They think it’s all over...

I don't think I can remember an election being so exhausting. Social networking has a lot to answer for but it afforded the opportunity to see the unvarnished side of politics. It was occasionally vicious but always real; that's not to say it was true. I'm still amazed at the idiocy of many on the left who continued to plough the 'Michael Moore' approach – a charitable comparison – in slandering the Tories at every opportunity. There were some on the right too and I have to remind myself that Twitter is as much a tool for expression as it is discussion, though surely some must realise how counter-productive such malicious nonsense is? Tomorrow if the result has gone the right way I'll have to read more of it, and if it doesn't it'll be the same; funny how so many preach tolerance without any understanding.

Turn up the volume and drown them all out. My music of the moment is an album by The National - Boxer. This is an album that brings it all back and I'd not even heard of them until last week – it turns out Twitter can be a positive force too.

It was a wild rumpus

It was a film I admired and could easily become a film I love. Where the Wild Things Are was made by people who remembered what it’s like to be a child; everything from Max’s relationship at home to his adventure with the wild things spoke of the truth. The wanton destruction, the picking of sides and the unexpectedly violent mud-clot fight; it was wonderful.

My favourite book last year was The Road, by Cormac McCarthy. I have admittedly not read much, something I hope to rectify this year, though I seem to remember saying something similar in the past. I have two borrowed so there’s somewhere to start. However as a warning familiar to many, never express an interest in anything specific. For Christmas I received three books on the Roman Empire, one on the Persian Empire and one on Ancient Civilisations. I can’t recollect the last time someone gave me non-fiction on a period subsequent to 1066AD.

For my favourite album there was slightly more to choose from. I’m not the music buyer I once was, there are no longer stacks of CDs purchased on a weekly basis, but now that DRM on online purchases is a thing of the past MP3 downloads are becoming the norm. I’ve downloaded on many occasions this year… yes, it’s a miracle. A lot of good albums but standing out was Tale to Tell by The Mummers.

It is the most uplifting magical music of an age and such a shock to read that the composer behind the group, Mark Horwood, had committed suicide.

Pop star uses bad language, crowd has orgasm

Lest I sound like some Daily Mail anti beardy-weirdy tree-hugging lentil-loving pinko-hippy type, I ought to say up front how much I enjoyed Glastonbury this weekend. I didn’t go of course. The idea of me trying to survive in a tent overnight, let alone three, is ridiculous. Instead I relaxed on the sofa, navigated my way through the various BBC interactive channels and caught up on their website.

I wasn’t taken with Bruce Springsteen, I fell out of love with him a long time ago, and Blur were a little rusty, seemingly desperate to get to the end of some songs with some band members quicker than others. Franz Ferdinand suggested the crowd had carnal knowledge of their own mothers and, judging from the resultant roar of the crowd, they may have been right. I liked their set but, even with the more electronic sound, I’m beginning to find them a little predictable.

There was a whole load of stuff I hardly dare admit I hadn’t heard before. White Lies overcame the cheap suits, lyrics such as “and all we heard was lies about the truth” and my short-lived mean-spiritedness; enough to persuade me to buy their album. Pendulum were loud enough to damage my hearing with the sound muted and were huge fun to watch. There were Doves, who I’d heard of but until now never listened to… and I finally discovered why Lady GaGa is “whack”.

However my favourite thirty-or-so minutes came from The Specials who managed to induce a big cheesy grin throughout their show. Terry Hall has understandably filled out a little and appeared to amble around the stage, leaning forward earnestly every so often; then I remembered he’d always moved that way. My favourite song, “Friday night Saturday Morning” didn’t really work, but that’s a minor quibble.

There was a lot of great music. Even acts such as Status Quo take on a new light when your seven year old daughter starts jumping up and down… though I may attempt to steer her in other directions next year. If I could stay in a hotel I’d take her…

Guitar hero

Last week the future musical credibility of Little Miss R was placed in serious doubt thanks to her discovery of a Cliff Richard tape, dating back to the time when people knew what was meant by the word "tape". I'm rational enough to realise this isn't the fault of Sir Cliff, besides which it's quite obvious that the blame lies elsewhere and I told her as much, whilst ducking the stress balls she threw in my direction. I can assure you, as I assured her, there are no such embarrassing revelations from my past...

However it was just one tape from a box full of possible indiscretions or relief. Mercifully it wasn't long before the tunes of Summer Holiday and Wired for Sound (there were more and I'm a little worried I can remember so many) were soon drowned out with the more wholesome sounds of Oasis. It's such a relief when your seven-year old discards "Mistletoe and Wine" for "Cigarettes and Alcohol"…

Inspired, and as if to confirm her new found street cred (should that be with a hyphen or without?), she's taken up the guitar. Move aside Noel, your days are numbered…

The artist as hero

Why do people find it so difficult to separate art from the artist? Shouldn't it be possible to admire the art in isolation to it's creator? I understand the desire to know more but this aspiration often seems to result in a need to wrap the subject into one perfect package. Are we afraid that in acknowledging the artists faults as human beings this will reflect on the art itself?

I was going to write "creating great art is not heroic" but I can see that in some ways it might be regarded as such. Some art is only achieved after overcoming many obstacles and I concede that this process can be regarded as heroic. Yet I can more easily think of any number of musicians in the recent past who, whilst their music may have been beautiful, were textbook narcissistic examples. Are such people really to be regarded as heroes?