Ian Brown - Dublin, 24th November 2009

Sipping on the crispest cider we’ve ever had, Connected joined an almost empty venue in the Olympia just as the warm up act took to the stage.

Support came from the sharply dressed Dublin outfit The Chakras, who showcased some raspy indie lifted from their forthcoming album. It was received well enough to pull the masses out of the bar and in front of the stage. Result. Throughout the set, the theatrical front man gained confidence as the band finished up with their album title track ‘Build me a Swan’.

After a quick stage shuffle, the lights dimmed and the crowd started chanting in anticipation. Iannoooo! Ianonooo! Iannooo! Iannooo! After a short while, swaggering on stage in shades came the aforementioned Iannooo who promptly launched into ‘Love Like a Fountain’. Mayhem.

Sparring and shaking his tambourine, using every inch of the stage, Brown charmed the crowd up with favourites ‘All Ablaze’, ‘Longsight M13’ and ‘Keep What You Got’. Although Brown is often criticised for the ‘weakness’ of his vocals, he is undoubtedly a first class performer and his live band are tight and versatile. After easing us in with the favourites, Brown and band then worked through tracks from his sixth solo album. ‘Stellify’, ‘Just Like You’ and ‘Own Brain’ made appearances, accompanied by himself on harmonica.

Audience banter was short and sweet, but he did say (to a predominantly male crowd) that the best thing about Dublin was the ladies. Before quickly adding the men aren’t bad either. Good save.

It was back to the classics as Brown broke into ‘Sister Rose’, although accompanying strings were courtesy of a laptop, which wasn’t ideal. A bongo solo followed by the mysterious and moustachioed man in the turban, before ‘Marathon Man’ and of course, ‘F.E.A.R’ which closed the set.

The pause before the encore fuelled speculation. What could he pull out of the bag? He’d all ready used up ‘F.E.A.R.’ He wouldn’t…. Would he? Sauntering back on stage, the famous bass line and beat that heralded ‘Fools Gold’ saw the place erupt. The pit was heaving. This was how it’s meant to be. Cider, dancing and ‘Fools Gold’. We felt young again.

The crowd celebrated afterwards by collectively singing ‘Ole Ole Ole’ on the way out and invaded Brogans en masse. Happy days.

www.connected.ie

Plain Daft

It’s Ireland’s most popular fetish website. It’s a place to imagine and fantasise. It’s a portal to live vicariously through. No, not that one your filth bag, we’re talkin’ about Daft.ie.

Countless man hours have been sucked into this virtual vortex. It’s more addictive than any social networking site. Forget Facebook, toss Twitter and move over MySpace, scrolling through the endless possibilities on Daft.ie is far more satisfying than stalking any person.

How many people do you know have a new sofa, ample parking space, three TV points and Neff kitchen appliances? Zero? That’s what we thought. And you don’t feel like a creep perving over Daft. Mostly.

The site itself claims that 85 million pages on it are visited each month – seemingly an outlandish statement but even if this statistic isn’t entirely accurate, it does give us some indication of the extent of Daft addiction.

As a largely unspoken taboo, these statistics give weight to the personal stories of the constant refresh, the sweaty palm that holds the phone as ‘the call’ is made. Before the crushing defeat of hearing the words; “I’m sorry but it’s already been leased.” The devastation…

Followed by the anger, the questioning, “Why don’t they take the ad down then?!” The paranoia, “Maybe they just didn’t like the sound of me? The ad is still up...” Acceptance and hope are the next phases, generally accompanied by spotting a new potential home.

There is the sinking feeling that you’re turning into your parents - scoping out similar gaffs in the area, how much they’re going for, what additional features they have and so on. It is inevitable. You can’t fight this, so don’t bother trying.

Even for those with no intention of moving, the site provides a form of escapism and launches so many 'what ifs'. It’s easy to fantasise about living in a cutesy cottage on Long Lane with the soundest of housemates, all beautiful, all successful and preferably all from different countries.

It is the ‘Sharing…’ section that gives the most insight to the human condition and provides the most laughs. Daft has a language of its own but it takes little interpretation to decode it. It’s like personal ads, but with houses.

As a general rule, if your new housemates have to say they’re “nice and friendly”, they’re probably not. If the tenants include this sentence, “we like socialising and there is always a friendly atmosphere in the house”, prepare yourself for all night sessions and finding a puke point in the corner of your room. Two words are guaranteed to elastic band you away from a potential house share. These are: owner occupied. This directly translate as “living with your menopausal mam - again”. Avoid.

On a side note, the only entries worth poring over are the entries with pictures. Who bothers with the ones without photographs and why? Answers to Oh Francis on a SAE please. But that’s assuming you’ll admit to be being a Daft addict.

* Published in Season 1, Issue 4 of Oh Francis
www.ohfrancis.com

Orbital - Dublin, 14th November 2009

Hopeful faces lined Hatch Street on Saturday night, anxious to get in to the second night of Orbital’s first indoor Irish gigs since 2001. The news of last minute tickets released this week and stellar reports from the previous night saw an impressive turnout, the resulting outcome saw many of these hopeful faces turn disappointed as Tripod soon reached full capacity.

Connected arrived just after ten bells, quickly dumped our coats in the corner and ducked and dived our way through the mob to the front row. Seemingly half the crowd were stuck in the cloakroom queue, but a heaving horde were still able to welcome the world's most famous head lights on stage as the Hartnoll brothers launched into ‘Impact’.

Phil ‘n’ Paul energetically pumped the crowd and seemed to be enjoying it as much as the fans. Known for their high production aesthetics at gigs, the lads were elevated on a mini stage on the main stage with flowing visuals forming a frame behind.

Team Connected were dubious of the 10pm matinee time slot for the two hour set, but the crowd were already lubed up nicely after the days sport and were brought through Belfast, Chime, Satan, Halcyon and On and On, Bigpipe Style, Lush and One Perfect Sunrise.

The cheeky sampling of pop anthem ‘Heaven is a Place on Earth’ by Belinda Carisle, although established in their sets, met a mixed reception as the tone of the set became lighter. For some it was jarring, but other die hards raved on regardless.

Bodies of all ages pogoed and pointed non-stop until the music reluctantly died and the lights went up. Although my companion voiced irritation at DJs who do encores [“Why not just play through?, she asked], no one was complaining when the head lights returned to the stage for the Alison Goldfrapp stamped, ‘The Box’.

When the final house lights came up with shirts sticking to backs and smiles all around, euphoric fans made their way to the merchandise stand like zombies, anxious to capture the memory in something concrete.

Online this month

Cardigan-clad Grizzly Bears invade our annual staff picnic, kicking off the month at www.connected.ie with aplomb. Although by neatly squashing our Victoria sponges and knocking over our French lemonade in the process. Dagnamit!

The fearless and moustachioed Dan Ryan valiantly braves the wilderness of Vicar Street to bring you tales of stupefying adventure from the front line of the Brooklyn band’s latest gig. Follow Dr. Ryan’s chronicles in our lovely online review section.

Elsewhere on the review front, Connected stall down to the intimate Orbital gigs in Tripod - epicness guaranteed. Or your money back. Probably. And Gary Numan flies in to educate us in electric pleasure on his Pleasure Principle tour and reports from John Vanderslice, Yngve and Gatsby gigs and more, will be sent down the wire and hastily pasted to connected.ie for your viewing pleasure.

Teenagers in Tokyo, no not porn, but a quick Google search will lead you to that if that’s what you’re after. No not us, thank you very much. Our Teenagers in Tokyo are gothic grungers from Sydney who play the Academy thi month. We’ll be chatting with them before their gig, not to mention Cave Singers and Woods from the Shred Yr Face tours, now in its third year. We know, we know, they grow up so fast.

Get ready for your close up as Connected photographer at large, Sara Devine continues to get snap happy around the pubs and clubs of Dublin town giving us some beautiful shots to adorn our sexy online gallery. You might be there. You might not. Better check just in case. You don’t want the panic of someone innocuous work mate who casually drops “Oh I saw that picture of you on the internet” into convo without batting an eyelid. Leaving your panic stricken face to mentally scan all potentially incriminating scenarios you’ve been in that may or may not have been photographed. Hell you don’t know. How are you meant to remember? Or maybe that’s just us.

Some say spoiling a child is a form of child abuse. Consider yourselves spoilt and abused you brats.

Stoke Newington International Airport

Ping pong, pirates and wooing.

These are just three elements that arts collective Stoke Newington International Airport bring to the Fringe this week, with their shows Ping Pong Pub Quiz (PPPQ), The Lost Pirates and Live Art Speed Date.

Oh! Fringe speaks with one of the collective’s five founders, Greg McLaren and also Captain Porkbelly who heads up The Lost Pirates to find out more.

“How is your Ping Pong on a table that has pints of Guinness to avoid, or whilst being poked by a long stick, or while having to sing?” asks McLaren.

This question follows a boast of receiving the very prestigious ‘Table tennis player of the year’ award in school nine years ago.Touché.

And it turns out I’m not alone. “We have noticed that many people have hidden ping pong skills, but those skills are aggregated by players being asked fiendish questions which they have a limited amount of time to answer - during which they are loosing points for their team”, McLaren explains.

So it’s not as easy as you might think. “We have been practicing like demons and so when you come to play one of us in the Ping Pong final championship-or-death heavyweight match-up, you had better be ready”, he adds.

The consequences and forfeits as a result of loosing are still being defined. McLaren says, “These are still being thought up in our lab. Loosing at Strip-Pong could be pretty bad, or having to endure the horrors of the William Tell Offal Round. But there are some pretty attractive bonuses to be won too.”

Worth taking your chances on so.

The same could be said of Live Art Speed Date, an evening that sees the group creating four minute one-on-one dates for you to experience, incorporating “performance, music and strange spectacle”.

McLaren elaborates on the show, “It's a beast. The concept is simple; each of our contributing artists, performers and comedians create a one on one ‘date`. Some very private, some more public. Some will endeavour to woo you; others want to be wooed by you. Indeed sweet dreams are made of these, while others may be the stuff of nightmares.”

It is grounded in reality then, so we asked how can participants tell if their date is ‘faking it’? He advises, “Look deep into their eyes and tell them you want it for real. Although I don't think any of the daters will fake anything, it has a kind of free-fall feel to it, you just get sucked in to whatever's happening. A well known journalist turned up at Edinburgh's Speed Date and proclaimed it a 'mad house', he stayed all night.”

Stoke Newington International Airport has had its fair share of bad dates too.“Once we tried it on with Heathrow, but she was too big. Gatwick is a stroppy little so-and-so, JFK is ugly, and so hopefully we can hit it off with Dublin, you've got such a lovely runway...”

On that note we move on to The Lost Pirates, claiming to be ‘deadlier than heart disease’, the show is a sort of pre party for ‘International Speak Like a Pirate Day’ which falls on 19^th September this year.We know, we know, it rolls around so quickly each year…

The Lost Pirates mark the holiday with celebrations that are theatrical, unusual and set off by pirate shanties, ska, disco and punk.Captain Porkbelly rejects the idea that they are cashing in on the pirate trend, “We are pirates. We are responsible for the explosion in the popularity of pirates.”

With that cleared up, Captain Porkbelly tells us more about the show.We ask, since you’re seeking ‘hot booty’, should we lock up our daughters?

Captain Porkbelly responds, “Yes! [pause] No. I mean ‘no’. Bring them to the show. Damn is it too late to take back the 'yes`?

Yes it is. “I'd just stand back if I were you. Don't want to damage the locks. Pirates have always held a romantic place in the hearts of wenches and men of a curly persuasion”, he says.

As a concept gig, The Lost Pirates features original compositions, “We wrote every last note of it, almost. When we're not maintaining ramming speed or preparing to board, us Pirates love little more than a good dance and that is all we's demanding from our fans. To which end our show is hand crafted disco gold. We take the finest cuts of Ska, Funk, Sea shanty, and Klezma and boil it in the fine oil of disco.”

Sounds delicious. On that note Captain Porkbelly asks, “Is that it then? Can I go? I’ve got a ham cooking.”

And with that, Captain Porkbelly followed a star towards the morning.

*Published in Issue 10 of Oh! Fringe, September 2009

http://www.ohfrancis.com/Web_Issue_10.pdf

Madame Butterfly

Peering through the butterfly framed window, a sex swing hangs nonchalantly.

Samurai swords hang from meat hooks overhead; the sex swing is all leather and chains.

These props are playfully at odds with their womb-like surroundings.

A warm pinkish hue lights the set, familiar symbols of suburbia and childhood, the white-picket fence and the Wendy house, frame the scene while a girl-on-girl porno flickers in the corner of your eye.

The set is full of aesthetic conflicts and playing with established societal myths is a trait that permeates the piece performed in this space.

This year, the inconspicuous Crane Lane in Temple Bar hosts one the Fringe’s most intriguing acts, as Aideen McDonald debuts her show Madame Butterfly.

The set is a site of contradictions in many ways.

McDonald says, “It is the womb of the show. It glows and pulsates. It’s like a crazy little nursery that sprang out of a Japanese jack-in-the-box. As a whole it has the feel of a magical, heightened, in every sense of the word, playpen.”

Yet at the same time, the set is a highly sexualised environment.

“The set is both a contemporary red light district window in full, if slightly skewed, swing and a take on an imagined, contemporary Geisha’s private salon,” she says.

To the fore, Madame Butterfly, as a prostitute in the window, has two personas (the flyers for the show advertise them separately), the virgin and the whore.

For all intents and purposes they are very similar to the eye, they both wear dildos, or dongs, to the initiated, one only slightly less intimidating than the other.

“The penis is a power symbol. The dongs speak to issues of gender construction and power relations,” McDonald elaborates.

It is in the background, the private salon space that Madame Butterfly invites you, on a one-on-one basis, to engage in a performance that will stimulate your ‘visual, oral and aural’ senses.

Men, if you’re thinking “I’d like to be stimulated visually, orally and aurally”, don’t get too excited: there is a catch — these tickets are for women only.

McDonald, who also works in the applied arts field, defends the move as she considers “working with single identity groups, in this case women, to be a productive means of addressing societal issues with a clear focus.”

‘Women only’ is also a comment on the context of the show.

“The less transparent establishments on this lane, the Boilerhouse sauna and the Emporium lapdancing club have been set up for the sensual enjoyed of men.”

Madame Butterfly only services women, engaging her female clients with a view to provoking self-analysis around issues of identity and intimacy.

“The process offers up a little sensual enjoyment for good measure”, McDonald assures.

She also adds, “I want to engage with women from across a broad section of society who work with or live with, issues directly affecting women. My hope is that the experience will be thought provoking through arousing all the senses.”

The show aims to raise questions. How do we feel about ourselves? What is our role in society? To what extent do we create our identity? What of femaleness? What of maleness?

But McDonald acknowledges, “Just as there are no new themes, there are no new questions. I don’t have the answers, only an active interest in the issues. These are questions I believe it is important for women to be asking themselves and each other.”

Pedestrian voyeurs will encounter and undoubtedly be engaged by the red light district act, the virgin and the whore in the window, “with a twist”.

Admittance is limited so individual “guests” willing to remove their shoes, enter the scene and enjoy Geishaesque acts of hospitality must book a ticket quickly.

Only the brave, the lucky and the fairer of the sexes will get to experience the full Madame Butterfly experience.

* Published in Issue 11 of Oh! Fringe, September 2009

http://www.ohfrancis.com/Web_Issue_11.pdf

What Style Means to Me

Twirling around watching the tiered ruffles rise and fall with the movement, I should’ve known then. This was the beginning of a serious love affair.

It was my First Holy Communion. I was six. And like so many landmark events, it was all about the dress.

I had a knee-length frilly tiered lace one, accessorised with fresh flowers in my hair. Natch.

Fast forward almost twenty years and open the doors of my wardrobe and behold: rails of garish ra-ra mini skirts, dresses and tops held together by delicate lace and the frilliest of frilliest French knickers.

The ties are clear. A tomboy through and through, this dress was the catalyst for a different side of me to emerge. A side expressed through style. Albeit, at this time, only at very special occasions.

Today, every time I wear a dress or skirt, my mother sighs with a defeated sadness, “And you’d never wear them for me…”

On an everyday basis, I was a jeans, t-shirt and trainers girl. A girl who rejected all the pretty dresses she was given, the dresses she now wishes she had in adult sizes.

There was the black velvet one with the round collar and red ribbon tied in a bow. There was the blue floral tulip dress and the ultimate! A ruched navy cord mini with a white blouse tucked in, topped off with a navy beret.

If I could time travel and wear these outfits every day, I would. But failing this, I relive the fabrics, textures and colours in my adult wardrobe.

As a tomboy in childhood and teenage years, jeans and t-shirts won out. Throughout teenage wilderness, like everyone, a personal style began to develop as a means of sharing my identity with the world.

Cue band t-shirts that screamed: “Hey look at me! I like this band. I got it at their gig. Do you like this band? Do you think they’re cool? Do you think I’m cool?”

A teenage diary reveals in the most cringeworthy manner, titled and swirled with glitter, a ‘1999 Style File’, which listed the fashion items of my desire - complete with magazine cuttings.

Objects of desire included: anything by Coca Cola ware, anything Paul Frank or Hello Kitty branded, stripy socks, tartan, band patches and band badges.

Embarrasing? Yes. Mostly. But saying that, my love of tartan lives on. A love lived vicariously through D&G’s autumn/winter 08 family of tartan campaign and perennially in Vivienne Westwood’s collections.

These days my wardrobe has plenty of space to accommodate new things, following ‘The Great Wardrobe Cull of 2009’.

The cull was a sort of cleansing event that happened this summer. After leaving college I decided that it was time to weed out the laddered tights, the tight band t-shirts and baggy skater jeans of my youth.

According to ‘the rules’ espoused by all fashion editors, anything that hadn’t been worn in two years was ruthlessly put in a black bag for the charity shop, ready to be loved again.

Like so many love affairs, it wasn’t that I stopped loving them; just we’d grown apart over the years.

It was a painful experience, but necessary for the long term.

An obsessive mental listing had begun in my head of the key items that it seems are absolutely necessary to function in society.

Firstly, two designer blazers (one navy, one black) were acquired from charity shop rummaging; a good white shirt was enlisted alongside high waisted skirts, plain t-shirts, converse trainers, gladiators, classic green Hunters, a cashmere cardi, a Breton top, Wolford tights, skinny jeans and city shorts.

A pretty safe bunch I admit, but a penchant for the silly and travel helps to inject some personality.

Chavvy dress jewellery, detachable bows that surface everywhere – Hair! Dresses! Collars!, old lady earrings, outrageous nail polish colours and chunky bracelets add a personal touch to the reliable staples.

Items found whilst travelling carry extra value, for their rarity and also for the pomp of saying, “Oh this old thing? I picked it up in Ibiza’s hippie market/Marrakesh/SoHo (delete where applicable) last month.” So very smug.

These little one-offs highlight the simple truth that style is inherently personal.

Clothes are beyond function, they signify something about us to the world. It is how people choose to channel these signs through personal style that sparks my interest.

I love people watching in all social settings, the variety in the way people present themselves through posture, clothes, make-up and hair never ceases to fascinate me.

I live this voyeurism virtually through beautiful style blogs like Garance Doré and Liebe Marlene, escapist magazines, and through the influx of TV shows and films that seem to centre specifically on fashion. Gossip Girl is my ‘clothes porn’ du jour.

Growing up, style was a means of forging a sense of identity, but mid-twenties (and somewhat grown-up) the meaning of style has changed.

As responsibilities gather, style seems to becoming more fun. In your twenties, you have the confidence to take a few risks, with good and bad results - harem pants anyone?

Mostly the meaning of style for me, correlates to memories. The dress I wore to my sister’s wedding, the heels I tripped up on at my graduation, the dresses from my childhood are all snapshots of the past and some just can’t be parted with.

Ok, so I admit I wasn’t completely ruthless… I still sleep in a faded Metallica t-shirt. So sue me.