Review: Middleman – Counterstep

Originally published by Fortitude Magazine. http://www.fortitudemagazine.co.uk.

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Leeds-based quartet Middleman are a bit dangerous. Having every track on your new album licensed out to adverts is rare, especially an album that’s an amalgam of electrock, rapcore, dubstep and anthemia.

Reading their press release and seeing names like Blur, The Streets and Rage Against The Machine is a touch misleading; the toil involved in creating an album this wide reaching must have been significant, as the boys tear through genres like petrol station loo roll. Seldom is such cross-pollination administered so well, and points must be awarded for covering so much ground.

Opening with recent single Helpless, the bands’ intent of getting everyone involved is clear. Gang chorale not withstanding, the floor-burning, stuttering electronics that greet the listener are made to get you out and on it. Andy Craven-Griffiths’ vocals have come a long way from the perfunctory proclamations of previous album Spinning Plates, which, in retrospect, laid the foundations beautifully for Counterstep. Now a truly confident, heart-on-sleeve frontman, the final pieces of the puzzle align.

The glorious, star-caressing melodic work in Blindspot and Keep Breathing, and a desire to constantly push their envelope is both endearing and, in their lyricism, quite affecting. It is rare indeed for a band sprung from the historical markers of hip hop, dance and hardcore to be able to move with such delicacy, and yet Counterstep understands itself. This is an album – a record with a full and constant narrative. Even in dealing with that most common of topics – relationships gone wrong – the band are concise, direct and utterly believable; see Lifeline for proof.

Tempting though it would be to compare this record endlessly to their previous work, their contemporaries and touring buddies in The Streets and so on, to do so would be to do Middleman a disservice. A well-thought out, custom-wound, participatory record, and great on cans, this is an album worth taking on its own merits.

When the band choose to toughen matters, it is done so with great conscience. The punishing strength of Tunnel Vision, and the carefully off-kilter drum work and bewildering vocal overlay on Youth Is Wasted On The Young are well-realised and deftly executed, the production always giving the bigger picture.

Presented with the prospect of reviewing an English-voiced, dance-informed rap quartet, I will freely admit to expecting stilted flow, embarrassing lyricism and camera-on-the-floor council estate posturing. What I got instead was a wholly convincing, enthralling and human album that gave more and more with repeated listens. For a record to start off bouncing but end with the magnificent widescreen of Deny It All, with its strings and plaintive restraint, and to be bereft of a single cynical moment, was truly eye-opening.

Go and buy this record. Dance to it, cry to it, scream its words from the top of your lungs. A full five without hesitancy.

Excellent.

Review: Cordelaine Giant – s/t

Originally published by Fortitude Magazine. http://www.fortitudemagazine.co.uk.

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London two piece Cordelaine Giant are developing at pace. Their beautifully packaged 4 track EP was partially funded through that most modern of devices, Kickstarter, as was the video that is due to follow. Drawing on the great traditions of the ethereal songsmiths (with a tickle of Lisa Loeb, if you remember her), the duo put forward a compelling collection.

Keeper‘s opening story of terrifying pregnancy, teenage self-abandonment and the seeking of refuge in the beds of strangers is an eye-opening one. Sophie’s oh-so breathy voice is a welcome narrator of these tales, backed by her own acoustic and the western dream-state of guitar/banjo/harmonica/drummist Kevin. Indeed, the interplay between the instruments, and the delicate, overt restrain so dutifully applied to each piece is a huge part of these beautifully skeletal songs.

If there is one criticism of the record as a whole, it’s that while the songs are engaging enough to hold water with their minimal structures, certain elements are underplayed where more credence should be given; Sophie’s acoustic, which sounds like real wood on its own, evaporates in the mix beneath the other instruments. Although the band’s whole ethos centres around being only half there, there are some excess moments, with the third minute of Kings & Queens dragged down by its own loveliness.

Crafting a track in memory of a friend is a risky gambit, but the composition of Sebastiansupports this decision fully. One of the most fully formed tracks here, the subtly escalating speed in the later sections only serves to make the dualling electric guitars sound more like crossing fireworks. A standout for its harmony work, careful deployment of drive and dynamic shifts, this is a good indicator of how the Giant might choose to evolve.

As the EP draws to a close with Nothing Left To Take, I find myself listening more to the colourful, gossamer instrumentation than the vocals, too fragile now against the room-reverbed banjo and occasionally surfacing guitar. A short fade out, and it’s all over. I couldn’t help thinking that a fifth track or a re-sequencing would have served to give the EP greater closure, as the record simply stops.

This is a fabulous piece to walk around to, on a shining summers’ day, feeling the gentle waves of sound flow through you. Closer inspection yields a couple of stories that are genuinely affecting, grim even, and that duality gives the pair a subtle, honest edge. On occasion, there is too much hey-ya’ing to my ears, and more time should have been spent glueing the instrumentation together, so as to prevent the rhythm guitar from disappearing/vocals from overpowering the mix.

A great deal of promise abides in these tracks, and where Cordelaine Giant go from here will be intriguing.

Floaty.

Review: Jahmene Douglas – Love Never Fails

Originally published by Fortitude Magazine – http://www.fortitudemagazine.co.uk.

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X-Factor runner up (second is first after first!) Jahmene Douglas has overcome confidence issues, himself and his detractors to release this albums of covers. In keeping with the tradition of this heinous, dream-shattering enterprise, future I’m A Celebrity I Really Am I Promise entrant Jahmeme has enlisted the help of a couple of guests – the first being panel judge and mentor Nicole Scherzinger, and the second being non-sighted iconoclast and hallowed gift to the music realm, Stevie Wonder.

With each track on this record being someone else’s, one must look to Douglas’ interpretations of the source material. An able singer in the gospel/soul style, Douglas is more than capable of taking on this project. The production is very good, mastering the digital emptiness so essential for this sort of release. Everything is as it was intended, with every plugin doing the job for which it was designed.

Effortlessly taking the only good Coldplay song, Fix You, and rendering its deeply affecting, human construct utterly inert with his plunging/soaring Whitney exertions, my soul was prepped for an ever-widening spiral of sterility, and this record did not disappoint. The version of Beyonce’s Halo was completely dead, with the choral backing giving nothing other than the agony of a false smile.

Nothing, however, compares to the anguish of experiencing our shelf-stacking protagonist spending five minutes burying his mentor during their thursday-night-karaoke rendition of Houstons’ The Greatest Love Of All. A truly mind-blowing schmaltz excursion in the much missed hands of Whitney, listening to Scherzinger fumbling in her charges’ shadow was agonising, serving only to highlight Douglas’ prowess. If this was the intention, smashing.

I’d spent the whole record, teeth clenched, waiting for Stevie Wonder’s appearance on Christian traditional Give Us This Day, only to find that he limits his input to harmonica.  This was a crushing, saddening moment.

What makes this record such a harrowing listen, is it’s intention. This isn’t about Jahmene Douglas, it’s not about the artists he covers, it’s not about the music – it’s about someone, somewhere, making money from someone elses’ story. In the months or weeks to come, when Douglas is scrabbling around for panto work, those involved in this facile, heartless business will be circling the herd, smacking their lips at the prospect of twisting the heart strings of those who tune in for a bit of hope.

Because what a man like Douglas brings to the world is hope; hope that the ordinary man can rise from nothing to be a star, and that his hardships were not for nothing. This album will be bought exclusively by those who tune in religiously to the X-Factor, leaving the rest of us to get on with our lives. Though this almost negates the necessity of a rating, a five for the singing and a hard zero for the renditions grants it a 2.5.

Pity.

Review: Crossfaith – Apocalypse

Originally published by Fortitude Magazine – http://www.fortitudemagazine.co.uk.

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2006 saw the birth of Japanese electro-metalcore pounders Crossfaith. Since their inception they’ve developed a sound previously under-used in their native land, bringing their bleeping malice to the world at large. The charmingly pigeon grammar on their Facebook states that they ‘played in front of almost 10000 audience’, which is, indeed, many audience.

Leafing through the record, and indeed the band’s back catalogue, Apocalypse is a consolidation of their work to date. Where previous record The Dream, The Space was very much a guitar-centric metalcore record with some keys slapped on it, Apocalypse has been purpose-built in a more technological framework. On first impressions, what the band have gained in songwriting cohesion they have lost in sound. Everything is more balanced, but a good deal of thickness has been removed as a result. Luckily, a new EP (Zion) has come out since then, which addresses the balance, putting the meat back in, so this appears to have been a bedding-in period.

Crossfaith’s main USP is the extreme blending of many, many genres from the last few years. Apocalypse does contain its fair share of Dubstep, with Terufumi Tamano’s electronics squelching away nicely. Stack this against the modern metalcore, upscale techno and hardcore influences worn so clearly on their skin, and you have the recipe for an unequivocally modern band.

Tracks like Eclipse and We Are The Future are floor-opening rompers, and the boys are all giving it the beans. Though the opening of Gala Hala(Burn Down The Floor) goes a bit nu metal, and (otherwise) standout Counting Stars contains those awful yelped clean vocals so beloved of the metalcore scene, the band believe every second – Ken and Co. charge at each track like madmen.

However, that lack of density in production really starts to show the more you press on, and the dynamics really suffer for it. Countdown To Hell should have been crushing, its opening riff extending a Japanese finger to the Swedish masters, but it just hasn’t got the legs. Ken’s vocals start to grate a little towards the end, until the jaunty bounce of Outbreak provokes him into dialling it back a bit. A serious screamer with plenty of power, his true strength is watered down by a lack of dynamics.

Crossfaith are a likeable, committed, driven and talented band with a lot to offer, but this record offers only partial glimpses as to their potential majesty. The tracks that are good are properly good, but hamstrung by the band’s limitless insistence to change direction as much as possible. I can’t help but feel that a little time spent honing their identity would be hugely beneficial, as there’s nothing here to surpass the precedents set by the seemingly infinite number of bands existing in this style.

Proper band, not living up to their potential. Come on guys!

Review: Farewell, My Love – Gold Tattoos

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As a grown man of nearly 33, I could scarcely be the most suitable candidate for reviewing this record. That being said, a record is a record, so here we go.

Farewell, My Love are a ‘theatrical rock’ band from Phoenix, Arizona. With their intent to be a ‘hill of hope in the flood of life’, and attributing their raison d’etre and ascension to their fanbase – referred to as Lovers – they present themselves as being humble and endearing in the extreme. At this stage, let me get the comparisons to My Chemical Romance and Avenged Sevenfold out of the way. Yes, the quintet are quite clearly using the tailor next door to the MCR boys, and the guitar work has much in common with Gates and his mob, but there’s something else.

Ryan Howell’s insane voice is certainly noteworthy, and while his trapped-in-something shrieks are likely to come in for a lot of stick, I must admit that by Rewind The Play I was finding him truly engaging. Like Brian Molko and David Surkamp (look him up) crossing vocal DNA, some of the highs attained on this record are nothing short of inhuman. Every note is delivered with utter certainty, and if Howell is in character, he doesn’t break it.

 

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The orchestration of My Perfect Thing, a glorious throwback to the days before trying to out-scream the next spacer-fitted fringe-sporter, is weirdly likeable. A tribute to the fans in the front row, this track made their upcoming tour pairing with kid-bothering degenerate hate-targets Blood On The Dance Floor quite galling. F,ML have a great deal more to offer to the musical landscape; their attitude to songcraft and refusal to embrace the ubiquitous bursting-baby-bird screams of their contemporaries putting them some distance from the competition.

Bare-boned ballad Paper Forts has, amongst all the breathing-in (stop this!), some genuinely magnificent harmony work. Hearing Howell drop a few octaves – and the band taking a back seat to the piano for a bit – is disarming, and points to the band having an interesting future ahead.

Far from a long album, this is ten full tracks of the finest hand-crafted cheddar being doled out with some expertise. The short instrumental pieces are to be applauded, and closing the album with the mega-ridiculous Queen Of Hearts lets the listener know it’s really over. In short, taking this album purely as a musical exercise, it is finely tuned for maximum grandeur, the songs being given their own room to breathe in a constantly shifting, bravely ornate musical landscape.

Even if you’re not a girl ascending into womanhood, this is a boss album. The band believe it, the Lovers believe it, and I believe it. Yes, it’s wilfully absurd and yes, if the lads were in jeans and t-shirts it wouldn’t work, but the caliber of the writing is without question.

Great.

Review: Five Finger Death Punch – The Wrong Side Of Heaven And The Righteous Side Of Hell Vol 1.

ffdp.jpgOriginally published by Fortitude Magazine-www.fortitudemagazine.co.uk
Going into this review knowing that it’s for Five Finger Death Punch is, in some respects, quite daunting…

A band with no shortage of rabid fans and even more rabid detractors, one must be aware of potential fire storms of internet hatred, with strangers around the world coalescing to question each others sexual orientation.

But let’s put the most disappointing part of the internet to one side. Yes, the wrestling advert music is still very much in effect, but there is more going on beneath the knuckles. This is a strangely bi-polar record, but when listened to closely makes absolute sense.

There are two clear halves – a man in genuine torment with himself, apologetic yet unyielding, acknowledging this trait as the core of his problems, and another man, utterly at war with the world. The pugilistic nature of some of the material presented here is almost sadistic, with ‘You’ and the truly moronic (and unnecessary) ‘Burn Motherfucker’ all but offering the listener out for a fight directly.

Some of the material on here is genuinely good. ‘M.I.N.E. ‘is both earnest and well-judged, played with a discernibly gentler tone than the cro-magnon thuggery displayed elsewhere. Here, Moody’s vocals are given full weight, and his power as a vocalist truly shines through. The over-dramatic vocal inflections posited all over the record cannot detract from the feeling that Moody would enjoy life a lot more making this sort of music over the chugging shreddery, irrespective of how competently it’s played.

The greatest surprise was ‘Diary Of A Deadman’, a spoken word piece with a bit of widescreen scope to it. No ‘fuck this/fuck that’, and with some top licks from Zoltan and Jason, this was very diverting. Confusing, however, was the inclusion of two of the tracks twice – ‘I.M. Sin’ and ‘Dot Your Eyes’– one with Moody alone and the others with guests (Max Cavalera, which was a bit of a shame, and Jamey Jasta). This smacks a little of padding, as there’s little to be got out of this superfluous act. Take the first versions out, and there’s still a solid 40 minutes of this to go round, which is plenty.

Five Finger Death Punch have shown a greater depth of field in their craft than I was expecting. Everything is played with the utmost precision, and though there are times when a great guitar tone is sacrificed to give the vocals room in the chorus, the production is excellent. Getting Rob Halford in on the opening track gives points, and the duet with Maria Brink is convincing. My complaint is only that the contemplative parts of the record outshine the boisterous, with that element feeling almost forced.

Perhaps the Punch are ready to evolve? With their softer moments infinitely tougher and more believable than Nickelback, I hope the next record takes a proper risk, and pushes the songwriting to a different plain, something that’s been so tenderly hinted at here. Moody is a vocalist of some considerable power, and it would be nice to see him and the boys push themselves a bit more. they’ve proven their worth on the heavy front – it’s time to move on.

Potent, but with heart.

The Bottom Half

Like most of you, I see people write things online that make me very angry. Not sad, not disappointed, but angry. Angry not because they have said those things, or for their lack of understanding, callousness or ignorance, but because regardless how heinous the declaration, not matter how cretinous, impossible, or untrue the statement, someone will get into it with them, creating a turbulent pocket of needless discourse.

‘Needless’ is perhaps a casual term for something profoundly important, and yet ineffectual at the same time; it is essential that human beings have debate, that we don’t all agree with one another, as this approach, if literally applied, would bring stagnation. Imagine if every statement made was unilaterally agreed upon – would we ever move forward? ‘Guys, the earth is flat’. ‘Well that’s that done. Cool.’

Of course this is an extreme example, but there’s nothing wrong with the principle. However, when debate exists between two or more people with no effect other than to piss each other off, nothing is achieved other than the strengthening of the resolve behind those ideas. What makes matters worse is when we start name calling, or even worse, using hateful slurs.

This is the golden age of the Asshole, where everyone has both the right and the opportunity to say whatever the hell they want, whether it needed to be said or not. In fact, the more it didn’t need to be said, the more likely you are to find it. If you want a neat synopsis of this, go and read any of the comments on trumps’ Twitter feed, pick up your jaw, and come back to this post.

Some of the things I’ve read even in the last couple of hours are incredible. Click on any picture, any video of anything, and there’s a fight going on. If the video says ‘I Love The Colour Blue!’, scroll down and you’ll be see someone saying ‘so u h8 purple u f*g lol fuk u’, or alluding to their religion, skin colour, clothing, height, fiscal circumstances, mental ability, upbringing, parentage, taste, or any number of the other things that we as a species deem worthy as avenues for direct hatred.

The Bottom Half of The Internet, as a friend of mine once described it to me, is a miasmic, turbulent pool, where grievances are aired in their millions. Post occurs. You get mad, and reply. Sneering/hateful/violent response is issued. You get madder. Your measured/condescending/pious reply gets up the arse of the person/people on the other end, and you spend the next hour locked in rampant conflict with a total stranger; meaningless because you’re trying to change the mind of someone who is absolutely not interested in changing their opinion, the same way you’re not budging on what you think.

Once, and only once, I posted the most innocuous of comments on a video on YouTube, only to receive the most unbelievable abuse from a total stranger, which escalated to threats of violence and assertions that I was an unclean lady’s body part among many, many other things. It was at this time that I decided that I could experience a lot of the internet without interacting with it, and have kept to this, outside of Facebook.

Because on Facebook, you’re fighting with your friends, or at the very least, people you’ve met or know, and so there is an inherent accountability. Fighting with strangers on Twitter, or some of the horrific stuff I’ve read on Tumblr or Instagram, seems to be infused with this idea that there are no consequences for anything you say, where anyone who disagrees with you opens themselves to as much bile as you can squeeze into the character limit.

The next time you find yourself drawn into this sort of behaviour, close the program, and think about what you’re doing. You’re not a great political leader trying to solve a humanitarian crisis. You’re on the toilet, telling a racist that they shouldn’t be a racist, which is like telling a tree not to be made of wood.

If you want to make a difference, don’t be a penis to other people because you can, or shout down anyone who disagrees with you. Recognise that those individuals who spout hateful polemic online have no courage to do it in real life, and they’re posting it online because you can’t punch them in the face from there.

This doesn’t mean your cause isn’t just, honest, or right, but the best way to make a change in the world is to do it in real life, so go out there and do it.

Prophets Of Rage – Prophets Of Rage (Fortitude Magazine)

prophets-of-rage-new-album-debut-2017-1024x1024.png   5/10. It drove me insane.

Here’s the skinny with this. You want to love this album. It seems like a foregone conclusion that because it’s, like, Rage and stuff, that it must be good. Imagine, if you can, that the Prophets are a new band, not one with a legacy taking in Audioslave, Cypress Hill, Public Enemy, Soundgarden and Rage Against The Machine.

Imagine, then, hearing Radical Eyes as the opening number; swaggering into view like a pissed-up relative, this ponderous, insipid drudge would have been acceptable at the album’s mid-point, but to kick off with it is not good enough. Unfuck The World¸ with its idiotic chorus, ultra-American anti-American-ness and festival-strafing immediacy, would have been a better pick. Two tracks in and I’m shuddering with worry, but when Legalize Me begins, I draw breath; this sounds fresh and pretty decent, but only in the context of the two wooden wrecks that have just gone past. The lyrics are absolutely rotten-the sort of toss your pious room-mate might come up with in 2nd year. Knuckles white with anticipation, I sit there fizzing away as Chuck and B-Real take turns emptying their bowels onto all of the language.

Still, I pray, that the potential of this may come to fruition. After all, how can all the components be so right and yet so wrong? The Counteroffensive is a genuinely embarrassing corn-fed turkey of an interlude which isn’t remotely necessary, leading as it does to the lyrical hope-crippling that is Hail To The Chief. The structure beneath the vocals is sound enough, somewhere between Rage and Audioslave. Six tracks in and I’m beginning to get this; these are the wrong singers for this band.

B-Real, while ideal for Cypress Hill’s Berettas-and-bongs fare, sounds like a hype man; Chuck D is the big lad here, his gruff, meaty bark a better foil for the Morello/Commerford/Wilk axis, and yet, he’s not enough vocalist for a band like this. It’s as though the two singers together can’t add up to the one singer that would have enough spit to carry the band.

The real rage this record generated was inside me. The more I pressed on, the more the pain of listening to it grew, and by the time Take Me Higher had smeared its join-the-dots cack all over my ears, I had to steel myself to get through the rest of the album. Strength In Numbers is a hard-line Rage cast-off, and while some might decry such an assertion and fly the ‘well it is Rage’ flag, let’s set the record straight-it’s not. Prophets Of Rage are presented as a fresh band, otherwise, they would still be called Rage Against The Machine.

The hardest part of all this is that this band is needed-truly they are. A band with enough pedigree to be heard with a message that’s worth listening to feels like a great thing, but for that to be a genuine success, the band itself has to deliver the songs, not piss-wet gash like Who Owns Who. If one were to remove all the lines where ‘the people take a stand’ you’d have one empty record, padded out with childish swearing and a withering lack of anger.

In the 30-odd years that I have loved music, I have never come across an album so frustrating, so maddening as this one. I should love this, I should be sitting here foaming with superlatives about its quality and trying to reign in my hyperbole, but I can’t. The message is essential, but delivered without grace or agility; the music is fine but needs different singers. Utterly infuriating.

It drove me insane.

The Old Problem

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The world we inhabit is not a good one. We don’t have anything to compare it to, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not 100% certain that there’s a better world elsewhere. It’s a world full of cowardice, small-mindedness, racism, hatred, stupidity, incompetence, an inability to take ownership of mistakes, and monumental inequality.

These are all human traits that we’ve worked extremely hard at. The king used to lead his troops into battle, or at least be present on the field; now our leaders send soldiers to fight wars they can win from miles away, knowing that people get comfort from boots on the ground in a way they never do from bombs in the air. The past is something that we’re supposed to have left behind, to have stood on its shoulders to see higher and farther than before.

Crucially, we are supposed to have used the new connectivity of the internet and the instantaneous access that gives us to a mind-crumbling amount of information to make the world a better place. But the world is worse than it has ever been.

A rather sweeping statement sir, if I may. Yes, you may, but think on this; we have people numbering in double digits controlling half the money in the world. Those who win the fiscal lottery of being born into immense wealth, or being born heartless enough to make serious money, don’t like to give it back. Naturally, there are a couple of rebels (Bill Gates famous charity contributions etc), but by and large those with the money, keep the money.

Now how can that be in a modern society, as we so proudly name ourselves? Surely an individual surplus of money, especially totalling millions of dollars, would encourage even the least moral person to think ‘hmm, maybe I’ve got enough. Perhaps I should spread this about a bit, see what good it could do. I’ll still be wealthier than anyone ever needs to be, but some of that money might build a school, or a hospital, or stop children dying of hunger and excruciating  diseases instead of sitting in one of my many bank accounts.’ Remember, it is extremely easy to target the fat cats, the elite, the moneyed vermin, the landed gentry, whatever term you have for people that earn more in a day than you make in a year.

It’s so easy in fact, that it’s seen as a passe argument, a boring diatribe recycled by the same people who talk about ‘love’ and ‘healing the planet’. It’s not like these aren’t real concerns, but we’re supposed to shun people who approach these thoughts with a dismissive, sneering mindset, to have some special fact in our back pockets that we can throw in the faces of the non-believers, the leftist radicals that just complain. But here, here is the problem.

I am not a racist. I am not a fascist, a hunter, a creationist, a liar, a cheat or a christian. This does not mean that I love all people that aren’t white and Scottish, that I haven’t hurt an animal, that I know how life began, that I’ve never lied, that I haven’t coveted someone I wasn’t with, or that I hate god. Plenty of people are garbage, something I don’t attribute to race, or even to religious doctrine; a lot of people are simply arseholes, regardless of where they are from. A lot of the Scottish are idiots – not because they can’t read or write, but because they elect to behave in a manner that marks them out as idiots, irrespective of my classification. But lots of people from all over the world are idiots, so it’s not a Scottish thing.

The reason why we are so stupid is very simple, in a manner of speaking. We are, to a significant extent, products of our environment. This doesn’t mean that if you grew up in shitty housing that you’ll be a drug dealer or a rapper, or that if you were born in the extension of your family’s summer home that you’re going to run a boating firm, but rather that every detail of your early life will shape, in one way or another, your life and your choices.

I was born into a non-religious household with both parents alive and functioning, but I sang in church choirs. I had loving parents, but have spent all my life since the age of 5 or 6 battling genuine, suicidal depression. I grew up hating other people because they wouldn’t accept me, not because they were black or white or asian; because they kept me out. I was never shown that there is a difference between people’s colours, other than the fact that people from other countries (my parents never referred to anyone as an immigrant) worked harder than people from Scotland, because it was harder to get work. I have never seen this sweeping generality as a negative thing, because to me it was a compliment; I saw it as my father saying ‘these guys are going to burst their arses trying to make a living for themselves, because they have to work harder to do so. Don’t get left behind, and don’t take anything for granted.’

The idea that someone coming over here from somewhere you know little or nothing about to do a job that you would never had any interest in until you found out it was being done by somebody else is as British as tea-towels and sexual misconduct. The British went all over the world battering brown people, raping them and taking everything they had by force, installing themselves anywhere that they could, even to the extent of shipping their worst convicts to someone else’s country (Australia) because they couldn’t be fucked with them. By the time the world wars happened, Britain was still digging this, loving the idea of giving Johnny Foreigner a good hiding, sending them back where they came from.

This idea, this mentality that says that if you’re not from here, you can’t be trusted on principle, has dominated the headlines in recent times, especially where America in concerned. A country that prides itself on being deliberately ignorant, where it’s still perfectly acceptable to teach religion as fact, America is the poster child for the wrong way to do everything. A country that has never come to terms with the fact that it stole all it has from non-white people, America has a culture that is utterly defined by its need to be above others, to have the smartest comeback, to have the least book knowledge and the most street smarts, to kick ass first and ask questions later.

This breeds a certain type of human; the human that says that there’s only one way to do things, and that way is whatever it was taught. So, if you were raised in a creationist setting, you’ll always have an answer for anyone who challenges you on anything science related, and, if you’re a real American, you’ll answer that question with condescension and passive aggression, because you hate being challenged. This is not a uniquely American trait, but they are the best at it.

So, what happens when you raise a child in a country that was settled by thieving, pious, righteous and unscrupulous immigrants, who took all their land from other people, dismissing them as savages, who wrap themselves in the constitution, a document that states that a black man is worth less than a white man? You have a country that believes it’s doing the right thing, not because it knows it’s right, but because fuck you. It’s not a question of being moral, but of explaining why you choose your morality, and then defending that position because other people want to tear you down, which isn’t because you’ve said anything wrong, it’s only that they’re not you, so you have to find a position in which you are above them, and if you can’t find away round that, they hate freedom.

It makes total sense to me that America would have a problem with white nationalism, especially now. It makes complete sense that after having a black man in the White House that a viable candidate could be found in a lying, cowardly, venomous weakling like Donald Trump, because he so accurately represents the America that is in charge. To put a strong, moral, liberal candidate up there isn’t viable, because a) those sorts of people are in extremely short supply and b) no-one with any power would get behind someone like that.

This speaks to a greater problem. From here in the UK, I have the luxury of looking at America as a fools’ nation, one that I don’t have to visit to understand what’s going on. But that is a stance of ignorance. If I think that a country with escalating right-wing extremism, full of weak-willed, reactionary, gun-loving people run by a moronic coward isn’t a global problem, perhaps I should turn my eyes to France, where exactly the same problem reared its head in the elections, or to Germany, a country widely known for its targeted policies, which is dealing with a Nationalist party all over again, or to Britain, where, when they’re not burning the poor to heat their servants, the government and media are more than happy to devote hours of airtime to explaining every second of a bomber’s life with as many hateful buzzwords as possible, but doing fuck-all to prevent radicalisation of more young people, or, god forbid, trying to help the people that are in its borders regardless of where they are from.

And this is the old problem. Since we discovered that we’re all human and can’t ignore it, how do we prove our superiority to one-another? The only way is to cling to the past, to desperately profess that people from other places are still an invading force, that THEY are different to US and that WE are not the SAME. But we are; we are all the same. No-one truly knows how life began. No-one truly knows why we are here, or if there is indeed a higher meaning to it all. What we do know is that we need each other, every single day, to survive.

If that is a universal truth, why are we so opposed to doing it?

The Preservation Of Childhood

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The Preservation Of Childhood

A few weeks ago, I was asked to compere the Sidmouth Donkey Sanctuary summer fair. It was surprisingly well-attended, and even though I was told that a good 15,000 people had been through the gates last year, I was truly taken aback by how many were in attendance. In amongst all the performances from local singers, ascending stars Sound Of The Sirens, local vendor stands, hand-made items and donkeys, I took the opportunity to take Dragon, my radio co-host and loyal companion, on a few walks round the site with me.

Though I was naturally conscious of being a bearded, adult male strolling round a busy country fair, cradling what others would see as a toy dragon, I felt sure in myself with my kindly, green pal. I found that, rather than treating me like a lunatic, or insanely creepy, those who were manning the stalls would smile and asked about Dragon, instead of being unkind. I found that if I talked about him sincerely, and make no apologies for his presence, the fact that I was not ashamed of having him with me meant that I wasn’t made fun of, something that would be all too easy to do.

During a conversation with Johnno the soundman, a gentleman some years older than myself, he divulged with some pride that his family have a pig called Arnold (although he did not initially explain that this was a toy pig, which was a bit confusing) that has been handed down between their three children, and gone on a number of family holidays with him. He had been photographed in the mouth of a T-Rex at the natural history museum, in the barrel of a gun on HMS Belfast, and his presence meant that Johnno and his wife acted in a child-like manner, as well as encouraging the family to take photographs. During this exchange, he warmed more and more to Dragon, which was not unexpected, but wonderful all the same.

As we age, responsibilities, family, and expectations both cultural and personal begin to take greater precedence in our lives. When we are young, those of us born into relative peace have the joy of being free from obligations, unbound by deadlines, and are able to go about our lives with little hemming our imagination. Our often irrational excitement can take any number of forms, from a pathological need to have a special t-shirt, to a pebble that we love, and any number of other incidental matters. This is something that permeates every single human being, in greater or lesser ways, irregardless of their upbringing, culture, geography, or spirit, and is truly fundamental.

One of the most important things that happens in our early lives is the acquisition, gifted or otherwise, of a special toy, generally – though it is by no means a hard and fast rule – an animal. People I have known and spoken to over the years have had monkeys, bears, rabbits, horses, or confusing half-animals that aren’t really anything, but the one thing they have in common is a huge presence in that individuals’ life, that sticks with them as they get older. The most scarred fighter, fearless soldier or bloodied surgeon can return to their childhood when presented with their Brownie, Flatty, Kessington, or Pom Pom, and the effect of this is something magical.

We are told, particularly in this day in age, that we’re supposed to be hard but understanding, compromising but fair, politically correct but not sensitive. Children get to be babies then adults, with little in between. This is predominantly because of our access to the internet, that limitless, unpoliceable cascade of information, and the unprecedented flood of thoughts, feelings and polemic that pummels our morality through the likes of Twitter. Though it is an obvious statement, we live under the illusion that everyone who thinks like us is alright, and that everyone who doesn’t is stupid and will never be anything but. A scalding missive or hurtful, clever soundbite is far more significant than any thought-out, considered approach, and scoring points off one-another is more desirable than being supportive or knowing anything.

Young children carry less of this blindness-they don’t sexualise things like adults do, or feel as much of a need to be backhanded and hurtful. I am reminded of the story of the two best friends – one black, one white – who shaved their heads so their teacher couldn’t tell them apart. They didn’t see their skin colours as being a divisive factor in their friendship, and while it took an adult to share it to the internet, the two boys acted in the spirit of good humour, not from a perspective of self-aggrandisement, point-scoring, or unkindness. These are traits at which adults excel, as they are instructed to leave their goodness behind, and become toughened by the world.

How much we must miss out on by having such an outlook. There is no definitive approach to life, no one way to live it. We are less forced into being normal than we are to not stand out. Hold your bear; hold your dragon, and remember being young. It will do you good.