Tuesday 15th July 2025
Blog Page 535

The Death of Jesus

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The world of J. M. Coetzee’s Jesus novels – a trilogy which has accounted for most of the author’s output in the last decade – is not easy to inhabit, nor is it simple. Old stories and myths are half-remembered and reimagined in the minds of the characters. All acts seem to be carried out on meaningless whims. Identities are imposed on individuals who themselves congregate into either loose assemblies or rigid conformities. Everyday acts are justified on ice-thin reasoning. Half the characters consider the other half deluded or simply dangerous. Sound familiar?

Coetzee, who was born in South Africa in 1940, has been writing novels that chart moral decay for decades. In Dusklands (1982) a specialist in psychological warfare is driven to madness by the Vietnam War. Almost two decades later David Lurie, in Disgrace (1999), is denounced following an affair with one of his students and so takes up residency at his daughter’s farm before a brutal attack is acted upon them.

First in the current trilogy was The Schooldays of Jesus (2013). David and Simón have met onboard a ship destined to a city called Novilla. Without any remaining knowledge of their previous lives, they are given new names and are faced with a new language. Simón struggles with local bureaucracy, finds a job as well as a new mother for David, a tennis playing, dog-wielding does-very-little (one identifies) called Inés who lives in a gated community outside the city.

Inés, “of whose history [Simón] knows not a jot” and who was chosen by Simón with more flippancy than one would choose a flavour of crisps, agrees to look after the boy and act as his mother. Inés, whose name means “pure”, then comes to represent the third and vital part to any nativity: The Virgin Mary. 

Reading the trilogy over the course of a weekend I found David became increasingly irritating. His constant recourse to arbitrary decisions and his unexplained attachments to certain dislikeable adults leaves the reader at best beguiled and at worst bored. But by the third instalment, this begins to make sense as we see Davis pass fables to those around him.

Yuval Noah Hariri (the guy who wrote that Sapiens book everyone is reading) has a notion that our current predicament is caused by a lack of an overarching narrative. I don’t completely buy this – it seems we need only look at Trump or Silicon Valley to find myths everywhere – but it does seem to explain something about the world of David in Coetzee’s novels.

It is not a terrible world that the characters live in by any means. People have jobs, have meaningful relationships, are keen on philosophical discussions and sports. But the world is completely and painfully flat. The philosophical discussions are too abstracted, and the sports games are fixed. What David manages to bring to Estrella are stories. What we realise by the third novel is that David’s irritating behaviour stems from him not wanting to be part of the very story Coetzee is writing him into: “I never wanted to be that boy with that name,” he tells Simón.

This sense of flatness comes from Coetzee’s style to some degree. All the words are easy, and they must be because Spanish is new to the three main characters. But the novel pares back the lives of the characters which I occasionally found to be too harsh. Everything is in flux and all the relationships, like David’s life, are all too temporary. Identity, too, is unstable and things often essential have been given to David and his parents by figures of authority.

This parring back of the various facets of identity comes from one of Coetzee’s idols, Samuel Beckett. In 1969 Coetzee received a doctorate for a thesis that sought to analyse plots from Beckett’s novels through a computer programme. For Beckett language was made up of words that “don’t do any work and don’t much want to. A salivation of words after the banquet.”

Words, then, particularly those found in literature, are empty as they do not, in Beckett’s view, relate to direct objects and experiences, such as ordering food on Uber or telling your flatmate to STOP LEAVING THE BACKDOOR OPEN. This leads the narrator of Beckett’s Molloy, Malone Dies and The Unnamable trilogy to forget his name, forget his sex and forget all that does not relate to life as he sees and narrates it in his own mind.

David’s means of circumventing the facility of language to create hot air balloons of meaning which seem big and real but are essentially empty is through dance. It is the dance of the characters that Coetzee gives the reader, without any embellishments or analysis and with little atmosphere. 

This has caused some frustration with reviewers, notably the reviewer in The Times (Coetzee is labelled the “high priest of obfuscation”) who blames the novelist for giving the reader no clues. Well, he does give the reader much credit which is more than can be said for that reviewer.

This all must be said whilst keeping in mind the role of storytelling in the trilogy. David learns and then retells episodes from Don Quixote to those around him. Whilst in the hospital bed we get a glimpse of David’s own view of himself as he speaks through Cervantes:

“Then minions armed with clubs and staves set upon Don Quixote. Though he defended himself valiantly, he was dragged from his horse, stripped of his armour, and tossed into a dungeon, where he found himself in the company of scores of other unfortunate travellers captured and enslaved by the Prince of the Desert Lands.”

‘”Are you the renowned Don Quixote?’” asked the chief of the slaves.

‘”I am he,” said Don Quixote.

‘”The Don Quixote of whom it is said, No chains can bind him, no prison can hold him?”

‘”This is indeed so,” said Don Quixote.’

We learn the position of the narration to David’s stories in the final instalment. Whilst David is lying on his hospital bed Simón promises to tell David’s story “as far as I know it, without trying to understand it, from the day I met you.” The trilogy becomes a testament to the life of David and his parables. This explains the stripped-down language and descriptions.

Coetzee is no stranger in using his writing to moralise. One might see the Jesus novels as an extended exercise in his dislike for the formal lecture, of which Coetzee has said he “dislikes” with its “pretensions to authority.” Instead, when asked to give an acceptance speech or public lecture Coetzee often turns to story-telling. This is most evident in his book Elizabeth Costello (1998).

In an early poem titled Genesis Geoffrey Hill writes, “By blood we live, the hot, the cold, / To ravage and redeem the world: / There is no bloodless myth will hold.” So it is for the myth of David too. It is no give-away to say that David dies. At his end, he is waiting for a blood donation from Novilla which never arrives. The final chapters of The Death of Jesus tell of the curious effects that David has had on the lives of those around him. It is a novel and trilogy that one will not soon forget.

Froome’s ‘only appointment’ for 2020

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Chris Froome is looking to secure a record-equaling fifth yellow jersey at the Tour de France this year. The Kenyan-born cyclist has indisputably been the most successful grand tour rider of his generation, winning the Tour four times, the Vuelta a España twice and the Giro d’Italia once. One of the most popular figures in the pro peloton, Froome’s amicability and humility has combined with these extraordinary results to gain him a global following.

With the 2020 racing season starting this week with the Tour Down Under, Froome has made it clear that his only ambition for the year is to fight for what would be a monumental fifth yellow jersey in July. Only four men have achieved this feat in the past and if Froome is successful he would be the first to do so since 1995. Whilst Chris has clearly stated this as his primary goal, many are already labelling it as impossible following his horror crash in June 2018. On reconnaissance at the Tour de Dauphine, Froome crashed into a wall whilst descending at sixty kilometres an hour, sustaining injuries including a fractured right femur, a fractured elbow and fractured ribs. Whilst cycling fans around the world reeled in shock to learn that he wouldn’t be participating in the 2018 Tour de France, it quickly became apparent that Froome would not be able to race his bike in the foreseeable future, if at all.

The horrifying crash had a sad irony as, after moving from Africa to Europe at the start of his career, Froome was notorious for his poor handling skills and was nicknamed ‘Crash Froome’. A troubling video taken soon before the crash in 2018 shows Froome changing jackets whilst riding, with team staff telling him “you don’t have to take risks”. Wout Pouls, a close friend and teammate who was the only one riding with Froome at the time of the crash, reported that he’d taken his hands off the handlebars again to blow his nose when a sharp gust of wind blew his front wheel out from under him. 

Since the accident, Froome has made an impressive recovery, to the point where he was training in Mallorca with his teammates, riding at altitude for up to 5 hours a day, only seven months after the accident. Froome has shown inspirational resolve in his recovery, working for hours on physio every day before he could even get back on the bike to start regaining any fitness. Videos were posted on social media only a month after the accident showing Froome riding on the indoor trainer with one leg, exemplifying the same extraordinary determination demonstrated throughout his life and career. However, there is little doubt that Froome’s chances at the Tour this year are significantly reduced. If he was successful in building up enough fitness, he would still have to be stronger than the two other INEOS leaders; the experienced 2018 Tour winner Geraint Thomas and the incredible talented 2019 winner Egan Bernal, who stunned the world last year with his convincing win at the age of only 22. 

Yet despite the odds, many of Froome’s closest fans remain faithful in his recovery with astounding faithfulness. For many, it is his inspiring journey from the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya to four-time victory on the Champs-Élysées that commands so much attention and support. His route into the sport was tough, starting with day-long rides through the Ngong hills of the Rift Valley and beyond with his first team, the Safari Simbas, of which he was the only white member. Starting from the age of 12, Froome was extremely ambitious despite his age and physical qualities, often exerting himself to the point of fainting. He spent all his holidays training and woke up at 4am most mornings at school to ride. Froome spent days simulating the difficulty of alpine passes on the flatter terrain of his local area through riding for hours whilst applying his brakes. This extreme ambition and talent then drove him through to the ranks of the professional peloton, first to selection with Barloworld and eventually Team Sky in 2010. 

Chris remains connected to his roots, staying in contact with his Kenyan mentor and Safari Simbas leader, David Kinjah, to whom he regularly donates kit. He has a close relationship with Eliud Kipchoge, the Kenyan runner who became the first person to run a sub-two hour marathon last year. Watching Froome’s racing, it is not difficult to see the grit and toughness that he cultivated on the long road from the Kikuyu to Europe. Throughout his career he has consistently succeeded through being able to suffer for longer than his competitors. For many this inspirational resolve is what keeps their faith in a fifth Tour victory so strong.  

John Evelyn’s Diary | Hilary Term 2020, Week 2

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As long-term readers will be aware, the birthday party is a seminal moment in the life of an ambitious hack. With the pre-emptive postponement to prevent potential disciplinary action now a thing of the past, this new generation has turned to surprise. The Short-Man, hoping to stand up tall in the eyes of his hidden lover (the Circular Mertonian) has put together a Mad soiree, that is sure to knock the Hats off of its guests. Forced to choose between lover and friend, it seems for now that the Short-Man is the only thing stopping the French King from facing the guillotine.

With the Former Acting President’s lover preoccupied with the Principal’s suit, they have taken matters into their own hands, organising their own ‘surprise’ party. Used to crumbling relationships, they were somehow taken aback by the news that their office floor was caving in. Perhaps it should have been the Former Acting President who ought to have caved to the Bursar’s demands – as many former members of committee can attest, this is an unwinnable quarrel. Only time will tell – who will break first, the President or their floor? More to follow…

The Principal is fulfilling the dream of any hack who is worth their salt, acquiring the personal correspondence of all members of TSC, past and present. One can hardly imagine the mysteries that have befallen Frewin Court which will be solved by such an acquisition. Perhaps the ‘Inspirational’ World Champion will be finally exonerated, and the true identity of that famous forger revealed. Hint: it was the Insect. One person will not be handing over their messages to the Principal, after narrowly losing their inaugural and (hopefully) final election. The Queen’s Father simply could not replicate the success of his child. Guess it is back to the drawing board – they will need to find another way to fulfil his desperate goal to stay relevant. 

The Queen’s Father was not the only one who participated in an irrelevant election. It is the time of term when the gimpiest of gimps fight over the opportunity to sacrifice their degree and their social life (admittedly a minor loss for most) for the not-so-coveted prize of running the Society’s elections. Watch this space…

The summer competition is heating up. The new treasurer, hoping to pick the ball up from the back of the scrum is following the footsteps of some of the greatest electoral failures in recent memory. Ex-Treasurers do not seem to have a knack for converting their tries. Maybe her Twickenham experience will come in handy – physicality seems to be increasingly important for running the Society, and she will know to turn to the Kiwi for help.

SATIRE: Coming out of my Cage and I’ve Been Doing Just Fine

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Might as well start by saying if you’re a resident of Wokeville, stop reading now. Apparently, I’m a serial offender when it comes to the heinous crime of ‘expressing my opinions’, so if you’re the kind of liberal who can’t handle a straight white male telling it like it is, probably best you jog on. Have they all gone? Okay great, let’s get started.

So, it’s racist now to share a photo of Martin Luther King on Twitter? I was as surprised as you are. The Westminster bubble lefty-luvvies really have outdone themselves this time. If the wokeists actually took the time to READ the photo I shared, they’d see that Mr King essentially said exactly what I said on TV last week.

He gets a whole day named after him, but I get slammed by Jameela Jamil? Not quite sure how that’s fair but fine. If MLK was alive today and saw my appearance on Question Time, I have a feeling he’d have agreed with what I had to say. Like me, Martin dared to have an opinion, and like me, he got slammed for it. In fact, I think he nearly got killed because of it, but he faced down the establishment and refused to back down.

I basically live on a diet of liberal tears these days. Every morning I moisturise my face with a bowl of them, then get to work triggering all the screechy snowflakes on the internet. It’s a thankless task but someone has to fight this revolution. And it looks like it’s been left up to me.

Yes, I may have gone to Harrow, but that doesn’t mean I’m some sort of posho. My family could barely afford the fees, and I was definitely something of a ‘class clown’. I guess I’ve never been someone who was scared to think differently – it’s just the way I am. I think Martin Luther King put it best when he said: ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.’

Doing so many media shows this week has been tiring, but I enjoy the challenge. Won’t lie, was a bit surprised when Piers Morgan called me out on his show, as I thought Piers knew the score. When we were chatting before filming, he came over and whispered in my ear, ‘Laurence, you’re completely right about the Sikhs’, but as soon as the cameras start rolling, completely different story.

I guess it just goes to show, you never know who your real friends are. As a successful actor, I work in an industry where everyone has their heads up each other’s’ arses, and if you’re brave enough to say what’s on your mind, you get crucified for it. Well I refuse to play that game anymore. And if casting agents can’t handle that, then it is what it is.

I’ve always felt like podcasting is more ‘me’ anyway. There’s nothing better than kicking back, and spitting some cold hard truth into a microphone – no corporate, lefty media spin, just unfiltered Laurence delivered straight to your ear canals.

I did The Brendan O’Neill Show a few days ago, and my god the hour just flew by. I felt like we barely got started. Brendan is such a solid guy, and he knows exactly what it’s like to have the thought police on your back. If you’re reading this Brendan, I want you to know I really appreciate all your advice and wisdom. Also, are you getting my texts? I think maybe you gave me a wrong phone number, so I’ve sent you a few emails too. Can’t wait to hear from you dude.

Review: ‘Howards End is on the Landing’

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Oxford time does not have the rhythms of ordinary time. There are very few moments for extended, contemplative, peaceful reading, of the sort which fill quiet winter nights, heavy summer days, or sweaty commutes with books read wedged between tired workers and restless children. To read here is to inhale, process, and document, usually in a college or faculty library, in the oppressively quiet Bodleian or Rad Cam, or perhaps in bed, willing oneself to stay awake. 

Hill’s literary memoir starts with a search for a book – Howards End, itself with a wonderfully ambivalent, serendipitous beginning – and fashions itself into a year of reading from her already existing library. Forming this relationship with the books that do furnish her rooms sends her on a discovery of new novels, old favourites, and the memories associated with their authors or characters. Reading for review and publishing is still a part of her life, yet a new kind of love for books, either weighing up her favourite Dickens, or lauding certain novels (The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford is one of her dearest, and one of mine) is the focus. A personal, deeply-felt relationship is at the heart of her reading: ‘I am the unique sum of the books I have read’, and in her desire to ‘repossess’ her books, she comes to repossess herself, as a well and widely read woman who feels guilty at not having read Villette, or who loves children’s books. Much of the book is also an account of meetings and impressions with people (literary people, but still real people), for instance finding herself looking into the ‘watery eyes’ of an elderly E.M. Forster in the London Library, or being dragged by the hand to the floor at a party by a wrinkled, smoky Auden – some of it makes one feel unutterably jealous. What nineteen-year-old would not be at the memoir of a writer who started their published career at eighteen? Her world of literary memories is exciting to read, and so deeply personal is the recollection of the effect of books upon her shimmering social life, that what it really points us towards is a renewed faith in the vibrancy one’s own reading can add to a busy life.

Indeed, a new host of books about books has recently popped onto the market – read Laura Freeman’s The Reading Cure and Bookworm by Lucy Mangan, and revisit the now twenty-years-old witty Ex Libris of Anne Fadiman. The way we live now, and relate to our reading is couched in the good things we can get from it – whether it be overcoming anorexia, or more simply instilling a love of reading from youth which has led to a certain career, or way of life centred around reading. Finding the perfect book for one’s mood becomes a sort of therapy: I read Tartt’s The Secret History under a great, auburn oak tree when I felt nervous at being around new people, perhaps to remind me that new friendships can be dangerous; What Ho, Jeeves, when I felt desperately homesick; and Max Beerbohm’s Oxford-set glittering tragi-comedy Zuleika Dobson as I started to really adore my work, my friends, my college.

There is something joyful in carving out one’s own world of reading within the midst of academic work’s judicious skim-reading; to have one’s own thoughts and widening knowledge which might unconsciously inform an essay, but probably will not. With its change of pace, it can even make other reading more pleasurable, more streamlined, and certainly richer. It is not a question of what is useful, but what makes oneself content. It might be a thriller, a flimsy comedy, a new biography or a worthy tome (I think every non-humanities student should have to read at least one novel a term). If it is the last thing you look at at night, first thing turned to in the morning, that is all very well – but casual dipping, chance encounters with interesting blurbs, or the deep immersion into an unexpectedly brilliant book, add a literary, and emotional agency which is lacking from most reading lists and social activities. Reading like this can be easily communal, a nice thing to chat about over lunch, or manifest itself in favourite poems being sent over Messenger. If it makes you happy, you’re doing it right. 

The Tour de Ski: Something for winter sports fans

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Every year cross-country skiers from around the world begin a gruelling few days of competition in order to be crowned champion of the Tour de Ski. Held annually since the 2006-7 season, the competition is a test of endurance that is modelled on cycling’s Tour de France. The skiers aim to finish each stage in the quickest time possible in order to gain the yellow bib and the overall winner is determined by the fastest time over all stages.

The Tour de Ski involves sprint and distance stages in both the freestyle and classic style of skiing. A red bib and prize money is available to the athlete who picks up the most points in the sprint stages of the contest and is occasionally won by the person who also holds the yellow bib. The final stage of the Tour de Ski is by far the greatest test. The world’s best can be reduced to penguin feet as they climb the 495 metre alpine downhill ski slope on the Alpe Cermis in Italy. Athletes who have previously made cross-country skiing look easy often end the final stage lying on their backs in agony after completing the hardest climb of the season.

The men and women’s 2019-20 competitions were won by the Russian Alexander Bolshunov and the Norwegian Therese Johaug respectively. The men’s was a close fought competition, with reigning champion Johannes Høsflot Klæbo going into the last stage wearing the yellow bib. However, he ultimately failed to make an impact on the Alpe Cermis, finishing in third place overall. On the other hand, the women’s competition was not so hard fought, with Therese Johaug being the clear favourite. The reigning champion Ingvild Flugstad Østberg failed to make up the time she had lost in the previous stage when her ski pole had snapped, making Johaug’s victory even easier. 

Johaug’s win will be viewed by many fans of the sport as being controversial due to her recent 18 month drugs ban. The Norwegian’s famous Tour de Ski win in 2015-16, where she overturned compatriot Østberg’s large lead in the final stage to claim overall victory, came only a few months before her failed drugs test. Johaug’s doping history calls into question the credibility of her previous Tour results and made it difficult to support her in this year’s competition.

The sport faces another problem if it is to reach a larger audience. As is to be expected of a winter sport, the European countries dominate. It was only in the 2017-18 Tour de Ski that the American Jessica Diggins and Canadian Alex Harvey became the first non-European skiers to reach the podium with both finishing third overall.  However, it was encouraging to see a few more participants from more unusual countries competing in the Tour de Ski this year, such as Jessica Yeaton of Australia.

The 2019-20 Tour de Ski was a disappointment for the British team. Andrew Young did not compete due to illness and James Clugnet, like many other athletes, did not complete the Tour. The British number one, Andrew Musgrave, also had a sub-standard competition as he only managed 32nd out of the 56 who completed the Tour, despite his impressive 17th place in 2019. It will be interesting to watch Musgrave for the rest of the season as his summer training is reported to have gone well, raising questions as to why he has not been up to his usual standard so far.

Cross-country skiing is a sport that deserves a wider audience as the Tour de Ski is an impressive showcase of human strength and stamina, often with exciting and unexpected finishes in the various stages. The Eurosport commentators’ chatter adds a further enjoyable dimension to an already interesting sport, bringing a bit of humour to cold winter days. Cross-country skiing is an appealing alternative to sports fans who are missing the variety of sports available in the summer months and want to see something unlike anything they have seen before.

In conversation: Ross McNae, Twin Atlantic

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In the heart of the Glaswegian alternative music scene circa 2006, Sam McTrusty, Ross McNae, Craig Kneale and Barry McKenna formed the rock outfit Twin Atlantic. Known for their punchy guitar-driven anthems and penchant for gigging, the four-piece quickly gained traction in the local crowd.

With the release of their debut album Vivarium in 2010, they began to catch the attention of rock fans outside of Glasgow, and soon enough the band earned a well-known and well-respected name on the scene. Their signature combination of Scottish soul and hard-hitting rock saw them put out three subsequent albums, embark on countless tour and festival circuits – putting them on track to become a household name in the alternative scene.

Little did they know when playing their first gig together at the 400-odd capacity Buff Club, a few years down the line they’d be supporting the likes of My Chemical Romance, Smashing Pumpkins and Blink-182, as well as having their hit single ‘Heart and Soul’ premiered by Zane Lowe on BBC Radio 1 as the Hottest Record in the World.

The band are now just days away from the hotly anticipated release of their fifth studio album, Power. They announced its January 2020 release last October with its first single, ‘Novacaine’. A confident fusion of their usual guitar-based sound with an experimental synth-rock backbone, it was clear that Twin Atlantic wanted to start the new decade on their terms, with a self-described “no fuss, no fat, all fire” attitude.

I was excited to chat with Ross McNae – Twin Atlantic’s bassist and keyboard-player, to pick his brains about how he felt about the new era the band are entering.

We spoke on the morning after the release of the video for Power’s second single ‘Barcelona’, and it was clear from the first few minutes that McNae was genuinely (and humbly) proud of what the band had created. He also spoke fondly of Oxford, describing it as “worlds away” from any other place in the UK that tour had taken Twin Atlantic. 

Eager to unpack the eight-track tour de force that is Power, I was interested to hear from McNae about the labour of love that had gone into its production.

He began by talking about how it was the first project that they’d ever recorded in their hometown of Glasgow – something that he feels is ingrained into the soul of the album. Despite its namesake being their hometown’s airport code, their previous album GLA was produced and recorded in Los Angeles – so for McNae, making the move to record in a familiar place gave the project a personal touch.

“It didn’t feel like it was about what our lives could be, but about what our lives actually are,” Ross admitted. “There was a kind of reality that went into it which we really haven’t had before.” 

It wasn’t only the recording that took place in Glasgow; the entire creative process was focused into the band’s own studio in an “unloved corner of the city.” The space itself was ten years in the making, only in the last year or so has it become a fully finished space that the band are happy with. Ross joked that he wished he could see a time lapse from all the way back to when it was just a laptop and a couple of speakers. 

I asked Ross how he felt knowing that the band now have a space that is completely their own, something concrete (both figuratively and literally) that emphasises the mark they’ve made on the Glaswegian music scene.

He replied earnestly that it feels like a “proper safe space,” comparing it to a pub that you go to with your friends that feels like your place. Whilst he admitted that the band don’t really go there much when not working, as they made the decision to not write a single thing outside of the studio. It’s a special place that holds memories and songs alike.

The decision to contain their creative process in one space changed the way the band worked for the better, Ross told me. When they had recorded previous albums the process was more layered; each of the members chipping in with their separate parts, later fitting them together. However in the case of Power, Ross described how they’d all come in every morning and brainstorm as a collective. 

“We’d turn on the drum machine, just creating a groove and seeing where it went,” Ross explained, “it made it feel like the songs grew more naturally. They were completely born out of experimentation.” He owed this freedom to their newfound space, as there’s no room to experiment and build songs up in this way on other people’s time.

Ross attributed this idea of space to why Power feels decidedly different from any of their past LPs. When asking about the album’s second single, experimental anthem ‘Barcelona’, it was evident just how significant the role that space played was.

He told me that they found a collective confidence in the creation of this track in particular – encouraging them to experiment in ways that they hadn’t previously. Compared to previous records, they began not with guitars but with gentle synths – building it up slowly, and crucially, together. 

As well as being experimental in a direction not previously explored by Twin Atlantic, ‘Barcelona’ features tender and vulnerable lyrics courtesy of lead vocalist Sam McTrusty; drawing upon turbulent times personally and creatively. This too was owed by McNae to space; “the space that we created allowed for us to put more emphasis on what we wanted to say,” he told me. “If you’re gonna have that space to be so open and bare musically, there’s not really much to hide behind lyrically.” He laughed this comment off, but it was evident in his tone how proud he was of what the band had created.

I asked him how he felt this translated into the newly released music video – something Ross also seemed to have immense pride in. He explained how the band had always tended to go along with other people’s ideas for music videos, however ‘Barcelona’ saw them take the same kind of control as they did with the music itself.

Shot partially in the ‘remote beauty’ of Kildare in Ireland, the video is a gorgeous three minutes and forty seven seconds of kaleidoscopic cinematography that fits the style of McTrusty’s writing to a tee. I’d read that the band had drawn from the type of shots used in films like Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, and this certainly translated into the final product.

Ross joked that this was a video of theirs that he actually felt able to watch due to his physical absence. As opposed to the video for Power’s first single ‘Novacaine’ which simply features the band playing, ‘Barcelona’ goes down a more artistic route that aims to (and succeeds in) conveying the lyrical narrative.

We talked in length about the influences that the band drew upon for the project. Whilst track five (‘I Feel It Too’) had been compared to an “amped up take on Duran Duran’s ‘Planet Earth’,” I’d also read that the album as a whole “tapped into (the band’s) LCD Soundsystem fandom,” something I was keen to ask Ross about.

He said that whilst the sound itself wasn’t necessarily similar to anything in LCD’s back-catalogue, it was the way that James Murphy and co. engineered the fusion of guitar and electronic that inspired Twin Atlantic.

Doing something artistic with rock music has always been a shared passion of theirs; Ross took joy in recalling the nights they spent at art rock shows and parties, as well as when they used to study photography and art back in college. This creative spirit that yearned to blend together different yet complementary elements had always been there, but for whatever reason did not manifest itself in Twin Atlantic’s early music, Ross felt.

He told me how “having the time, space, and freedom to make our own mistakes have allowed us to get to a place where the music we are putting out is like the music we all love.” It’s not a case of drawing on new influences – the LCD Soundsystems and the Depeche Modes have always had a place in shaping Twin Atlantic’s sound. Rather, from talking to Ross I got the sense that they were finally at a place creatively that they felt confident to be as experimental as they may have previously wished to be.

From a listen through of the album, the final tracks (‘Volcano’, ‘Messiah’, and ‘Praise Me’) seemed like they were practically made to be played live – each with refrains that sounded as if they belonged on the lips of a crowd.

Ross spoke about how he felt that the new material would go down in a live environment. Ahead of their UK tour of intimate venues beginning this March, it was interesting to hear how the band themselves felt about bringing this new, experimental material to their audience.

“People have so much choice of what to do and who to go and see nowadays,” he explained. “There’s something about people choosing to come and see you, people deciding that you’re worth their time. It’s one thing people listening to our music but we really appreciate people coming out to see us.”

He went on to explain how because of this, their shows were first and foremost about giving back to their fans. “People come because for whatever reason our music means something to them, so we’re not looking to be self indulgent and just play a set of weird b-sides,” he laughed. “It’s just a huge celebration of fun, for an hour or two people can come and take their minds off their daily lives.”

Despite the new direction that the band seem to be going in musically, Ross didn’t feel like the way that they played live would change too much. Because they’ve tapped into something so personal, he feels as though the new album won’t sound out of place sandwiched between heavy hitting all-guitar fan favourites. He prides the band on always playing from an organic place and hopes that their fans will enjoy this touring circuit as much as they inevitably will.

It was refreshing to talk to somebody so genuinely empowered by the art that they are creating – and that’s the role that, I felt, Power has played for Twin Atlantic. It’s a love letter of sorts, to the fans, but more importantly to the band themselves, renewing a sense of experimentation and creative confidence to carry them through the new decade with the bold strides that took them through the previous.

Power is out on all digital streaming platforms from January 24th, on Virgin EMI.

If you like what you hear (and I’m confident that you will), you can catch Ross and the rest of Twin Atlantic on their Headline Tour and run of in-store appearances later in the year, details can be found at https://www.twinatlantic.com/

Review: Uncle Vanya

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While some other directors nowadays try their best to keep the stage and costumes as simplistic as possible in modern adaptations of period theatre (like Jamie Lloyd’s 5-star Cyrano de Bergerac, where the sentence “I love words, that’s all” is unapologetically written on a blank canvas as backdrop for the entire duration of the play), the exquisitely arranged setting of Conor McPherson’s Uncle Vanya at the Harold Pinter Theatre in London is quite refreshing; with ancient-looking furnitures, edible/drinkable props on the dining table, genuine candles lit in front of the audience by actors during scene change, and not to mention the acoustically realistic gunshot and thunderstorm – the stage design shows off modernness not by the absence but rather the abundance of sensory effects unavailable in Anton Chekhov’s time.

Toby Jones exploits Uncle Vanya’s comical nature with wittiness and overflowing energy, jumping across the table while throwing glib remarks; Richard Armitage’s Astrov is masculine attractiveness incarnate, captivating every pair of eyes when he runs off shirtless into the pouring rain; as the youngest member of the cast with the shortest introduction in the programme, Aimee Lou Wood shows the right amount of naivety and desperation to do the ingenue of Sonya justice, without leaving the character’s other dimensions unexplored; the steady voice in her monologue at the end of second act transforms the vulnerability of an unrequited lover into hope and resilience, lending the problematic and unresolved ending a tinge of feminine power.

Three hours enshrouded in smoke and dim light, Uncle Vanya offers a modernly devised escape from the modern world – with more than just words.  

The Death of Theatre Monarchy

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It’s January 2020 and a new controversy has arrived to add to the Britain’s collection. Popular discussion of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex’s exit from royal responsibility, affectionately known as ‘Megxit’, has been veiled by a murky fog of race and gender politics. These problems are larger than theatre, but we see their residual effects leak into stages and scripts all over the country.

Earlier this month, the panel on BBC’s Question Time discussed so-called ‘Megxit’. Rachel Boyle, a researcher on race and ethnicity at Edge Hill University, addressed the latent racism of the coverage of the decision: ‘let’s be really clear about what this is, let’s call it by its name – it’s racism. She’s a black woman and she has been torn to pieces.’ Actor Laurence Fox quickly came under fire when he responded: ‘It’s not racism. We’re the most tolerant, lovely country in Europe. It’s so easy to just throw your charge of racism at everybody and it’s starting to get boring now.’

Laurence, member of the pre-eminent Fox acting dynasty, continued, accusing Boyle herself of racism after she called him a ‘white privileged male’. It is not unknown that problems of diversity still pervade the acting world. In 2017, 42% of British BAFTA winners went to a private school. Kwame Kwei-Armah, a Baltimore-based actor, director and notably, a visiting fellow of LMH, recently lamented the ‘sinful’ lack of black artistic directors during a talk at the BFI. Inequality in theatre is still rife on a plethora of levels, but to what extent does this level of socioeconomic privilege that we perceive in some of the country’s most influential acting dynasties influence the way theatre is received, and run? How can we make theatre inclusive if wealth and renown are a prerequisite of the business?

Laurence is one in a long line of Foxes to have taken to the British stage. Son of British actor James Fox, who himself is the grandson of playwright Frederick Lonsdale, he and his siblings have gone on to perform at such coveted venues as the Garrick, and are frequent faces on screen. Harrow-educated and RADA-trained, he has said himself that his family name has had some hand in assisting his career success. Educations like these are accessible to the privileged few, and the luxury of a well-known name even fewer. Tom Hiddleston, whose alma mater differs from Fox’s only in that he attended Eton rather than Harrow, has spoken out about the increasing inequality of opportunity for actors of a lower socioeconomic background. He told Esquire: “Actors who didn’t come from privately educated backgrounds, like Julie Walters and David Morrissey have said, ‘if I was an actor now, I wouldn’t make it.’ The grants aren’t there. When I went to college, RADA cost £3,300 for three years. Now it’s £30,000. That needs to change’.

Fox has made a bit of a name for himself since Question time, ‘[drinking] all of these leftist tears’, as he has tweeted since. And, you guessed it, his tirade did not stop at Meghan Markle, telling the Dellington podcast: ‘The most annoying thing is the minute a black actor – it’s the same with working class actors – the minute they’ve got five million quid in the bank, every interview they do is about how racism is rampant and rife in the industry.’ To disregard the opinions of these actors is to disregard the mountains they had to climb, when comparatively it seems that Fox simply walked up a hill.

Laurence Fox continues to exist in a vacuum that ignores the crisis of diversity in the arts, comparing the ascent up the acting ladder to one as easy as his own. It is an echo chamber of tweets and interviews by Piers Morgan and Katie Hopkins that bemoan ‘Woke’ culture, casting themselves as Crusaders against the ‘oversensitive left’. Theatre is implicated in the struggle for diversity that these figures clash against, pushing a more inclusive future away like a baby refusing its food.

RADA has made recent efforts to work against the previous inequalities of its student body. Their Access and Participation Plan was formed ‘to encourage applications from working-class and lower-income families, Black, Asian and Minority Ethnic (BAME) backgrounds, communities beyond the South East of England, people with physical and sensory impairments and care-leavers’. The list of notable alumni is uncomfortably white, but the programme is a necessary step in the right direction. It’s a little bit of a boost up that mountain, at least.

Felix Cross, former director of British ‘black theatre’ company, Nitro, has remarked that change will happen when ‘theatre in England stops being about the middle classes at play’. The Fox family, for all their talent and ancestry, epitomise this sense of the modern bourgeois. For their first birthday, each child may as well have been handed a coupon for the acting world along with their toys. It would be unfair to disregard an entire family with obvious talent for simply being themselves, but UK theatre is beginning to realise the cultural blinkers it’s been wearing for as long as it has existed as we know it. Cross, who struggled with the term ‘black theatre’, has suggested that the moment we see progress is the moment a black Macbeth is not heavily reported in the media. As soon as Don Warrington can play King Lear without his race being a notable deviation from the original text, we will have seen another helping hand reveal itself during that mountain-climb.

Writer and founder of Talawa, the UK’s primary Black led touring theatre company, Brewster, has considered the effect this lack of diversity and representation has had on the body of theatregoers as a whole. She told the Guardian: ‘I go to see plays all the time and I am extremely lonely. I am often the only black person’. In many cases, the problem we see with diversity in theatre is only emphasised by the precedent set by these dominant, wealthy, white leading families who pave the way for what is seen as the definitive way to act, direct or produce.

The Redgrave family, spanning five generations, is just another example of a family that dominate the British theatre monarchy. They are talented, yes, but arguably born at the right place, in the right time, with the right parents. If such theatrical juggernauts, for all their talent, had been born mixed-race in a poor borough of East London, their experience of entering the acting world would have been quite different. The problem is obvious, and long-standing, but one step towards a solution is to recognise it. Laurence Fox told Boyle, a mixed-race woman: ‘I can’t help what I am, I was born like this, it’s an immutable characteristic, so to call me a white privileged male is to be racist – you’re being racist’. Boyle spoke to Doward for the Guardian about the ‘knapsack’ of privilege: ‘Within this knapsack there are special provisions, assurances, tools, maps, guides, passports, blank cheques [which] you carry around. You have no idea that it’s there, but you also have no idea of the privilege that whiteness affords you’.

Rather than equipping everyone with a knapsack, to achieve true equality we must eradicate the need for one. It’s easy to blame the entirety of the problem on your Foxes, your Redgraves and your highly-educated Hiddlestons and Cumberbatches, but their ancestral knapsacks are aggravations to symptoms of an already full-fledged problem. The issue needs to be tackled at a grassroots level, in a way that makes a career in theatre more accessible, and more appealing, to someone who may have seen themselves as separate from that world altogether, halted before their journeys even began. Theatre doesn’t need to be an incestuous web of pedigree, and shouldn’t be. To fully embrace theatre for what it is – a representation of a real or imagined event before an audience – we need exactly that: representation.  

Finding my Religion: Notes from a Leeds United supporter

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The car pulled to a momentary stop and I stepped quickly out onto the wet concrete. (Leeds City Centre is always wet). I was outside the City railway station, brushing past travellers who scurried in and out of its packed, low-ceilinged entrance. They dissipated as I continued down to City Square, where a crowd was already forming around ‘The Black Prince’ pub, a sticky-floored nucleus which drew in clumps of the group only then to spit them back out minutes later, drunker and more passionate than ever. I could hear them before I could see them, though they hummed rather than roared. That would come later. Today was matchday, see, and these were the Leeds United supporters. My people (kind of).

I wasn’t born into Leeds fandom, to be honest. For a start, I wasn’t born in Leeds. Beverley – a flat, cobbled market-town in East Yorkshire – is my hometown, and it didn’t exactly dazzle with football-support options.We were too far from Hull City to be caught in the gravitational pull of its fandom, and occasional promotional visits to our school by some guy in an ill-fitting Tiger costume (their mascot) were unlikely to change that. That left two other options: sink into the quagmire of supporting a genuinely local team; or be lured by vacuous temptation (and perhaps some vague family link) into glory-supporting one of the national big boys.

Moving to Leeds, when I was eleven, gave me my first chance to love a football team,and, trust me, I really wanted to. A boy in Yorkshire who doesn’t love football is seen as a riddle of almost philosophical complexity. It’s unfathomable. So, rather than admit my apathy to the beautiful game: “Yeah I basically support Hull City/ Wayne Rooney/ mostly just England”.

The problem was with Leeds itself. United is a football club that is so soaked into the fabric of the city, that supporting it seemed like the ultimate and most difficult part of my transition across the county. There were surely more obvious things to sort out first: like my voice, which was embarrassingly soft and languid compared to the hurried, broad grunts of the average Leeds fan.

Still, the club’s chaotic underdog status couldn’t help but inspire some of my sympathies, even as a (then) non-football person. The seventies glory days under Don Revie now ancient history, the team had only just hauled itself back into the Championship (from League One) when I arrived in the city. It was stuck there for apparent perpetuity, with a highly eccentric owner, and a record-breaking number of managers (eleven in just over five years at one stage). “Aaaaand we’ve had our ups and downs” goes ‘Marching on Together’, the club’s anthem. But the ups seemed a very long time ago.

That disjuncture between the old and the new meant that supporting Leeds required almost religious belief. Thankfully, all the spiritual apparatus was there. The history, as I say: a saga of the frosty north that regenerated and legitimated itself with every sombre retelling. Music, also: when the crowds roar ‘Marching on Together’, I defy anyone with red blood in their veins not to feel its pulse. In the club’s stadium, Elland Road, too, there was a place of worship exquisitely designed as a temple to riotous northern fandom. It’s a cauldron which has, in its time, welcomed some of the best teams in the world and ordered them, through its holy magnitude, to pay attention, and offer respect.

And running through it all was faith. Faith that success would come back, that major players would eventually join rather than leave, and faith, above everything, that Leeds (or “we” as I was quickly coming to call them) were still a ‘big’ team.

Slowly, then, I was converted. A gloomy, goalless draw with Sheffield Wednesday was my Damascus. Hearing ‘Marching on Together’ at Elland Road did it. How could it not?

So, let’s go back to ‘The Black Prince’ – the starting point for the collective march up to Elland Road. I wander along, with friends whose knowledge is more developed than mine, though it’s only passion that counts. Eventually, the stadium comes into view, and our communal energy is replenished by the Billy Bremner statue outside the stands. The floppy-haired Scots legend, captain of the club in its most successful period, punches the air with both his unnaturally long arms – a sinewy and dynamic roadside icon on this footballing pilgrimage.

With the club now tantalisingly close to the top of the Championship table, and playing a lush, free-flowing football capable of dazzling even the best teams in the country, the long years in the wilderness might just be coming to a close. And while a return to the Premier League would be celebrated deliriously across the city, the outsider fan within me can’t help but feel a pang of regret. If Leeds United become good again – properly good – then won’t they lose just a bit of the underdog status which made them so addictively likeable in the first place?