Saturday 16th May 2026
Blog Page 1658

The hypocrisy of Griffin-gate

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Now actually, I rather like the Oxford Union. For all the stick it gets from us in the student press, what harm does it really do? True, it drains the bank balances of eager-but-naïve freshers. And it consumes the lives dozens of hunched and desperate hacks, clinging to their last cracking, desiccated vestiges of humanity. 

I am not a member, but I am still glad that the place exists. Partly, I admit, this is because of its similarity to the world of student journalism. There’s a reason we both get called hacks. We also like them because they provide so much fodder for our news stories: minor corruption, in-fighting, big events.

All (cynical political student) life is there. More generously, my friends assure me that they do good things for Oxford, and really work for their members. This they said as they stood eager and wide-eyed upon the precipice, dreaming of the plunge into Seccies’ sweet delights. I must admit that I prefer the controversies.

The Union has not had a spectacular few weeks. We had ‘ballot-gate’ – the scandal that literally no one was talking about – in which the it was revealed that, unthinkably, the Union President, after spending weeks organising an event, might quite like to have some of his friends come along as well.

The Union has also been the object of one of the periodic media blizzards that are wont to blow up around its more controversial invitations. To their credit, they have actually handled the Assange issue well thus far, solidly putting the case for free and open debate against a band of passionate but suspiciously illiberal-looking no-platform protesters.

Now we have Nick Griffin’s non-invitation to add to our list. At first glance this seems like only the latest addition to a catalogue of inept institutional cock-ups. The explanation given is that one member of Secretary’s Committee – the most junior rung on the Union’s ladder – ‘arbitrarily’ invited the BNP leader.

You could just picture the scene, the mad email exchanges and discarded vacation work, as the world’s most prestigious debating society, and the clueless undergraduates who run it, scrabbled around for people to invite and fill up debates only weeks away. Then a hopeful fresher, eager to please, thinks: “Nick Griffin? That won’t cause any problems.” The Union was certainly swift in revoking that invitation when the news broke. The Union giveth, and the Union taketh away.

But there is more to this story than an embarrassingly miscued invitation sent to a man whom I shall here politely call ‘controversial’. For the Union did not simply withdraw the invitation and leave it at that. It came out all guns blazing against the only Nick in Britain now less popular than the Deputy Prime Minister. A Union spokesperson stated: “The Oxford Union does not wish to be associated with the BNP in any way whatsoever. We strongly disagree with their views.”

I always thought that the Union was meant to be a neutral debating platform, a Switzerland where opponents could gather to hammer out their differences and have their points freely heard. Its only value should be that of free speech. Its job is to live up to Harold Macmillan’s impossibly, splendidly hyperbolic claim that it represents “the last bastion of free speech in the Western world.”

Last week, this bastion started adopting corporate political positions, not only disowning nasty Nick, but also supporting his opponents. The Union “commends the work” of Hope not Hate, an anti-fascist organization backed by The Daily Mirror. Hope not Hate is certainly an attractive cause, adopting unifying positions like anti-racism and anti-hate, albeit with a somewhat partisan support base very much to the left of the spectrum. The Union’s debating chamber may pass as many politically transient motions as it wishes.

But when the committees and executive – the guys who actually set up these debates – start becoming political, then the Union begins to lose credibility fast. For those of you who fondly imagine that the chamber over which Gladstone once presided still holds some place in our national life, this outburst was as wrong, as transgressive of basic principles, as if the BBC were to adopt a policy of not covering particular viewpoints.

And don’t kid yourself that this is an abstract, academic point, borne of some priggish fetish for correct and decorous conduct. In fact, it directly undermines the case which the Union had been making so well just the week before, in defence of the Assange invitation. You might not agree with the reasoning behind it, but it was perfectly coherent.

A Union invitation does not condone. Guests can be cross-examined. The Union is neutral. The idea of the Union adopting a political position or pursuing an agenda goes brazenly against this principle. Now it seems that the Union’s invitations are motivated by political opinions and specific agendas after all. And if that is really the case, then the Assange invitation starts to look more like a vote of support. The Union stops being neutral.

Festival Fun!

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Review: Christopher Owens – Lysandre

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In Lysandre, Christopher Owens wraps you in a warm cocoon of music; it’s an album to be listened to without doing anything else. It’s a story, and it deserves your attention as such – whilst standout tracks like ‘Here We Go Again’ will no doubt be played over and over again, this is an album that deserves to be listened to like you would read a book.
The album is explicitly a story about Lysandre, a French barmaid with whom Owens had an ultimately doomed relationship; implicitly
it also tells the story of Owen’s previous band, Girls.

With anything Owens now does, Girls are clearly the standard by which he will inevitably be judged. After two albums of sheer brilliance, the band’s split was followed at first by dismay, then intrigue as to what Owens would do next. Lysandre easily stands up to his previous work with Girls. It’s softer and more mellow but still inevitably quirky. The album has medieval resonances, harmonicas and saxophones somehow occupying the same space and working together. It does have slightly unnecessary moments that merely seem odd, such as the sound of an air hostess doing her safety talk before you hear a jet taking off. Although clearly symbolic, it’s unnecessary and spoils the mood of the album.

The great achievement of this album is not in its quirky moments or unusual instrument choices. Its achievement is its honesty. “What if I’m just a bad songwriter and everything I say has been said before?” asks Owens on ‘Love is in the Ear of the Listener’ but he should have no cause for concern.His own unconventional life and his willingness to draw on that in his songwriting mean that his songs are believable and take on that mysterious genuine quality that is often missing in music. This album is ‘different’ in a more refreshing way, it’s ‘post-cool’, returning to age-old musical influences to offer us all something clean and new.

Review: Everything Everything – Arc

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This Manchester quartet’s first album Man Alive was more of a jumble sale of
weird and sometimes ill-advised sonic combinations than a coherent album. Nevertheless, some great songs shone through the often confusing fog of ideas. ‘MY KZ, UR BF’ and ‘Schoolin’ were fantastic singles, bristling with energy and charming eccentricity.

The good news is that much of what made these songs on their debut more than average indie fare remains in places on their new record Arc. Their odd, charming mix of art rock pomposity and awkward hip hop allusions just about holds together. The album starts impressively with lead single ‘Cough Cough’, which jitters and jumps, somehow managing to remain intact through the dizzying transitions from verse to chorus. Frontman Jonathan Higgs’ unusual voice still skips erratically through vocal ranges and his tongue twisting riddle lyrics are as baffling and funny as ever. The production is noticeably cleaner and
less cluttered, the synth leads soar, the drums hit harder and sound tighter and generally the sound is bigger, more grandiose than on Man Alive.

On the album’s quieter second half, this lends a shimmering beauty to songs like ‘Armourland’. However, it is in this second half that the album also loses its momentum and most of its charm. Songs like ‘The Peaks’ and ‘Duet’ move into Coldplay-like blandness. Too many of these songs sound too similar to make
it a thrilling listen, but overall this is a solid effort.

 

THREE STARS

Who’s Afraid of Frightened Rabbit?

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Frightened Rabbit may not be the name on the tip of everyone’s tongues, they may not be the most fashionable band in the world, but in the hearts of a select few, they’ve found a home. This fanbase looks set to be expanded with the release of their fourth studio album, Pedestrian Verse.

Some may wonder exactly what such a title could refer to. Scott Hutchison, the band’s frontman and  lyricist explains that it has a dual function. Firstly, it presents a challenge to Scott on behalf of album reviewers everywhere – “I was going to get pelters if I wrote lyrically pedestrian material.” “It was a gauntlet to throw down to myself.” It also represents a change in focus – “I was kind of interested in trying to write a little bit less about by own life and widening the scope. That’s what I started off intending to write the whole album about, but it didn’t quite work out like that.” It was a change in attitude from their breakthrough, The Midnight Organ Fight – “I started to find that a bit icky – singing about such personal stuff every night on tour it struck me that it was self-indulgent and not really fair on people in my life at that time.”

This album is also a total departure from its predecessor, The Winter of Mixed Drinks, which took a more restrictive response to its subject matter – “I did achieve what I wanted to achieve with the last album, but, with hindsight, I was wrong to want that.”

This may seem a little strange to Frabbit fans, who expect a certain degree of autobiography in the work of the Selkirk five-piece. However, they shouldn’t be worried – “I started writing the album with that in mind, but stuff happened in my personal life, and I couldn’t seem to get back on track with the record I wanted to make.”

If that sounds gloomy and depressing, it’s for a reason. Frightened Rabbit are often labelled with such adjectives (and have been called gloom-rockers, whatever they are). Hutchison explains that they have a distinctively Scottish approach to such tags – “what a lot of Scottish artists tend to do is tinge every sort of gloomy miserable aspect with a sort of slight sense of humour and a slight tongue in cheek, but certainly with us, there’s always a hopeful lift at the end.” Scott is really happy to be part of this scene, describing it as “a very fucking good pigeonhole”. The ability to call his one-time heroes his peers is something he seems to relish, seeing himself as  “part of something that [he’d] grown up idolising.”

What does the future hold for Frightened Rabbit? Well, if the quality of their recent EPs and singles are anything to go by, massive success should be on the cards. Scott reveals that there is a greater plan at work though – “The plan is always to take the band to places that we’ve never been before …  I could definitely see us doing one more record then looking at what else we could possibly do, changing things or taking an extended break.” (don’t worry, this is all just musings at the moment!).

Frightened Rabbit have hit the big time, writing songs with Aidan Moffat of Arab Strap and recording covers of Elton John and Kiki Dee with Craig Finn of the Hold Steady (it needs to be heard to be believed!). Here’s to a great future for them, and (hopefully) a great new album in a few weeks!

 

Frightened Rabbit are touring in February and Pedestrian Verse is released on the 4th February.

 

Review: The Blackout – Start The Party

t was always going to be uneasy, mixing pump-it-up party lyrics with post-hardcore, so Welsh band The Blackout are a challenging prospect. The title track in particular displays a total disjuncture in mood between upbeat cliché (“let’s get moving”) and suddenly menacing whisper (“let’s paint this town tonight”). This band likes themes: the theme for their last album was ‘hope’ – more promising than ‘party’, or P.A.R.T.Y. (yes, they actually did that). I’ll confess that I’m longing for this band to embrace their heavier side; better, darker things may be lurking under the P.A.R.T.Y. exterior. In the middle territory, more screaming suggests that it will all descend into anarchic chaos. It doesn’t. Greater harmonic sophistication would be welcome on ‘Keep Singing’ and the plodding ‘You’ – both are songs with potential, but neither quite makes it. ‘Free Yourself’ – beginning “We are the wasted…” – initially, one suspects, will never free itself, but eventually achieves greater fluency and coherence. Though ‘Start the Party’ is obviously intended to be the album’s anthem and signature, the more heartfelt ‘Running Scared’ more successfully blends accessibility and expressivity.The record is carefully constructed: mainstream tracks frame the heavy meat in the middle, while the desperation-tinted postscript ‘Throw It All Away’, which is more assured than much of the rest of the album, is perfectly placed as a sort of bonus track (“All the good stories are gone,” it finally confesses, finally suggesting a deeper reason for the meaninglessness of the whole). Wasted teenagers will probably best enjoy this live and drunken, before they’re old enough to realise how very insincere it all sounds.

 

TWO STARS

If You Like… Radiohead

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The reputation which Amnesiac has gained as the inferior little sister of Kid A (released a year previously) is unfair: Radiohead’s fifth studio album is as engaging as any of their records. The album marks the band’s change of direction towards electronic music, but also hints towards a number of other styles (including jazz, classical and krautrock). Ambient noises compete for space with string pedals and erratic percussive noises, and Thom Yorke’s vocals are manipulated to create a strangely hollow mood. ‘Pyramid Song’ is a classic example of the band’s ability to create a sense of intensification while maintaining a slow burn throughout the song, and Yorke deemed the song “the best thing we’ve committed to tape, ever”. The band maintains their ability to lead the listener in unexpected directions, showing that their new sound definitely doesn’t affect their edginess.

However, if you liked Amnesiac, then you’ll love Jonny Greenwood. Outside his role as Radiohead’s lead guitarist and keyboardist, Greenwood is also an acclaimed film composer. His first solo project was the soundtrack for the 2003 film Bodysong, and he has gone from strength to strength ever since. In 2006 Greenwod won the coveted Radio 3 Listeners’ Award at the BBC British Composer Awards for Popcorn Superhet Receiver (inspired by the music of Polish composer Krzysztof Penderecki, with whom Greenwood has recently released an album). His film scores show evidence of his talent as a multi-instrumentalist (he plays viola, harmonica, glockenspiel, ondes Martenot, banjo and drums)

Even though he counts the soundtracks for There Will Be Blood (2007), We Need To Talk About Kevin (2010) and The Master (2012) among his credits, his score for the 2010 film Norwegian Wood is arguably the most fascinating. The film is a realisation of Haruki Murakami‘s coming-of-age novel of the same name, and Greenwood’s score draws upon an appropriately moody palette. The score is a melting-pot of influences which ranges from Korngold-esque sweeping strings to minimalistic guitar riffs, severe string counterpoint to orchestral white noise while retaining an underlying sense of melancholy.

It is definitely worth exploring the music of Jonny Greenwood outside of the cinema and away from Radiohead.

Confessions of a dryathlete

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Last night I went to a restaurant and had to have some ginger shit instead of any number of awe­some-looking beers and wines. Then I went to a pub and had two and a half pints of lime and soda. Then I went to someone’s house where the only available soft drink was water. Reader, I drank it.

On a mild Sunday in December, shortly after the end of term, I was driving to Oxford with a screaming hangover. I was making this woe­ful return journey purely in order to work. In December. This felt so unreasonable that I had gone out in London with some graduated friends the night before and painted the town 50 fairly bright shades of red. And it was on this fateful day that I was driving back to Oxford ex­hausted and now a delicate shade of green.

All of this is a long-winded way of explaining why I was listening to Capital FM and not my usual, and more reasonable, choice of Radio 4, and why I was influenced by a radio advert about waving goodbye to alcohol for the entire month of January. In theory it sounded great. No hangovers for a whole month. No waking up wondering what the hell happened the night before and why my pillow was covered in Hasan’s. I might be able to get some serious work done. I might be able to take up an edify­ing new hobby. I might even lose some weight.

What really hit home was hearing that the charity being advertised was Cancer Research; my aunt had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. Going dry would be a way of do­ing something that showed this had affected me, that the experience hadn’t just passed me by. I would be able to raise some decent money for charity along the way. That day, I signed up to become a ‘dryathlete’.

Having told my friends and broken the sad news to the legend that is Wadham’s barman, there could be no turning back. As a result, the festive period was spent getting as drunk as I reasonably could. Indeed, the fact I was go­ing to be embarking on the Dryathlon journey became a helpful excuse whenever my parents accused me of drinking to excess. I approached New Year’s Eve like a death row prisoner ap­proaching his last meal. I was going to binge and gorge my way through my last night of li­batory enjoyment.

This was achieved with such success that I got through the first few days of January with­out too much difficulty. The first problem I encountered was my father challenging me to drink whilst sharing out a bottle of wine amongst the family. Otherwise, however, the fact that early January has become a period of acceptable detoxing and healthy living in mod­ern Britain meant that I was generally in com­pany in my abstinence.

Indeed, a few friends even misheard me and thought I was going several steps further and training to take on the Brownlee brothers in a Triathlon. Sadly not. They were rather unim­pressed and significantly less amused in dis­covering the true nature of my challenge. By comparison, it paled.

The first real test came towards the end of the first week. I was getting ready to come back to Oxford and wanted to see some home friends who I had not yet managed to fit in around the succession of enforced family social occasions that we call the Christmas period. Unsurpris­ingly, they wanted to meet in a pub and catch up.

This was not a problem in itself. I have, on the very rare occasion, been to a pub before without drinking. However, this has only ever been as a result of compulsion, under that un­fortunate title of designated driver. Sobriety was being enforced for good reason and with legal consequences for disobedience. This time, however, the only restraint was my will­power, which is, at the best of times, weak. (During an unsuccessful period as Wadham Boat Club Captain, I was in charge of imposing two week-long drinking bans. I was the only person unable to stick to either of them. And that was after just one day.)

My friends took it upon themselves to mock my choice of non-alcoholic drink (lime and soda, an entirely reasonable choice) and to try and tempt me with their pints after the arrival of each round. Being the strongly willed indi­vidual I am, I made it through unscathed.

This, however, was scant preparation for the return to Oxford. I had thought that I would use my abstinence to take up something new at university. I’d had high-minded ideas about getting involved in one of the many societies on whose Freshers’ Fair mailing lists I still lin­ger. Or I was going to use my evenings to get seriously fit or cover some of those books on a reading list that do not have a star next to them. At the very least, I was going to take ad­vantage of Orange Wednesdays or go to some plays.

Reader, I am ashamed to say that I have achieved none of the above. Instead I have mostly stuck to my normal social life which almost entirely revolves around licensed estab­lishments. The consequence of which is that I have become very used to being the butt of jokes for not drinking. A few friends have, to their credit, reduced their own consumption out of solidarity. However, most have done ex­actly what I would have, and mocked me relent­lessly.

Some particular evenings have stretched my resolve. At the end of 0th week, I handed in two pieces of coursework which make up a consid­erable element of my degree. After the stress of getting them finished, all I wanted was a nice pint of college bar Ansell’s. Instead, I was re­duced to drinking Shloer in hall before spend­ing the evening nursing a squash in the bar.

I had to compensate for this by watching a particularly good episode of Sun, Sex and Sus­picious Parents, which, to some degree, did in­deed persuade me of the benefits of not drink­ing. Then there was the first bop back, most of which I spent trying to persuade people signifi­cantly under the influence to drop any money they had into a collecting pot.

Essentially I had to get through a weekend of people celebrating the end of collections, a bop which, without alcohol, was quite a revelation, and a Sunday evening without a single beer. Wadham Bar was fast running out of Pepsi. I soon feared I’d have to move onto squash per­manently. This is what my life had become.

Since then, there have been many other eve­nings spent in the bar nursing a Diet Coke (the stocks of which I have now exhausted – apolo­gies to anyone who has been craving one over the last couple of days) and there was a small test at a darts match when all I could drink was sparkling elderflower cordial.

But the most difficult test of all came a few days ago. It was the first time in my four years that I had managed to book in for Burn’s Night in Hall and I had no intention of missing it. In advance, I had reluctantly agreed to give my tot of whisky to a friend who could not conceal his glee. So I was prepared for disappointment as soon as I stepped through the door.

Having to refuse wine while my dining mates revelled in getting extra helpings was, however, immensely more tedious than I had imagined. And the greatest injustice of all was when I realised that the pudding, a Scottish take on the Eton Mess laced with whisky, had to be given away so that I could not possibly be ac­cused of cheating. I am aware that this sounds like the ultimate ‘first world problem’ but I am usually an incorrigible glutton, so I was pissed off. Much of the meal I had paid for was going to waste on others in the room.

To suggest that the first 19 days of this have been any serious ordeal would be embarrass­ing. It would suggest that people who do real things for charity like those who run mara­thons, or even those who do proper triathlons, are on a par with someone giving up a treas­ured pastime and, worryingly, it would indi­cate that I was an alcoholic.

So I am relieved to say that it has not, on the whole, been too bad.

Furthermore, to end this article with the benefits of abstinence and a stream of plati­tudes about feeling better (indeed I do feel marginally better, although there has been no discernible reduction of the waistline) would be self-righteous and misleading.

However, I have realised how central booze is to our social culture (especially student so­cial culture) – and how much I like it. I have undoubtedly made it harder by not avoiding boozy situations, but the latter is remarkably difficult.

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The most testing element of being a dry­athlete has been getting used to being handi­capped in most social situations. What I can impart to anyone who might be considering such a dry spell is that, in many social situa­tions, a sugar or caffeine high can be almost (although not quite) as effective as a drink. I have been relieved to find out that being sober among a group of drinking friends does not necessarily make one into a social pariah.

I will, however, resume drinking with con­siderable relish on the 1st of February. Before that sainted day arrives, I have a couple more hurdles to surmount. I have not yet attempted to sample Oxford’s clubbing scene without a drink, having made my excuses at every possi­ble opportunity so far. I feel I should really take this on before I can declare my Dryathlon a suc­cess. And on the last night of sobriety, I will be in attendance at a Boat Club Curry which will mark one last night of difficult temptation.

Finally, it would be wrong of me not to shamelessly plug the charity I am raising mon­ey for and to beg of the charitable amongst you out there (who have made it to the end of this excessively long article) to spare the price of one drink – ideally an expensive one – for a very good cause. I will buy you one in return and watch you drink it with bitter envy.

www.justgiving.com/dryathlete-john-owen

The Year in Fear

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2013 is looking to be a great year for horror fans. There’s something for everyone, whether you’re a fan of ‘holy-fuck-where-didthat-come-from’, ‘eurgh-my-gad-wasthat-his-spleen-on-that-chainsaw’, ‘jesus-bollocks-I-think-I-just-peed-a-bit’ or ‘I-can’t-sleep-with-the-lights-offanymore-she’s-under-my-bed-she’s under-my-bed’. To help plan those magical moments, Cherwell Film&TV brings you our helpful guide so you can prepare for hiding effectively behind a pillow, or for those moments spent trying to re-swallow that mouthful of vomit you just didn’t see coming.

January
Texas Chainsaw Massacre 3D: It’s a chainsaw massacre. In Texas. In 3D.
V/H/S: A set of home-videos with a variety of disturbing content – you
watch the characters discover the videos, and then get to scream at the
content along with them. MetARGH.

February
Mama: A couple adopt their two nieces, who’ve been inexplicably surviving lone in the wilderness. But were they actually alone? (No.)
Dark Skies: a family finds its home attacked by dark and mysterious forces.
Unoriginal but still chilling.

March
John Dies at the End: Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Thriller. A new drug sends its users across time and dimensions, but has a drawback: some return no longer human. Meanwhile, two college dropouts try and save earth from the invasion.
The Last Exorcism Part II: does what it says on the tin.

April
The Evil Dead: Teenagers in the woods discover The Book of the Dead and accidentally summon an unspeakable evil (these things should have better health and safety warnings). It sounds clichéd but the trailer suggests the sheer extremity of the horror saves it from being another tedious remake.

June
World War Z: Brad Pitt does Zombie Apocalypse.
Storage 24: “In a place designed to keep things in…How do you get out?” People are stuck in a storage facility with a monster: claustrophobic shriekfest
ensues.

Later This Year
Human Centipede III: need we say more?
Carrie: Remake of 1970’s classic.
The Collector: It’s Saw but he wears a mask instead of using a puppet. NextGen Torture Porn.

For those of you who like your horror mixed with some laughs, or even
some romance (who doesn’t love a good rom-zom-com?) 2013 has lots of
treats in store…

Horror-Comedy
Scary Movie 5: like the other 4. But with Lindsey Lohan.
A Haunted House: Paranormal Activity but with weed and farting.

HorrorRom-Com
Warm Bodies: Tony from Skins is a zombie with a heart.
Vamps: Vampires meets Clueless.