogger is going to be a paid-up member of society once more. No more daytime television or odd days of work for me for a while... I just landed a very serious executive PA job, starting at the end of the month.
My father and boyfriend's responses: "Congratulations!" My mother's response: "You'll need to sort your wardrobe out, dear. Not that you don't have wonderful clothes, but I think you might need to . . . er . . . " Yes, Mother, I know. Yours truly will be finally sorting out her tax this month and trotting off out in search of a couple of suitably executive looking shirts. Advice, Londoners? Where will I find beautiful shirts? Thomas Pink's shirts are a bit stiff for me... I need something with a narrow, slightly mannish fit and very sharp but understated collar in fairly thin fabric, nothing that looks like it could stand up on its own. Proper cuffs a bonus.
My mother is desperate for me to buy a silk shirt. I think this has been her ambition for me for some time now.
My father and boyfriend's responses: "Congratulations!" My mother's response: "You'll need to sort your wardrobe out, dear. Not that you don't have wonderful clothes, but I think you might need to . . . er . . . " Yes, Mother, I know. Yours truly will be finally sorting out her tax this month and trotting off out in search of a couple of suitably executive looking shirts. Advice, Londoners? Where will I find beautiful shirts? Thomas Pink's shirts are a bit stiff for me... I need something with a narrow, slightly mannish fit and very sharp but understated collar in fairly thin fabric, nothing that looks like it could stand up on its own. Proper cuffs a bonus.
My mother is desperate for me to buy a silk shirt. I think this has been her ambition for me for some time now.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Dress Up
I am very taken with Aussie label Dress Up.
The current collection suggests a preoccupation with a state of undress. Dresses fall off shoulders, or sections are pinned together, baring small, irregular expanses of skin. It's sexy and risque but quite the opposite of the sucked in, va-va-voom of body-con or burlesque's old-school kitsch.
Black, brick red and nude prevails, in degrees of sheer.
The perfect black trousers? Dainty and beatnik with flat sandals or pumps, elegant with wedges, and they'd tuck perfectly into some calf-length boots.
Dress Up are stocked at Liberty - and here's Yasmin Sewell, Liberty's Chief Creative Consultant, wearing the most wantsome skirt I've seen since records began. Photo by the very talented Vanessa Jackman, from her blog.
I also just noticed that fellow Aussie label Shakuhachi are now being stocked at Urban Outfitters. Long have I waited for this moment, Shaku fangirl that I am. I had a peruse yesterday - beautiful, loosely structured grey jackets with zip-off sleeves, softsoftsoft black jersey and drapey nude chiffon. Perhaps what you'd call quirky future classics. Pricey though, mostly £150-£200. All the more reason for me to get a permanent job, stat.
Photos, (c) Dress Up, except last photo, (c) Vanessa Jackman.
The current collection suggests a preoccupation with a state of undress. Dresses fall off shoulders, or sections are pinned together, baring small, irregular expanses of skin. It's sexy and risque but quite the opposite of the sucked in, va-va-voom of body-con or burlesque's old-school kitsch.
Black, brick red and nude prevails, in degrees of sheer.
The perfect black trousers? Dainty and beatnik with flat sandals or pumps, elegant with wedges, and they'd tuck perfectly into some calf-length boots.
Dress Up are stocked at Liberty - and here's Yasmin Sewell, Liberty's Chief Creative Consultant, wearing the most wantsome skirt I've seen since records began. Photo by the very talented Vanessa Jackman, from her blog.
I also just noticed that fellow Aussie label Shakuhachi are now being stocked at Urban Outfitters. Long have I waited for this moment, Shaku fangirl that I am. I had a peruse yesterday - beautiful, loosely structured grey jackets with zip-off sleeves, softsoftsoft black jersey and drapey nude chiffon. Perhaps what you'd call quirky future classics. Pricey though, mostly £150-£200. All the more reason for me to get a permanent job, stat.
Photos, (c) Dress Up, except last photo, (c) Vanessa Jackman.
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