Where the white boys dance

I've been in a relationship for almost twenty years, and I'm having second thoughts. Can you help? We've been extremely happy, and have stuck with each other through thick and thin. But recently I've started to think my 'other half' is racist and sexist. Should I leave?

However much I might deny it, pointing to the odd Marvin Gaye or Aimee Mann album, the relationship I've been in has been with indie music, and a pretty monogamous relationship at that. I'll be forever grateful to my parents for encouraging me to play their Beatles, Stones and Kinks LPs when I was growing up. This led, fairly predictably, to an initial love for Oasis and subsequently (mercifully) Manic Street Preachers, to whom I will always be wed.

Manics aside, the indie music genre I've spent my life exploring, collecting, obsessing over and trying to get involved with, (via Tokyo Beatbox, a delightfully jangly combo of eloquent gents) has always had its problems. With a few notable exceptions, the way that indie bands address and refer to women is naive at best, downright misogynistic at worse. Just think of the clumsy sentiments of meat-heads like Jet ('are you gonna be my girl') or even New-Wave saviours The Strokes ('you talk way too much'). The relationship the genre has with women is inherently problematic. Granted, recently there have been many more successful female-fronted bands (CSS, The Ting Tings, The Long Blondes), but this is a very recent phenomenon. Think back to Oasis' heyday - Elastica, Sleeper, Garbage, Catatonia and ... and hardly a reflection of the talents of 50% of the population. Especially when you consider that all of those bands had predominantly male songwriters and musicians, and at least 3 of them were just shit.

To put it another way, compare the indie female contingent to that of every other musical genre. Let's assume that pop is the genre that encompasses the most successful elements of every other genre. Pop has developed and promoted female talent for decades - The Beatles toured alongside Lulu, Cilla and Dusty. Soul and R n B has always boasted a talented and successful female stable, which can be traced from Billie Holliday to Diana Ross and through to Beyonce, Rihanna and Estelle. I'd argue that even Country music (not renowned for its open-mindedness) is more willing to celebrate its female talent than those at the top of the indie hegemony.

Because surely that's where the trouble lies - I'm sure very few people in the indie fraternity actively hate women. Rather, it's reluctant to give female artists the same sort of opportunities it offers to men. The genre seems to maintain its queasy, schoolboy view of women (we sort of like them, we want to get off with them, but we don't need to waste time understanding them). And for all the sneering that indie boys might do at 'manufactured pop' moguls such as Simon Cowell, you couldn't question his record for discovering and promoting female talent. Indeed, what would have become of the ridiculously talented Leona Lewis if she'd joined a band and sent a demo tape into Rough Trade? My guess is not very much.

The same argument applies to race. It's an overwhelmingly white genre - black singers like Kele from Bloc Party and Lightspeed Champion seem to be the exception, not the rule. Indeed, it shouldn't be ignored that Kele was recently racially abused by members of (punk/indie deity) John Lydon's entourage. Again, I don't believe that the vast majority of the Indie clique are consciously racist. But they should be embarrassed by the fact that they lack so far behind Simon Cowell et al in this respect.

This has personally come to light for me as I teach at a particularly diverse college - the black/white split is approximately 50/50. As a teacher you constantly strive for reference points - shared cultural experiences that you can use to relate to your students. In this regard, my love affair with Indie has badly let me down. 

So can I trust him any more? Should I stay with him? We've been through so much, but I'm just not comfortable now. Can anyone help?

Travelling Will Buried

How do I put this? I completely agree with the notion that travel broadens the mind. I'm as wooly a liberal as you could hope to meet (or to avoid) so I'm all for the idea of meeting people from different cultures and broadening your horizons. I also have to admit that on the few occasions I have been able to afford to travel abroad (Spain a few times, Paris, Berlin) I have had wonderfully enriching experiences.

So it's not travelling per se I have a problem with.

The specific form of travelling I'm sending to room 101 is the 'gap year' journey. The wide-eyed sixth former, hiking around Europe or 'finding themselves' in South America.

Argh! I know, I know, what a cynical swine. There might even be friends reading this who have done these things - nothing personal - this is my own neurosis.

Possibly it's an oikish class thing. Perhaps the fact that I have never (and possibly will never) be able to afford such a trip is at the heart of my disdain. It's jealousy masquerading as insight. But my response whenever I heard friends talking about how they'd love to spend a year in Australia or 6 months in Peru is: 'So you've done Britain, have you? Seen all the galleries, visited all the museums, soaked-up all the history, walked every avenue and alleyway? The mountains of Scotland, the valleys of Wales, the wit and brutality of the North, the diversity and schizophrenia of London?'

It just feels to me that the implication of strapping on a backpack and heading out to Thailand at the age of 18 is a vague and well-meaning form of collonialism. Like do-gooding missionaries, isn't there an inherent arrogance in claiming that you can 'absorb' another culture, in just a few months, when you've barely got to know your own? As I write, I'm not even sure I agree with this - some people I know who have travelled in this way are thoughtful people and valued friends. But, perhaps on a subconscious level, there is something dubious about the 'gap year' mentality.

Or maybe I'm missing the point. Student travel may just be a more interesting way to drink lots and have as much sex as possible, in which case, hats off to it! But maybe in the current economic climate it would be wise for the adventurous 18 year-old out there to try travelling a bit closer to home - visit the thousands of wonderful and beautiful tourist spots in Britain and stimulate our economy. You never know, this might be where you truly 'find yourself'.

Two Wise Men

I'm currently in talks with my good friend, James McRae, about a series of podcasts we'd like to record. Nothing is confirmed yet, but it's all very exciting. We last hooked-up audibly 5 years ago. Our tactic then was to talk nonsense into a tape recorder - I'd type it up into something that resembled a script, then we went into a studio and recorded. This time, I don't think it'll even be that organised, but it does promise to be a 'journey' in the true X Factor sense of the word.

Listen to our previous effort here. Acted splendidly by James McRae and Simon King, kindly hosted by Crystal Clear.

Identity Crisis

I think it was Nick Hornby who suggested that we are what we own. That our record collection, our DVDs, our books etc. are the most accurate reflectors of our identity. I think this idea does gather some momentum when you consider just how fastidious some people can be about their lists of likes/dislikes on Facebook and Myspace. Whatever the psychological relevance, we're certainly all pretty precious about our 'stuff'.

The downside of liking 'stuff', of course, is that other people also like the same 'stuff', and however hard we try, we can't control who else belongs to our particular cultural club.

Never was it so apparent than this time last year. (Of course, all taste is subjective and this doesn't show me in the best light.) I was working at a bookshop and the conversation went as follows:

ME: Wow, you're buying the Russell Brand book! Good choice!
CUSTOMER: Thanks.
ME: Bought it myself a few weeks ago, couldn't put it down. I always read his column in the Guardian, so I knew it'd be good. You're a fan of Russell?
CUSTOMER: Sort of. I bought the Chris Moyles book last year - he's really funny - thought I'd try this. Do you think it'll be as good?
ME: That's nine ninety-nine. Do you want a bag?

Poor old earth

As i drive to work in the mornings i bask in the life giving glow of the sun as it pops its head over the horizon. "Whoopee, good for you" i hear you lovely people say. The problem is the picture i get to see every morning could have been cut straight from a national geographic article on the state of the planet.
For many parts of my journey on the morning the golden orb of the sun, sitting low on the horizon, has many silhouettes of black smoke belching chimneys cut into it. The sky, which at home (harb) would be that washed out winter grey or pale blue, is smudged brown along the tops of the city blocks. I can't describe just how nasty the colour looks, suffice to say that what i used to cough up in the morning, when i was a smoker, comes close!
This shouldn't come as a shock to me, i know. London is a city, it has industry, it still has smog. The thing is i really didn't think pollution was that bad, that factories were actually allowed to burn things and that cars still kick out loads of crap.

I really shouldn't be so naive, i really need to get a prius.
Charlotte

Awkward No.1

Like Ronseal, awkward social situations do exactly what they say on the tin. 

For men, the most awkward situation is a trip to the urinals. Most non-men (aka women) are aware that there's an awkwardness to this scenario, but they may not be fully-versed in the intricate, stilted nuances of urinal etiquette. Allow me to lift the lid.

That you look straight ahead at all times is a given, unless your motive for entering the urinal is something other than to urinate (and I'm sure there are better sites than this for details on lavatory-based trouser-wrestling). I would say that absolute silence is also part of the RUW (received urinal wisdom), but, in fact, the civilised silence established by strangers is all too often interrupted when two or more men recognise each other. In that situation, these men seemingly have to over-compensate by shouting at each other, inane banter about football or drinking, as if they couldn't possibly wait one minute to resume their mindless verbal joshings. In fact, there is such an insistence on the part of such men, that they're only interested in Capello's selection policy, and definitely not the 'midfield general' languishing in their friend's hand, that perhaps they could be accused of 'protesting too much'.

That's beside the point. Let's assume that all of the urinal users are strangers, and there are five facilities to choose from. I'm pretty sure I can chart the order in which these conveniences are used: first man in opts for the urinal furthest from the door, (let's call it U5) second man keeps a respectable distance, but still  avoids being nearest the door (he'll choose U2 - I've always wanted to write about U2 in this context) next man in is a little trapped, and goes for U4, next is U1 and finally, man-in-the-middle is U3. There's something seethingly, unshakably male about such sequencing. I'm led to believe women chat and swap make-up; men abide by the unwritten, draconian laws of manliness.

Apologies if you find this toilet toil a little unedifying. The point is that there are so many situations in life that are unnecessarily complex, and usually defy all logic in the process. Now in London, I spend 2 hours per day on the tube. Often there are awkward, clumsy moments on the tube, whereby although we couldn't physically be much closer to each other, we compensate for this by being so distant, spiritually.

I'm often aggravated by the fact that passengers who sit next to me instantly steal my elbow room, in spite of the fact I'm clearly reading and, hey, I was there first. 

Conversely, we're so scared of showing any sort of kindness or affection in situations like these, that we overlook opportunities to reach out to each other. For instance, on the tube last week I noticed a lady reading Barack Obama's book 'The Audacity of Hope'. Believe it or not, I've been wanting to buy this book since the spring - working in a bookshop it was difficult to ignore, and I found Obama so inspirational, I wanted to read everything by and about him. Yet, for some silly, superstitious reason, I held-back from buying the book, thinking that I might jinx him - that if I bought his book there could be no way he'd win the election. 

As he was duly elected, I was free to make the purchase, and noticing the lady reading it on the tube reminded me. There was so much I could've said to her; I was so enthusiastic about his victory, I was still basking in reflected glory - I genuinely wanted to know what the book was like, what it was actually about and whether or not he'd employed a ghost writer. It was 6.30am, dark and cold, yet I could have reached out and got both of our day's off to an interesting start. But, alas, i didn't. Because having a conversation with someone on a train is a social faux pas - I feared the reaction I'd get would be something akin to winking at a fellow urinator - it was easier to be miserable and lonely.

And yet the fact is, we're all going to die. Why the hell don't we reach out to each other every chance we get? Ok, maybe not in the urinal, but you know what I mean.

Gareth

Hunger

Our first trip to our local independent cinema 'The Phoenix' in East Finchley, a splendid place, and what a film it was: 'Hunger', a gruelling, agonising, painful depiction of life in the cells for Republican prisoners in 1981, culminating in the hunger strike and death of Bobby Sands. A monumental piece of cinema, which carefully navigated the line between representing the prisoners' plights and fetishising their suffering. Bleak stabs of context (the brutal murder of a prison guard in front of his mother) also reigned-in the inevitable temptation to see the film as a pean to martyrdom. Sands' story was nevertheless inspiring and his conviction conveyed expertly. The acting throughout (and especially in the long scene featuring Sands and the priest) was extraordinary. Steve McQueen has made the leap from art installation to the big screen without losing any of the attention to detail or any of his vision. I've always been fascinated in the events of the years I was alive, yet too young to know what was going-on (the early eighties) and so for me this was especially illuminating. I can't recommend it highly enough.

Gareth