We can’t festival like we used to. Nearly a week after the end of Readipop (hope you all enjoyed our overview of the event, by the way) we are still achy of limb and heavy of head. And we didn’t even go that hard! Age can be cruel to the party animal, doubly so when we’re still hauling ourselves out of lockdown torpor. Still, fun was had, beer was drunk, boogies were boogied. Already looking forward to next year.
However, we have other business to attend to, feeding the maw of the hungry link-eating machine that is The Cut. This week: beats, seances and 21 flavours of Mountain Dew.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
After two years away for some reason, Readipop returned to Christchurch Meadows for three days of art, love and music. It was delightful and strange to be back. Can we remember how to festival?
Last week’s post, on artificial sentience and the rules of personhood (who says we don’t know how to have a good time here?) span naturally out of our usual process for link-gathering here at The Cut. We’re always fascinated by a good idea explored well, and the story of Blake Lemoine and LamDA deserved more than a simple paragraph. Once we began to consider the implications and map them onto current events—well, we had 1500 words. We’ll try and do more of these sort of posts, just to switch things up.
In the meantime, we’re back on our basic bullshit. Check out linkery on film restoration, stomp boxes and the rebirth of twee.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
Stop me if you think you’ve heard this one before. There’s this guy who works with computers, a software developer. As part of his duties, he has to interrogate the equipment, a quality control pass to make sure the program is working within normal parameters. He discovers, or realises, or believes, his particular piece of software is not only over-performing—it has developed a soul.
I mean, we can’t even. The news is acting like a kid after an illicit raid on the cookie jar, jabbering wildly and flinging stuff around so quickly that we simply don’t have the capability to keep up. So we won’t. We’re sticking to our lane, hands firmly on the wheel at ten to two. If we seem to be gripping a little too tightly, our knuckles whitening… that’s just the way we drive, yeah?
Anyway. Either the greatest or the worst sandwich in the world, salt, yanks and the world’s most satisfying checkbox await your attention on the other side of the fold. Join us. It’s safer in there.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
And we’re back. We hope you were suitably well-behaved whilst we were off being all windswept and interesting. Thanks for the love you showed last week’s archive post. If you care to go digging there’s plenty more on the site—Excuses And Half Truths has been running for a veeeery long time.
Anyway, let’s have some linkery. This week: singing cars, a simple cut-up and the worst writer in the village.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
1994. The Together Alone tour. The first time TLC and I saw Crowded House. There were a line of strange, ridged constructs along the back of the stage, like monolithic artifacts of a forgotten age. Lit in rippling colours, there were times when they almost seemed to come alive, dancing gently to the music. A Maori choir and drum troupe came on for the title track and rattled Wembley Arena to the foundations. We had been fans before. Now we were hooked.
Remember…
2005. Neil and Tim as The Finn Brothers at the Royal Albert Hall. Nick Seymour turns up on bass, and for a moment we think there’s a full-on House reunion on the cards. But something’s off. Support act Bic Runga runs off stage in tears after struggling through an emotionally fraught set. At stage centre, a mike stand with a fedora on it. It all becomes clear. Founding member, drummer and class clown Paul Hester (the hat on the stand had been a trademark of his) had taken his own life the previous night. We realise we have, however inadvertently, been invited to a wake. It’s an extraordinary, sorrowful but uplifting show. They start—the rotten bastards start—with Don’t Dream It’s Over. All bets are off from that point. We mourn together.
And on and on. So many shows. Breakups, reformations, solo projects. The sound, the feeling remain. The warmth. The sense of family.
Remember…
The end of 2019. A world tour is announced. I am poised over the keys of the laptop as the seconds tick down to ticket-release. Tension. Mild panic. Forgetting the Ticketmaster password. Peering anxiously at the spinny wheel as the order is processed and…We’re in. Birmingham Arena. June 2020 can’t come soon enough.
Yes, right, well. About that.
The obligatory shaky, out of focus phone shot of a concert.
Two and a half years later, Neil Finn, Nick Seymour, Liam Finn, Mitchell Froom and Elroy Finn stroll on stage, strap on and fire away. A crowded house (come on, you know I had to) at what is now the Utilita Arena goes nuts. Opening salvo: Distant Sun. Well, of course it bloody is. The first line goes ‘Tell me what you think you would change…’
Pretty much everything from March 2020 to here and now, thanks.
From there it’s a spirited, joyous romp through the back catalogue. You know more Crowded House songs than you think. But this is no greatest hits package. There are enough golden nuggets included in the set from the most recent album Dreamers Are Waiting to remind us that this is still a vital, powerful group of musicians with fresh songs to sing, fresh stories to tell.
They look great, by the way. Neil’s in a white suit, hair glinting sliver in the spotlight, up in an Elvis-high quiff. Liam (who treated us to an impromptu solo set, unannounced, slightly annoying as most of us were still in the beer queue) is a spit for Ewen McGregor’s Obi-Wan Kenobi with a soupçon of Marcus Wareing thrown in. Nick, always the fashion plate, rockets around the stage in (there’s no easy way to put this, best to just rip off the bandages) a kilt. Elroy and Mitchell just sit on the back line and get on with the job. Let the rockstars rockstar.
Two hours vanish, a sacrifice to the time gods. There’s a little less between-song banter these days, but otherwise all the elements of a great Crowdie gig are in place. Plenty of singalongs of course, where the band drop out and The Crowd take over. I choke up during Fall At Your Feet. Gods, I’ve missed this. Once the band roll into Better Be Home Soon I feel like I’ve been worked over like a punching bag. It is every bit as emotional as I expected. Catharsis is too weak a word for what I’ve experienced.
Why this band? Why these songs? You may as well ask why these clouds, why this grass? For as long as I can remember, Crowded House and their blend of warm, domestic, gently sensual psychedelia have been a part of our lives. Simple and comforting as a fresh cup of tea or clean set of sheets on the bed. They understand how the small things can inform greater truths. Every gig reminds me how Neil and Nick and whoever else plays with them have an innate ability to take any venue and make it intimate and welcoming. Live music is a communal experience. Neil and crew understood that when they live-streamed a set of musical experiments at home in New Zealand through lockdown which turned into a whole album, worked out with a global audience in tow. Crowded House bring that feeling of togetherness to the forefront and enfold their audiences in a big, fat hug. Lean in. Let it go. It’s ok to cry if you want.
In a strange and frankly still unsettling world, this was the moment we needed, the place to be, the songs to sing. To quote from the song: It’s only natural that I should want to be there with you.
The Cut is away. In a change to your scheduled programme, we offer a gem from the archives. Please join Editor Rob as he takes a Proustian ramble through his back pages via the medium of fried chicken. Trust us, it will become clearer once you dig in.
Happy Pride Month, everyone! Like all other corporate entities, The Cut rushes to jump on the bandwagon, hoping to chase down a quick handful of the sweet sweet pink pounds. However,as general policy, we believe you are worthy of love no matter your gender, orientation, weight, colour, age, faith, position on the Myer-Briggs scale or point on the RPG alignment square. You’re all good in our book.
A minor organisational note—we are on a much-needed group away trip next week, so operations will be on a very low burn. We have lined up a treat from the archive so you don’t feel abandoned. We’d never do that. We are too full of love to let you down.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
It’s been a horrible week. We’re not going to try and sugarcoat it. The day job has been punishing, the news from home and abroad almost unbearable. We’re making the attempt not to let it all roll over us, crushing our bones into the tarmac and greasing its dreadful wheels with our tears. A reset isn’t possible under these circumstances—we need to learn a lesson and find a way forward which doesn’t simply shrug off events.
And also focus on some good things, like the construction and polish of this newsletter. Writing and reading is a balm. We intend to slather it on thickly this weekend. We hope you can join us.
Now is the time. Here is the place. This is The Cut.
EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS 