Matching Curtains

Jarvis Cocker at Cheltenham Literary Festival

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WARNING: this article contains much fawning.

Last weekend, we went to see my All-Time Hero Jarvis Cocker speak at the Cheltenham Literary Festival (what is that, reader? You didn't know of my admiration for the bespectacled wonder? Come now. You've clearly not been paying enough attention!). Saturday  was a day of great anticipation, as I was transformed back to my thirteen year old self, becoming increasingly enthusiastic (and squealy) about the evening. Not even being temporarily locked out of the house could diminish my excitement, and I am afraid to say that the glass of wine I knocked back after we entered Cheltenham's baroque Town Hall did nothing to dampen my ardour. Jarvis + vino + books = a very silly Lindsey.

Books ... that's right. I should tell you what brought Jarvis to the Cheltenham Literary Festival. Jarvis's wryly observational lyrics have long been feted by critics and indie crowds alike, so it will come as no surprise to know that Faber have decided to publish a collection of his lyrics in a tome entitled 'Mother, Brother, Lover' (so called, Jarvis ironically confided, because he used these terms so often in his lyrics, the title handily suggested a degree of deliberation). It was this collection which he was there to promote, and which I was so desperately keen to hear him discuss.

Before I go on, I should declare myself as someone who, despite loving the written word, has an uncomfortable relationship with literary festivals: I find the crowds they attract to be uniformly middle class, characterised by an elitism and intellectual arrogance which I despise (and typically, lots of floaty scarves). I tend to feel deeply uncomfortable and very cross during such events, so it says something about Jarvis's cache that we travelled from the depths of South Oxfordshire all the way to Gloucestershire for his talk. I was intrigued to see what kind of crowd he would attract, and whilst there were some of the usual suspects in attendance, there was also a large number of folk who, like us, had loved Jarvis and Pulp since their teens and who clearly represented a committed Pulp fanbase.

The evening began amazingly well, following an elbow brush with Jarvis (forever forth to be known as The Elbow Brush) - he's really very tall, you know. After he strode on stage to the sort of cheers you don't normally hear at such events, he explained that he would be be giving a presentation on the significance of lyrics (his own and other people's) - taking on the role of Professor Cocker, if you will. A whimsical and interesting discussion of the frankly incomprehensible lyrics to the Kingsmen’s ‘Louie Louie', investigated by the FBI for suspected pornographic content, broke the ice perfectly.  After his mini slide show, Jarvis then shared some of his early lyrical forays with us, drolly delivering the naive 'Life is a Circle' before going on to chat about the process of writing itself. When discussing the difference in writing poetry and lyrics, he treated the audience - after some prompting from interviewer John Wilson - to a recital of what are undoubtedly his most famous lyrics, 'Common People'. In doing so, he reminded us all of his unique singing style, which in many Pulp tracks fuses spoken word with song - listen to 'Wickerman', one of my favourite tracks, for a great example of this.

The discussion was genuinely fascinating - and deeply reassuring to anyone with writer's block. Jarvis spoke of his early expectation that there was some Nirvana to be accessed before he could write meaningful lyrics, followed by the realisation that there was much to be gleaned from everyday life, citing the poet Roger McGough and TV as early influences on his now familiar style. He also discussed the pitfalls of using firsthand experiences in one's work, and made a humorous confession to a hatred of opera (I couldn't help but cheekily wonder what some sections of the audience made of this!). Though the Town Hall was full to capacity, Jarvis's confidential manner gave the illusion of a conspiratorial, relaxed chat - he was erudite, witty and down to earth. A highlight for me was his tale of being picked up by joyriders in a Ford Mondeo after his Hillman Imp broke down, one of whom politely offered him a chocolate lime! His reflections on class were insightful without being polemicising, and his self-effacing but wise observations struck a real chord.

A short Q & A session after the talk, which I was far too nervous to participate in (recovering as I was from The Elbow Brush), was followed by a quick drink in town and an hour and a half car journey home. The evening was worth our Cotswolds Odyssey, to share in the company of a man who inspired me to be myself as an awkward teenager and who continues to plough his own distinctive path. An enjoyable if all too brief insight into one of the finest lyricists of our generation.

Seek out your old Pulp CDs now. And if you're hungering for something new, have a listen to this:

Samson and Delilah

Released in Australia back in 2009, my interest in Warwick Thornton's tale of two indigenous Australian teens who decide to escape their remote community was well rewarded last week, upon my first viewing of what is a truly tremendous piece of work.

When we are introduced to protagonists Samson and Delilah, the monotony of their world is clear - they go through the same motions each morning, he sniffing petrol, she caring for her elderly grandmother. Upon the death of Delilah's grandmother, the pair escape to nearby Alice Springs, but their hope of finding something more for themselves is cruelly shattered after a sequence of horrific events. The exploitation of indigenous communities and the indifference (of white Australia, as depicted here) to the dispossession of young people like our heroes is truly shocking. However, what makes this film so stand out is the fact that what cuts through the grimness of Samson and Delilah's experiences is their love for each other. Awkward and naive, their affection is typical of teenagers the world over (Samson tries to grab Delilah's attention by throwing a stone at her; she falls for him after watching him dance goofily to music outside his shelter, Samson blithely unaware). Their commitment to each other is tested when they reach Alice Springs, but never wavers. As the viewer contrasts their experiences to a very familiar burgeoning teen romance, it is hard not to feel protective towards them and appalled at the circumstances they find themselves in.

Baz Luhrmann's Australia this is not. Thornton directs his young stars sensitively - so much so that at times the film seems like a documentary. Thornton, himself an indigenous Australian, doesn't shy away from the problems within indigenous communities and avoids sentimentalising the world Samson and Delilah wish to escape. Delilah is beaten by older ladies in her community who blame her for failing to care for her grandmother; on the evidence from the start of the movie, such censure is unfair. There is definitely a degree of parity on Thornton's part: white Australia's exploitation of Delilah's grandmother, paying her far less for the paintings she produces to make ends meet than the asking price in exclusive galleries, is just as much of a social comment as the scenes featuring the criticism the pair receive upon returning to their former home. This is a sophisticated observation of social injustice if ever there was - I was heartbroken watching a beaten and bruised Delilah trying to sell her own paintings to white Australian diners who were coldly indifferent to her plight.

Delilah is the source of the strength in the movie: one scene seems to ape icons of the Virgin Mary as we see her rescue Samson, increasingly so addled by petrol fumes that he fails to notice her falling in harms way not once, but twice. She is a symbol of endurance and constancy, who never gives up on him (reflecting his ill-fated determination to secure a future for them both elsewhere). Though there is hair cutting in the movie and this Delilah is clearly an inversion of the treacherous Delilah from the Bible, that is where the analogy ends: Thornton's Samson and Delilah are very much their own people. It is testament to the performances of Rowan McNamara and Marissa Gibson that we care for them as people, not just symbols of a wider problem - and to Thornton's delicate handling of the issues being highlighted. The film is notable for featuring very little dialogue, but doesn't suffer for this, serving to show that histrionics are not always required to make a serious point. The cinematography encapsulates the beauty of youth just as it does the wasted opportunities of the dispossessed; there is at times a sense of claustrophobia which jars with the expansiveness of the country within which the story is being told.

I wasn't sure whether the film's ending was suggestive of hope or hopelessness. However, as a representation of survival and love, there is no doubt. To say more about this marvellous story is almost to diminish its impact. This is a film which is both social statement and work of art, and deserves to be seen by many more people - I urge anyone who hasn't seen it, to make it a priority. You won't be disappointed.