I am posting this from my iPhone…

Urban Observation Architectural Photography by Martin Worster, originally uploaded by MartinWorster.

London – Angel Islington 2002
The (at the time) new N1 shopping centre – built on the hallowed grounds of Paradise Club where I used to go raving in 1992 at the infamous club night AWOL (Mickey Finn, Fabio, Jack Frost etc) original junglist night back in the day…

I finally relented and bought an iPhone. As I spend so much time on the internet I was reluctant to have the www permanently switched on in my pocket. The last recess of offline sanity was to be no more. I can Twitter and Facebook from anywhere. I am never out of the loop on any global breaking news story. I know where I am all the time due to the built in GPS system. There’s even now a built in compass so I know my East from my West. Other people can know where I am using Buddy Beacon. Not sure I want to keep that one installed.

I’d obviously played with friends iPhones and was very impressed. Having my own I am even more impressed. The applications are mind boggling and limitless. I can check surf reports on all the local beaches. Skype other Sype users for free. Play games. I’ve even downloaded an app that turns my phone into a synthesizer. Gary Numan watch your back. Videos. Music. I Google mapped my parents house and zoomed in far enough using the ‘terrain’ view that I could see individual trees in the garden. I streamed dubstep from Rinse FM, a London pirate radio station. All on my a ‘phone’! 

The only thing I couldn’t do was to keep my old phone number. Despite upgrading from a Pay As You Go with AT&T to a contract with AT&T. You’d think that would be quite a simple procedure. So despite all the rocket science achievable with the phone – I couldn’t retain my old number. Quite ironic really.

Does anyone else get the horrid feeling that everything is moving too quickly? I mean everything. Maybe it’s a symptom of getting older? As a school boy those summer holidays stretched out…for an eternity. A lifetime of jaunts, experiences, japes and games, an idylic Enid Blyton-esque aracadian romp involving ponds and freshly mowed heaths under an eternal English August sun. Now I just about get over my winter cold and suddenly I’m sweating like a glass blowers arsehole in the Californian August heat. Blink again and it’s suddenly Christmas. Valentines Day. Oooooh, scarey, now it’s Halloween again!  Quick wear silly costumes and watch Halloween IV. As if the year is solely defined by the events we’re supposed to buy presents and cards for, as if sponsored by Hallmark.

I think the internet has a lot to do with it. Speeding everything up. Making everything smaller. Everything is there. Nowhere left untouched. Data streams on top of Everest. Hyper text on remote South Pacific atolls. You’re not escaping the information tsunamis! It’s interesting to see how this will affect the human psyche long term in terms of evolution. As the internet evolves into being even more of humanity’s collective unconscious it might – science fiction writers take note – just take on a mind of it’s own. If it hasn’t already. Conversely – the affects on the evolution of the human brain will be significant considering all this mind blowing information at our finger tips. We absorb a lot more information and quickly. Our children will absorb even more and quickly than we do. And so on. But how much can we take? It already feels like Google is inside my heard. And I’m sure Google are already working on the application where search results are fed directly into your brain. 

I find the infinite realms of the internet both liberating and imprisoning. Regular daily use, particularly long hours – means my concentration isn’t what it used to be. It affects my reading of books. In the byte sized world of instant gratification and Tweet length content delivery, if I’m not drawn in by paragraph three of the novel then it probably ain’t gonna happen. I need to take a sabbatical from the internet. I’m moving to a South Pacific atoll.

Living near LA you get your pick of one off events and special gigs as there’s always a stream of artists and celebs either trying to make it here or to cement their positions at the top of their game. The latter obviously applies to Russell Brand. He’s well up there. He’s ‘dating’ Katie Perry. I bet he watches whilst she kisses other girls – lucky git. Recent footage showed him hanging out on Puff Daddy’s private jet. Nothing else illustrates that the diamond encrusted bling key to uber-success is firmly in his sweaty palm. He recently presented  the MTV awards for the second year running. In England he sells out stadiums and his ’shaginans’ are still daily fodder for the tabloids.

The gig was in Hollywood at the Masonic Lodge. This was especially exciting for my dad who was over and came along for the show. On arriving, we discovered the venue was inside the Hollywood Forever cemetery on Hollywood Boulevard. Unfortunately it was dark when we arrived so we couldn’t explore the tomb stones of once glittering stars for whom the bright lights of stardom had long since dimmed.

The venue was perfect for Russell and had obviously been chosen by his producers to match his edgy personality. Gothic, edgy and baroque. I learnt that he was making a documentary about happiness – produced by Oliver Stone nonetheless, and the proceedings were to be filmed. 

We entered the building and waiting in a smaller room with a massive stone fireplace and wrought iron gothic chandeliers. After a few glasses of wine we were allowed into the inner sanctum of the temple where Russell was to perform. The gig was for 200 people – very small and intimate for Mr Brand. The main hall had red walls and a hanging star of David type pendulum swinging from the roof. This represented the eternity of God, my dad reliably informed me. Incongruous movie posters hung on the walls. On the stage a row of hand carved Baroque thrones awaited the king. I wondered what strange and perhaps lewd ritualistic ceremonies had taken place within these walls.

Russell jumped on stage an half an hour late and with shorter hair than when I’d last seen him. He gave us some brief background on the purpose of the show – this was in fact a rehearsal where he was trying out new material. The theme of the show was to be ‘happiness’ – not much more light was shone on this than that. Russell explained that despite the wealth and associated trappings that fame brings, he was still very much aware that we leave the world as we enter it – with nothing. Things must be a bit more beareable though, eh Russ? All that female adoration? A large bank account?

He’d recently spent some time in the Louisiana State Penitentiary – where apparently 98% of the prisoners don’t get out alive. He lived there for two weeks hanging out with assorted muderers and who knows what else. Lots of funny anecdotes ensued. Russell is a great raconteur. The pace – as would be expected – was different from the roller coaster gag-a-second romps of his stand up shows. This was no less funny though and left more room for thought.

It was still not really explained how most of the material was supposed to fit in with happiness. But Russell never was one for structure – his style is that of the jazz musician, riffing, going off on mad tangents. He talked about Donald Trump who he interviewed for the show. Trump – no news flash here – was very one dimensional. A man who is good at only one thing – making money. Devoid of spirituality and depth. Again hardly stop the press revelations.  

Russell is very eloquent. He possesses a great vocabulary, even if he is a bit over keen to impress us with his verbosity and sesquipedalianism (use of long words). His mind races, as would be expected of a former crack head – madly whirring around, hopping from one subject to another. But thankfully just about coherent. His personal philosophy is also all mixed up – talk of revolutions, sexual freedom, high theatrics, cockney music hall, Hare Krishna etc etc all melded into one just about balanced pot.

The show ended quite abruptly – although he ‘performed’ for around an hour and a half. Even though he hadn’t shone much philosophical light on happiness, I’d laughed a lot which made me a feel good – even happy…

Does anyone else feel sorry for Gordon Brown? Look up beleaguered in the dictionary and there is a photo of Gordon. Weirdly, I just Googled ‘beleaguered’ to see if I had spelt it right and Gordon Brown came up in a news story as third result. I kid you not…

I can’t help feeling that Brown is a victim of circumstance of Shakespearian proportions. The poor man spent the best part of a decade waiting patiently in the wings as the swarmy, media savvy Blair stole all the glory. Let’s face it Blair had some qualities – he was a great orator, he looked good, masterful at sound bite delivery, the head of a happy family. Okay, he lead us into futile wars based on lies but…

Poor Gordon pops up unelected and the whole world economic order collapses. Initially, right after the crisis Brown was seen as very decisive in being the first to bail out the banks. Other countries followed. Brown’s popularity rose. That was over a year ago. They say a week in politics is a lifetime. A year is an eternity.

Now Gordon looks quite a sad character. He looks unhealthy. Dustbin liner sized bags under his eyes. A pale, flaky pallor. Worries lines etched in all directions like a map of failure. His nervous twitch of pushing his bottom lip with his toungue is even more accenuated of late.  Snubbed by Obama. Not having the confidence of his own party. Rejected by The Sun (wot might win it). He looks like he needs a good hug.

That’s the thing. I like Gordon. I can tell he’s a man of integrity. His dour, non-celebrity friendly manner strikes an honest chord with me. I trust the man. It’s just clear that these values don’t do it in the cut and thrust, short memory span world of politics.

DSC_0371, originally uploaded by MartinWorster.

Fall leaves on a road to nowhere in Virginia, somwhere near Washington DC, US of Eh?

There I was perusing The Guardian on a Tuesday morning to read that Radiohead’s Thom Yorke was forming a new supergroup with Flea from the Red Hot Chilli Peppers. It wasn’t April Fools day. I followed through to Thom’s blog to find out that tickets were going on sale at 10am later in the day and they were playing in Los Angles the following Sunday. Bingo. Short of Led Zeppelin and David Bowie playing in my living room, this was gig of the decade. In debt to the powers of the internet, a mere few hours later I was lucky enough to get tickets. The future looked bright.

Outside the art nouveau master piece that is the Orpheum Theatre in downtown LA the neon sign announced ‘Sell Out: ???????????’. The band was unnamed. Thom Yorke arrived on stage to an appreciative roar. Helped by Flea on bass, this was a noughties supergroup with Nigel Godrich on guitar and lending backing vocals, Mauro Refosco on percussion and REMs drummer Joey Waronker providing the beats. They were to play Yorke’s solo album Eraser.

Eraser is a deep electronic album, oweing much to Warp and Aphex Twin with it’s squelchy notes and bubbling basslines. Tonight with such a talented group of musicians it took on exciting and organic new forms. Clock became a funky percussive Afro work out underpinned by Flea’s winding bass lines. Atoms For Peace a sparse melodic anthem all the more haunting with live instrumentation. The tone and contrast between the more intense work outs and the gentler ballads was pitch perfect. They also covered Radiohead’s Paperbag Writer. Thom played some of his new material on his own – Lotus Flower, Open The Floodgates and Super Collider – comfortably basked in the spotlight, his unique voice more of an instrument than the piano he tinkled.

In contrast to his persona with Radiohead, Thom looked really happy, beaming as he danced around propelled by the intricately layered percussion. At times he looked like a Hindu temptress as he wriggled with his hands over his head as if in prayer. Flea bobbed around alongside Thom like a Manc raver, wobbling his head and shuffling his Converse, both clearly having the time of their lives. On a few tracks Flea even got all Seinfield with the slap bass.

“I just want to thank the band. We’ve only been rehearsing for three weeks. And we’ve worked our tits off,’ Thom said. As a testament to their talent, it looked like they’d been playing together for three years. It felt like we were privy to a unique one off, which made the atmosphere all the more special. I’m not sure if they have plans for future gigs. It must be difficult for members of two of the biggest bands in the world to jaunt off on such a new venture. I hope they manage to get in the studio and record this – it deserves to be bottled for eternity.

DSCN0320, originally uploaded by MartinWorster.

Radiohead’s Thom Yorke plays with Flea, Nigel Godrich and Mauro Refosco play tracks from the Eraser album at the Orpheum in Los Angeles.

No flash allowed or big cameras so afraid the picture quality’s a bit flaky..!

DSCN0349, originally uploaded by MartinWorster.

Radiohead’s Thom Yorke plays with Flea, Nigel Godrich and Mauro Refosco play tracks from the Eraser album at the Orpheum in Los Angeles.

No flash allowed or big cameras so afraid the picture quality’s a bit flaky..!