On The Beam

I have stacks and stacks and stacks of magazines from the 80s and 90s. A fault, perhaps, as any sort of hoarding can be, but within the Arena, GQ, Esquire, Blitz collection are stunning examples of journalism from a time where not everyone could claim to have something to say and then say it. And, also, superb examples of advertising from the era. It seemed liquor, fashion, and cigarettes were the drawcards of the day - or, duh, perhaps those accounts just had the biggest media budgets. But looking back isn’t always better, is it?

Has advertising actually improved in, say, the last thirty years? Or is there so much noise that the really creative examples are simply harder to find? Hmm, but surely the hallmark of a good ad is that it, you know, captures your attention? “I found this outstanding piece of creative…but I really had to go hunting for it,” has got to be an oxymoron of sorts. Good ads grab your attention and then go viral, whatever the vehicle required to do that.

Back then, people shared in the pub about the Carlsberg TV ads, or the Red Rock Cider https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hqwBR8jzK4 series featuring Leslie Nielsen from Police Squad - “it’s not red, and it doesn’t have any rocks in it.” Outstanding. Or passed the magazine across the zinc cafe counter, pointing out another smart piece of press, as you contemplated yet another hazelnut latte.

Looking for something else I stumbled across this Jim Beam ad, in the April 1991 issue of Blitz magazine. Blitz was started in 1980 by Carey Labovitch, during the era that ushered in The Face and i-D magazine (and, despite the timing, had nothing to do with the club of the same name that launched the whole “New Romantic” scene.) It was more journalistic than most and like those other iconic publications, captured the explosion of fashion and design that took place as the 80s began.

I just think the Beam ad is fabulous, sharp, and droll all at once. More sophisticated and less US-tinged than most bourbon campaigns, it caught my eye and made me stop to think - so much so, I forgot what I’d gone back to look for in the first place. Now that, surely, is the sign of a good ad.

Back to Me

I had a good friend who, as a conversation strategy, would ask you a question on a favourite topic and then, just when you were in full flight, about a minute in, would cut you dead, saying, “anyway, back to me…” It was delivered as kind of ironic, but the intention was, undeniably, to do exactly that: turn the conversation back to her favourite subject. Herself.

I was reminded of this while reading a book review the other day. (I know! Such a rare and wonderful thing in the modern media!) Local book, local media, and I made my way through the few hundred words allocated so miserly to what were once a necessity, and, reaching the end thought, you know, I know very little more about that book than when I began five minutes ago. My green tea is a little cooler, the clock hands have inched closer to wherever it is we’re heading, but enlightenment of the book discussed? Um, no.

But, and there’s always a but, my knowledge of the reviewer’s interests had been added to quite significantly. I knew their opinion on a range of insignificant subjects, some minor, some political, but I was no closer to a decision on whether I would buy the book or not. But wasn’t that once the reason for a review?

Reviews used to be A Thing. I had the privilege to read and review hundreds of books over a twenty year period, and then as the space allocated to book reviews dwindled, and the online “experts” multiplied, reviewers became unnecessary and redundant, in all senses of the words. That’s OK, that’s progress, of sorts. But that means that the few reviews still remaining in the mainstream media - The Listener, the New Zealand Herald - matter even more, I figure. Which makes it even more of a travesty to waste weasel words when words of wisdom would have worked.

This reviewer is hardly alone. We thought the 80s was the “me” generation, but never have we been so self-obsessed, so sure that “every fleeting thought is a pearl,” as Elvis Costello once sang. And those thoughts are a)increasingly all about the deliverer and not about the material and b) delivered and distributed without consideration or foresight. I am guilty too, course - here’s another piece of noise ready for consumption.

But if you’re not adding to a good debate, you’re sucking the atmosphere dry. Why? Why can’t a review/post/blog be about something other than the author? Or the business? (How many corporate comms are all about them and never about the customer?)

Sometimes, it’s wiser to show restraint of tongue and pen. But I fear restraint is quaint, and a thing of the past. As Elvis went on to say in the same song, “Don’t you know how to be dumb?” Clearly not.

Lloyd Cole is a Merry Old Soul

In view of Lloyd’s impending Auckland concert I retrieved this interview I did with him in the mid-2000s

Lloyd Cole, the younger man’s Leonard Cohen is debating the worth of various textile producers when I get put through to his home in Massachusetts. ‘Merchandising is such crap,’ he opines, with obvious frustration, ‘but my wife says that the fans want t-shirts, so I’m trying to get something of quality. And it’s not easy.’

Yip, Lloyd the uncompromising perfectionist. From the heady heights of the mid eighties with his band The Commotions- ‘we sold 250 thousand copies of our 2nd album in 2 weeks’ to a career carved out amidst record company reticence, he has found himself a solid fanbase that adores his acoustic driven wry world-wary sentiments, a la his latest album ‘Music in a Foreign Language’. Picked up locally by BMG, Lloyd is here next week to play golf and sing a few tunes at the Herald Theatre, largely on the back of a couple of successful gigs at the KA two years ago, and the tenacity of Kurt ‘Stellar*’ Shanks.

‘Yeh, God bless Kurt,’ he says, who has organised the two rapidly-selling-out acoustic shows. The theme is two sets of, well, whatever Lloyd wants to play on the night, and whatever he’s asked for. ‘I can play a few more sombre songs this time round; the pub environment is a bit loud for that. But that doesn’t mean I want everyone to be reverential,’ he laughs. ‘I recently played a gig in Bremen and it was like a church- they wouldn’t say anything at all. Very disconcerting. The idea of the shows is that they can be bit random- you yell it I’ll try and play it.’

It worked a treat last time, with a charming mix up of old Commotions gems such as ‘Forest Fire’ and ‘Four Flights Up’ given a beautifully new pared back coat, and then some fab newer ones off the ‘Negatives’ album- ‘Forgive that Boy’ being a particular standout. The Negatives was a collective that toured with LC between 98-2000. I ask him if he misses the band environment.

‘No, not at all. The good thing about the Negatives is everyone had another job, so we could just come together to do this finite thing and then go our separate ways.’ Separate ways is for Lloyd recording at home with little backing, and then touring the songs. Having recently reviewed Elvis Costello’s ‘North’- a very sparse affair, I wonder if LC thinks of him as a contemporary.

‘Definitely. Elvis Costello, Nick Cave- although they sell a few more albums than me,’ he laughs. ‘Maybe I should do a car ad. Nick Drake is selling more albums than ever after doing one in the UK, and he’s dead.’ Irony has always been a Cole strong suit. Is he too clever-clever for the ‘younger generation’?

‘I don’t know. ‘Music in A Foreign Language…’ has sold about 50,000 copies and that’s without a US release, so someone’s enjoying it. I mean, I remember when I fist saw Linkin Park and I really realised how I have no thread whatsoever with that generation. So why would MTV ever play me? Sony just wanted to re-release Commotions hits forever but I want to put together a strong body of work that can exist in parallel with the industry.’’

Unfashionable? Maybe. As he says, ‘the closer I get to Val Doonican, the harder it gets.’ And laughs, and goes back to his t-shirts.

Don’t miss him, folks, cos, in a funny ole, way, he kinda rocks.

‘Rather than you she said I prefer solitude/rather than company I prefer cigarettes…’ Bless.

Potty Mouth

Funny old thing, swearing. Does having a potty mouth indicate a shameful lack of vocabulary? Does a plethora of profanities suggest, instead, that you have an innate sense of appropriateness, and, when the moment calls for it, you’ll, you know, jolly well swear if you want to? Couldn’t flipping say. I sit on obscenity’s fence, in this instance.

It came to mind as I watched a toddler teeter on a tricky set of stairs this morning, hand in hand with his mother, a perfectly golden spring sun framing the scene. As he got to the bottom stair he belted out, “f**k! F**k! F**k!” His mother, horrified, reminded him not to say “that word” because “Mummy doesn’t use it”. (Dad, clearly not in the clear at this point).

It was comic, yet I get her concern. What do you do? I mean, FFS, who says “flip” these days? I’m reminded of an article I saw a few years back where the legendary Alex Cox film Repo Man had been dubbed for a younger, perhaps more puritanical audience. The translators/transcribers (oh, OK, the BBC) had nailed it. When confronted with a particularly gritty piece of prose, they’d hit “vanilla” with some real acumen:

“Flip you, you flippin’ melonfarmer!” was the result. Yep.