Sentences You Don't Often Hear In Work #3

"Do you know what this reminds me of? When Noah built that ark. Do you remember that?"

Sentences You Don't Often Hear In Work #2

Strictly speaking, this is dialogue rather than a sentence. But anyway:

Girl (after some deliberation):"I don't know who Eamonn Holmes is."

'Hilarious' chap next to her: "Sherlock's brother."

Girl (after much, much more deliberation): "I don't know who Sherlock Holmes is either."

The Bombed-Out Church

St Luke's, Liverpool

On the edge of Liverpool city centre, on the corner of Leece Street and Berry Street, lies the hollow shell of St Luke's church. Struck by an incendiary bomb towards the end of the Second World War, the building (known affectionately to locals as 'the bombed-out church') remained largely unused until 2003, when arts collective Urban Strawberry Lunch began hosting musical events, photography installations and film nights.

It's a brilliant reinvention for one of the city's lesser-widely-known, but potentially more recognisable landmarks. WHTB spent a long time wondering why they hadn't gone one step further and simply opened it up as an open-air club called The Bombed-Out Church, until finally managing to haul some flabby backside down there for a showing of cold-war-paranoia-sci-fi-classic The Day The Earch Stood Still. As magnificent as the structure is, all attendees to these events have to sign a form declaring their awareness that the whole thing could, like, collapse around us. AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT. Sheesh! Ok, possibly not the best home for a club full of pissed idiots twitching and jerking to floor-shakingly-loud bass and beats. But as long as you bring a jacket (even on these delightful summer evenings, it can get pretty nippy) it's a lovely place to take in a movie.

Forthcoming screenings, should you catch this blog in time, include FW Murnau's Nosferatu (4th July) and Jean Cocteau's La Belle Et La Bête (5th July). There's also a plethora of other stuff coming up, which you're advised to check out. Hooray!

Sentences You Don't Often Hear In Work #1

The first in an occasional series! First entry:

"...and that's why my dentist is in jail."

...Like a shit-eating rabbit on speed! OFFICIAL!

It's entirely in keeping with WHTB's work ethic thus far that it should take this long to produce a piece on the sad passing of former NME journo Steven Wells last week. The web is currently bulging with tributes to the man (Swells to his friends, fans and indeed foes), and in any case I'm sure it would fill him with disgust to think of anyone still preoccupying themselves with his death a week after the event, so I'm not going to even attempt anything approaching an obituary or anything of the kind. Similar but better sentiments can be found on the sterling Old Rope blog, along with links to some other great pieces, all of which which you are sincerely advised to check out instead. Not to mention his final column for the Philadelphia Weekly.

What i will say is that, as a mere reader, I learned a lot from Swells. His writing style was frenetic, breathless, hugely imaginative, supremely daft, intensely clever, often provocative and always entertaining. He also enjoyed capital letters an awful lot. But as a music hack, he frequently challenged the status quo and heartily encouraged people to make up their own minds.

This is important. Because, when you think about it, (whisper it) pop music doesn't actually matter that much. But for fuck's sake, don't tell anyone that! Ideas and opinions are essential, because they define who we are - and what's more, they can be really fucking exciting. So why waste your time devoting yourself to ideas you only half-believe in? If you like pop music, scream it from the rooftops! Defend it to the hilt! Pour forth your venom onto the charlatans and nay-sayers and tedious notions of 'taste'! COMMIT!

So there you go. I know it's not an especially heartfelt tribute, but I think I'd only end up repeating things that other folk have already said far more eloquently than I could hope to. Instead, I'll sign off with a couple of great tunes that the great man would approve of.

Thanks again, Swells.

Daphne & Celeste - Ooh! Stick You!


Butthole Surfers - Sweat Loaf

Start all over again

While i'm on the subject of comics, and by extension cartoonists, here's a great short by Lev Yilmaz. My girlfriend (the right honourable and most righteous Sazzlebox) introduced me to his work a couple of years ago. It's rather good.

I suspect I relate to this one rather too much:

I started to holler

For the record, I’m fully aware that WHTB is utter cack. Rarely updated, thin on content and wheezing under the weight of poor grammar and awkward sentences, it’s a poor excuse for a blog. Thankfully I only have a handful of readers, who are too thoughtfully decent to spray these pages with comments detailing the many faults of these rather-too-idle musings, but apologies to all of you for dithering.

Right.

Anyway.

Since a couple of years have elapsed since my last visit to Liverpool’s quarterly comic fair, I decided to rejoice in the splendour of payday and head down. After partaking in mildly embarrassing conversation in the Marriott hotel (“Hallo, I believe there is a comic fair in here today?” “No, there isn’t.”), I managed to establish that the Liner hotel was, in fact, the correct location of the event, and sheepishly trundled off in that direction.

Comic fairs are an uncomfortable business. Sparse attendance only serves to heighten the embarrassment all concerned, and unless you’re a huge fan of widely-available back issues of mainstream superhero comics, you’re likely to come away disappointed. WHTB feels especially for a certain type of vendor whose stall attracts no attention whatsoever. Perhaps inevitably, these lost souls always seem to be accompanied by their disinterested spouses. Disconsolate yet resigned, the vendor sits wth arms folded, in total silence, whilst their other half’s glance darts around the room; seething resentment building towards these uncharitable nerds who will not approach their stall. “You must have the wrong stuff. These people aren’t interested,” s/he will occasionally remark, visibly fuming that a Saturday afternoon has been wasted in the presence of middle-aged singletons and sweaty, acne-plagued 13 year-olds. The vendor nods silently, and my heart breaks every time.

It’s not superhero comics that I’m after, in any case. My interest in the market-dominating titans of Marvel and DC has wavered, slowly evaporating into the vaguest of lingering affections. This manifests itself these days in cinema trips, to nostalgically partake in the latest big-budget powers’n’spandex action-fest, and criticising American nerd-com The Big Bang Theory for getting minor details wrong (at times I can’t help but feel I identify with the show’s protagonists for the wrong reasons).

The reason for my trip, as per usual, is to locate old indie comics. There are still gaps in my collection (if I can use such a horrible word – hack! Spit!) of Peter Bagge’s phenomenal Hate and Neat Stuff comics, and frankly I’d like to fill them. Whilst his oevre is often lumped in with fellow doyens of the Fantagraphics publishing stable such as Black Hole creator Charles Burns or Daniel Clowes of Eightball (and specifically Ghost World) fame, Bagge’s artwork is quite unlike his peers’. Filled with frantic, meticulously-drawn characters, it lurches from merciless all-targetting satire to warped slapstick to utterly shameless gross-outery. It’s well worth checking out. Naturally, good fucking luck finding any of it at a comic fair.

Peter Bagge's Hate comic: Buddy Bradley gets het up

Instead I wander from table to table, ignoring the innumerate boxes of Superman, X-Men and the rest to flick through carelessly-laid-out ‘INDIES’ sections, and presumably find nothing as per usual. My queries are most often met with a forehead-slap and an exclaimed “Fack me, mate, I’ve got thaaaaaaaaahhh-sands a’them at ‘ome!” before a flyer with an email address is thrust into my hand, thereby missing the point that I’m attempting to buy things here so I don’t have to bother to do so on the internet. Otherwise it’s a quizzical look along with a “What?” Either way, I move along.

Eventually, and just as I’m about to give up hope and head back home, my search is successful: one unmarked box reveals a veritable treasure chest of mid-to-late 80s and early 90s Fantagraphics anthology comics. It’s not strictly what I’m after, but I trust Fantagraphics enough to feel assured that this stuff is going to be gold. Jeremey Eaton’s A Sleepy Head Tale, Glenn Head’s Avenue D, James Sturm’s Check-Up and a whole four issues of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy (edited by sterling comic-journalist Joe Sacco) are my glorious prize, and the vendor is so delighted to get rid of them that he only charges me £20 for the pile. Not bad at all; ebay would’ve set me back a lot more.

First issue of Centrifugal Bumble-Puppy, edited by Joe Sacco

Gleefully clutching my prize, I reflect on the afternoon. Not especially dismal; it could have been worse. And at least I can view fanboy markets with a slight sense of detachment these days - comic fairs are essentially where the childish glee inherent in superheroism is utterly wiped out by the snobbishness of the collector’s market. I’ve left the world of caped crusaders behind, and this afternoon has largely served as a reminder of why I was so glad to do so.

Seriously, comic fairs fucking suck.