The Tao of 'Alien 3'

One cannot underestimate the power of rapport. It makes everything easier. Which is why I like to kick off my award winning workshops with a "getting to know you" exercise. The reason why this is so inadvertently entertaining as an "icebreaker" is that at this stage of proceedings people aren't quite sure where the boundaries of this new peer group are, so they tend to let slip a little more than intended, which is immense fun for all concerned. My top 3 "revealed and then instantly regretted quirky facts" are as follows:

1. "My left boob is bigger than my right."

2. "I have a physical aversion to Baked Beans. I'm not allergic or anything, they just freak me out."

3. "If I could be any animal, Basil, I'd be a tapeworm."

Riiiiight...

I also like to find out what the audience's favourite films are. You can find out a lot about a person from their taste in cinema. I'm a committed, card carrying contrarian and inveterate film snob, so you've probably guessed that I'd never offer 'Pretty Woman', 'Clueless', 'Die Hard' or 'Dirty Dancing' as my submissions for your consideration. Nope. The two I always cite as my faves are 'Ran' - directed by Akira Kurosawa, a retelling of Shakespeare's 'King Lear', which sets the tale in 16th century feudal Japan. And 'Alien 3' - directed by David Fincher - a study in existentialism which is officially the most hated movie in the 'Alien' franchise (even by the director himself "to this day, no one hates it more than me."). Both of which identify me as an insecure, pretentious tosser: a pretty accurate analysis, I'm sure you'll agree.

But I love the tone of 'Alien 3'. It looks beautiful. It sounds incredible (Elliot Goldenthal's atmospheric score melds seamlessly with the audioscape, it's difficult to tell when the score starts and the sound finishes). It's adult. It's provocative. It's arty. It asks you to have empathy for the wretched and the despicable. It poses questions about sacrifice and redemption. It credits you with a brain and allows you to appreciate the long, slow burn to the climax. Even at the time one could tell this was the work of a prodigious talent.

The recent release of Rashomonesque 'The Social Network' once again emphasises the genius of Mr Fincher. Back then, though, he was best known for music videos for Madonna and Aerosmith and sneaker ads for Nike. So, whenever he insisted on his vision in an attempt at something ambitious he was summarily belittled by the studio; “What are you listening to him for, he’s a shoe salesman!” and "Look, you could have somebody piss against the wall for two hours, call it 'Alien 3' and it would still do $30m worth of business."

I love that in a medium where the prime motivator is the selling of popcorn he attempted to create "a beautiful, delicate china cup," in a field full of beer mugs. It's commendable that in the wake of the mindless whizz bang shoot 'em up of James Cameron's 'Aliens' Fincher pulled such a spectacular left turn from the right hand lane in very heavy traffic for his debut.

There are those who label Mr Fincher an obsessive (there's a scene in the "Making Of" documentary available as a "Speshul Feature" in 'Zodiac: Director's Cut' where he makes Jake Gyllenhaal do 38(!) takes of dropping an exercise book on a car passenger seat. Even Stanley Kubrick would be prompted to suggest he's a touch picky), but I dig that he wants things right. In my personal, psychotic quest for perfection I use 'Alien 3' as my talisman. When everyone else is happy to shrug, and then drawl laconically "Yeah... That'll do," I'd rather aim for the exceptional. It means a hell of a lot of pressure and misery, but hey, life is just a series of heartbreaking disappointments with the promise of death, or so my Father said.

So, anyway, I'm a drummer for this band signed to EMI. The lucrative contract negotiations went on for an age, which means we need to get in the studio and get the album recorded pronto. The label choose the producer whose CV includes Diana Ross, Chic and Suede. We go in, record and then hit the road to build "the brand". Of course, playing the songs every night means that I've come up with a different, funkier pattern for the "big third single". During a week of proposed overdubs at George Martin's acclaimed AIR Studios (google it. You'll need incontinence pads. I've just had a look at some fotos of it online and I still can't believe I recorded there), I beg the MD to let me redo my drum parts (ever seen my pout? I call it "Black Magnum" and it's impossible to resist). He's sceptical. The drums are the first thing to be recorded and then every other instrument is layered on top. "It's not worth the risk, we could potentially lose the whole song," he says. "Besides, no one'll notice, Basil. It sounds fine."

But "fine" isn't good enough for me. What's the point of doing anything if you're not trying to blow people's minds? Finally, after much negotiation and the promise of physically impossible sexual favours, the "higher ups" relented.

Now I'm in a sumptuous drum booth in AIR. I'm staring at a poster of scantily clad models for inspiration (and when I say "scantily clad models" I mean "latex lesbian bondage"), and everyone on the other side of the glass is wondering what in the name of Tony Thompson I'm trying to prove. I put my headphones on, twirl my sticks and nod to the producer that I'm ready. "This is the biggest mistake of your life, take one," he announces in a malicious monotone. As the tape rolls and the lush guitar floats seductively into focus I close my eyes and repeat inwardly "Beautiful. Delicate. China. Cup."

I got it in one take. Come on, this is me. You didn't think it'd go any other way, did you? Afterwards, the flabbergasted producer pulled me to one side and said it was an absolute pleasure to watch me drum. "Yeah, I know. But how do I compare to Tony Thompson?"

"Oh, you're better than he is. Nile and Bernard would never let him do what you just did."

"I knew it. I just wanted to hear you say it."

I listen to that track occasionally for inspiration when I've spent a day having to deal with persons whose favourite movie is clearly something directed by James Cameron. Or whilst waiting for a "Thank you" for hosting an awards event (6 weeks and counting...). I've never been a fan of Mr Cameron's films. 'Aliens' was an abomination, a tawdry, brainless action movie for a world populated exclusively by Beavis and Butthead: a very bad joke after Ridley Scott's brilliant thriller. He may as well have had Bruce in a vest or Arnie mangling corny one-liners in a heavy Austrian accent. Dreadful. The filmic equivalent of 'Pride and Prejudice 2: Mr Darcy's Kicking Ass!'

Because Mr Cameron is unable to craft a narrative or develop characters his subsequent movies (apart from 'True Lies' which was so chock-full of negative stereotypes that it made the '50 most racist films of all time' list) are all love letters to technology and special effects. I've nodded off during 'The Abyss', 'Terminator 2', 'Titanic' and 'Avatar'. The last of these is barely a film: it's just a series of setpieces glued together with outrageous CGI. When Michelle Rodriguez slammed her Scorpion Gunship into the side of a mountain I stifled a yawn and then realised I was supposed to care about her character.

What I like about 'Avatar' a lot, though, is its subtext. It's right up there with 'Starship Troopers' in depicting America as a rogue state. Its succinct summarising of the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq and the relentless expansion of America's Empire is a joy:

“This is how it's done. When people are sitting on shit that you want, you make 'em your enemy. Then you're justified in taking it.”

Bearing in mind he made the movie for Fox, the official cheerleader for America's murderous foreign policy, this is simply astonishing. A beautiful, delicate china cup.

Brother B in the Twilight Zone

JERRY: You know, this is like that 'Twilight Zone' where the guy wakes up and he's the same, but everyone else is different!

KRAMER: Which one?

JERRY: They were all like that!

It's the morning after the cuts before and I'm a baffled bystander, or bysitter, as a table full of people discuss the various intrigues of the 'X Factor.' I don't watch it. I have no opinion. Elsewhere in Europe there have been days of action, strikes and demonstrations. Here the front pages are filled with Wayne Rooney's contract negotiations. I awoke on Thursday morning expecting a universal expression of umbrage and ire and was instead presented with 'X Factor' speculation. I'm just waiting patiently to ask:

"So, what do you think of the Spending Review?"

When, eventually, the question is posed (there's loooooaaadsss to talk about with 'X Factor') it is met with a look redolent of Gamu being threatened with deportation. Until I reference the Institute For Fiscal Studies summary that the Spending Review is essentially, and at its very core, regressive - penalising and punishing the poorest. This provokes a vigorous colloquy amongst the assembled parties as they agree fundamentally with this notion and are of the opinion that the scrounging poor should be hit even harder.

3:00am the following morning and I still can't sleep, so I hit youtube, put my head on my unquestionably adequate hotel pillow, close my eyes and listen to Gideon Osbourne's Spending Review speech in the House Of Commons. Later I wondered, on my facebook status, how we let this happen. A friend responded:

Labour did it. Like they buggered up the country in 1978. They can't govern, then its up to the Tories to sort it all out, furthering their unpopularity in the process. Can't we just print more money Mugabe-style?

Genius! Although I don't quite agree.

The ConDem Coalition has successfully created a great myth that this present mess is Labour’s fault. It goes something like this: New Labour ran up huge public debts by wasteful spending on unnecessary public bureaucracies. The task now is to rebalance the economy by shifting resources out of the public sector and into the private.

However, a dispassionate independent observer would see this is as a ridiculous half-truth at best, if not a downright lie. Public spending, as a proportion of national wealth, was not excessive under New Labour. It was running at the forty year average in 2008 as Our Tone and the Capital G stuck religiously to the Tory spending blueprint. Nor was the cumulative debt – at about 40% of GDP – high. Many other "developed" industrial nations countries had far, far higher percentage levels of debt. Indeed, the Tories until recently insisted that they would not shift from the financial path set out by New Labour.

What caused the crisis in Britain to explode so abominably? The answer is the greatly skewed nature of the British economy and its largely amoral, derugulated-by-Thatcher Financial Sector. As the international financial system headed for meltdown, the tsunami of disaster swept through the British economy, leaving the rubble and the stagnant pools we presently survey.

The Coalition further embellish their myth that it’s all New Labour’s fault, by asserting the need to "roll back the public sector," and to make bigger and deeper cuts: the worshipping of The Big Market as we dismantle The Big State. The belief that the Coalition government is merely trying to sort out the country’s public finances has been unmasked for the sham it is. This is 19th century government, wanting a small state with little or no compassion for the ‘deserving poor’ and as little socialised provision as possible. It is setting out to achieve what Margaret Thatcher attempted: reversing much of the great liberal-social democratic reforms of the 20th century. There is no such thing as 'Society', it's every man for himself.

Spending on public services is set to reduce by 25% in real terms by 2014-15. That is the equivalent of around a fifth of all public sector staff or well over a million jobs. But the real impact is not going to be on public jobs, as vital as they are, it's going to be on the services that people get. The poorer you are, the more dependent you are on public services and provision.

I'm guessing you don't do this too often, but if you listened to Radio 4 this week you would have heard a rising chorus from those whose benefits will be cut. For example, the tearful mother of a disabled man who lives in a home rang in. At present he has an adjusted car so that she can drive him about. Under these new measures he will lose this vehicle. The more money you have, the more options you have to provide for yourself if you need to and public services fail to deliver. The effect on many vulnerable people will be devastating. But hey, they deserve it.

Another plank of the New Fiscal Orthodoxy is as follows:

“Public borrowing is only taxation deferred, and it would be irresponsible to accumulate substantial debts that would have to be paid off by subsequent generations in decades to come.”

In 2006 Great Britain finally finished paying off the debts accumulated through ‘Lend-Lease’ that allowed us to buy weapons and armaments from the USA during World War II. Only a buffoon or a cretin would say "I think we should have surrendered to Hitler because we shouldn’t be accumulating substantial debts to pass on to subsequent generations."

An extreme example, but one which works on the mind more forcibly than a precept and merely ponders whether the long-term benefits are worth the long-term borrowing. Our children and grandchildren who have carried on paying off the debt also benefitted from the original spending, unless you would have preferred living under the Third Reich.

This principle can easily be extended to some other obvious areas of public spending – schools, hospitals, roads, bridges and other infrastructure built today might be expected to last for decades and our children and grandchildren will benefit from them, so what’s so bad about asking them to contribute something to the costs of these benefits?

Mrs Thatcher may well be ill and languishing in hospital, but her wickedly divisive world view is in rude health. The current British fiscal problem was created not by profligate spending by the Big State but by an economic crisis caused by the Big Market. The more deleterious effects of this Big Market were then ameliorated by the very State which we're told now needs rolling back.

Do-do-do-do Do-do-do-do

Sorry, that was me singing the 'Twilight Zone' theme to wrap this piece with a pretty pink bow.

7 Days Ago I Was A Rock Star

“Since music is the only language with the contradictory attributes of being at once intelligible and untranslatable, the musical creator is a being comparable to the gods, and music itself the supreme mystery of the science of man.”

Claude Levi-Strauss

7 days ago I was a Rock Star.

I was chilling in a dressing room as my alter ego fearless superhero 'Brozilla' waiting for the call to hit the stage of a packed Oakengates Theatre, Telford; a prestigious venue which, in the coming weeks, will play host to An Evening With Alistair Campbell, Joe Pasquale's Extra Sensory Pasquale and acclaimed Psychic/Medium Joe Power 'The Man Who Sees Dead People'. Illustrious company.

Tonight I'm in the communal lounge area of the North Stafford Hotel writing this in the midst of a distinctly elderly clientele, none of whom appear to have been born after 1937. They eye this interloper suspiciously, stiletto sharp glances jabbed in my direction: a faint whiff of incontinence pads as they whoop with mirth at "You've been framed!" An ocean of fawn cardigans and polyester slacks stretching towards the flock wallpapered horizon.

The online blurb describes the hotel rooms here as possessing "a classic style," which is certainly true in the sense that Fawlty Towers is unquestionably a classic and the decor, fittings and fittings here are resolutely 1970s. My bathroom is essentially a verruca repository and as a result I've taken to showering in my socks. Tonight's sub-par evening meal concluded I sashayed stylishly back to my room. As I passed room 239 I heard a dog howling plaintively. I'm no dog lover. They are pointless, yapping, smelly bastards. And here's a truth for you: if you own a dog, you smell of 'dog' too. We're just too polite to say anything.

Anyway, the sound was so horrifying it literally rooted me to the spot. Sweet Jesus! Was someone actually beating it? Was it dying? Did that yelp just then sound human. I moved tentatively towards the sound, raised a tremulous hand to knock, and then figured 'Nah...' Whatever lay on the other side of the door would be fine without my intervention. And what in the name of Julian Croot was a dog doing in the hotel? I grabbed my Macbook Pro (tm) and came down to the lounge to make use of a wi-fi connection so limited it doesn't even extend to the bedrooms.

7 days ago I was a Rock Star exhorting a smiling crowd to scream "Fuck You, Brother B!" at me.

I don't think I've ever mentioned my band in this blog. I guess I find it hard to talk about. How do you express yourself to other people on the subject of your nose, for instance? It's just a part of you, isn't it? That's what music's like with me. And, erm, all of us, actually.

Every culture on the planet is bathed in music. Both its universality and its antiquity suggest that perhaps it is something our species cannot do without. Did you know that music activates the same parts of the brain and causes the same neurochemical cocktail as other pleasurable activities like eating chocolate or, ahem, orgasms? Music can also be used as an antidepressant - hard to believe if you've heard McFly, but people in Western society use music to regulate their moods, whether it's playing something upbeat in the morning or something soothing at the end of a hard day, or something that will motivate them whilst taking part in vigorous cardiovascular exercise.

Right now, I've got "The Fragile" by Nine Inch Nails on auto repeat so that I can lose myself in its throbbing sensuous melancholy and let my creative subconscious come out to play as I write.

It's interesting to look at music from an evolutionary perspective. Dr Steven Pinker of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology suggests that music is essentially purposeless - mere ‘auditory cheesecake’ - and that it is piggy backed on the other resources we have to deal with sound to make sense of what we hear and the world around us. Were we to remove music from our culture, he says, everything else would carry on in the same way. Totally unchanged.

Charles Darwin, on the other hand, opined that music was selected by evolution because it signals certain kinds of intellectual, physical and sexual fitness to a potential mate. And recently completed research shows that if women could choose who they'd like to be impregnated by, they'd choose a rock star. There's something about the rock star's genes which signals creativity, flexibility of thinking, flexibility of mind and body, an ability to express and process emotions: whilst musical talent signals sexual potency - Justin Bieber, for example.

Modern neuro science posits that our brains are fundamentally geared to make and appreciate music as it is a gymnasium for the mind. The whole of the brain is engaged and represents a collaboration between the logical side of our cognition (to pick out patterns and make sense of any words) and our emotional processing centres. Music also manages to home in on our motor centres – making us feel an impulse to move. We may hear the same piece of music again and again and it still has the same effect. In fact sometimes our response, whether emotional or physical, can be amplified.

Music is so powerful it's used to rehabilitate stroke victims AND as an instrument of torture. James Hetfield said he felt proud to have the military use Metallica's music. On a visit to Guantánamo Bay Lieutenant Colonel Stuart Couch described his intense dismay when he witnessed a detainee shackled to the floor of a cell with heavy metal music blaring. The detainee was

“rocking back and forth, mumbling as strobe lights flashed.”

Colonel Couch said that

“the treatment resembled the abuse he had been trained to resist if captured; he never expected Americans would be the ones employing it.”

7 days ago I was a Rock Star and I held an auditorium full of people in the palm of my hand.

Good night, North Stafford Hotel lounge! I'd go upstairs and trash my room, but someone beat me to it.

35 years ago.

Oh, the dog? The owners had gone down to dinner and left it on its own in the room. I passed them later on this evening taking it for a walk down the corridor...