Haim

We all do it, I'm sure. Daydream believe about what we would be in another lifetime, in a parallel universe far far away, to distract ourselves from the present. Me? A writer, hopefully. A chef? Unlikely. A rock chick? Oh yes, and if I could be in any band right now it would have to be Haim. 

 

Haim (rhyming with 'time') are composed of three musically gifted sisters from California, Este, Danielle and Alana, and their drummer Dash Hutton. I first heard their music earlier this year when a few UK fashion magazines featured them and I listened to the infectious Falling on repeat. My friend Sharmayne was clever enough to catch them at Glastonbury on the Pyramid stage while I had to make do with listening to them on Radio 1 stuck on the A12, vicariously living it through her ears and our Facebook conversation. 

Haim's music is accomplished, with beautiful harmonies, '80s synths and blues guitars and has been described as 'music that sounds like it was written on a lakeside retreat attended by Stevie Nicks, John Waite and En Vogue' by The Guardian's Sam Wolfson. They released their debut EP, Forever, in 2012 to critical acclaim. They  have been a striking presence on the music scene for a while now; they were spotted at SXSW in 2012 and topped the BBC's Sound of 2013 list, but their anticipated debut album, Days Are Gone, was only released on Monday.

Oh, how I envy their endless flowing locks, their nod to Alannis Morrisette with a very on-trend 90s grunge feel and their hot Californian lifestyle. Haim look like they've had a scuffle with Urban Outfitters, Topshop and Acne and come out on top, unscathed with glossy hair and Ray-Bans intact. They're hipsters with the requisite attitude but have a self-deprecating, down- to-earth vibe that only adds to their appeal.

Haim have been voted the best new festival act of 2013 by NME. Check them out now before festival season rolls around again...

Days are Gone is out now on Polydor

http://www.nme.com/reviews/haim/14835

 http://haimtheband.com/news/

http://soundcloud.com/haimtime

 

 

Questions I would ask Carrie Bradshaw. If she was real.

The other weekend Mr Material Whirl was away with the lads so I self-indulged heavily in my favourite guilty pleasure - Sex and the City, specifically The Essential Collection. The ground-breaking show is fifteen years old this year and, in my humble opinion, just gets better with age. It is smart, hilarious, and still culturally relevant and I gorge on it greedily when time permits (and Alex is not present to protest or mock). You can keep Girls, Gossip Girl and the like. Impostors, give up and go home; silence your wannabe prose. Nothing can beat being broken up with on a Post-it (and getting arrested).

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDxmooLg1IM&w=420&h=315]

At 2am on Saturday morning, still lounging on the sofa and unable to unfold my tired limbs from its comfy cushioned surface and leave the girls for the night, I realised that my addiction for the glamorous Manhattanites and their adventures in life, clever discourse and the men that play a subordinate role to their friendship hadn't waned, it was still very active; providing comfort, stimulation and the motivation to live and love life to the full. All while wearing a terrific dress.

It also got me thinking about how impactful the fictional 30-something Carrie Bradshaw had been on my last few formative years through both singledom and married loveliness. Carrie's an independent, cocktail-drinking, fashion-loving writer. I can claim, if you will kindly let me indulge, to have the first two in common but can only aspire to be the latter. Of course, we would all like to think we have our SATC-girl equal. I am well aware that my equivalent of Carrie typing on her (not backed-up) Mac with a cocktail wearing something fabulous is, pitifully, me in an old Topshop cardy retrieved from the murky depths of the dirty washing bin, drinking a mug of builder's tea, with the 257 to Leytonstone trundling past in the piddling rain. Manhattan it ain't, Carrie I'm certainly not.

However, if Carrie was real and our lives ever inexplicably collided (impossible, I know given SHE DOES NOT ACTUALLY EXIST) there are many questions I would like to pose to her. Over a cosmopolitan or three, natch.

Such as:

• How do you actually walk anywhere in those incredible shoes without crying or limping into Boots for emergency Compeed Blister Relief Plasters? I have been wearing ill-fitting, vertiginous heels since circa 1997 when the only way to gain entry to the Blue Orchid nightclub in Croydon and prevent the bouncers from knowing my real (under) age, was to don high heels, brandish my older sister's Drivers Licence and hope for the best. As a result, my feet have funny contours and have never remoulded back into their original shape since.

• Just how do you get away with wearing b*gger all walking down the street without getting unwanted attention from lechy men? If we flash even a whiff of an ankle in our Sexy Boyfriend Jeans the silly pervs on the High Street give us no end of grief. Twits. I am jealous of the chutzpah you possess to flash a toned arm or leg or wear tiny hot pants when hailing a yellow cab - and not give a hoot.

• How on this great earth do you make it back to your apartment safely after walking home alone at 2am (reference: leaving Big's house after a squabble, leaving the girls in a club to go see Big) in an aforementioned sassy outfit? London is not the most dangerous place in the world by far, but my city-sisters will know this kind of behaviour is neither sensible nor streetwise. Self-imposed rule: if the clock has struck past 10pm, I let the super efficient team at Central Cabs, Walthamstow (plug!) get me safely home. I take no chances, especially if, gasp, ankles are on show. I recall you once got mugged for your Loubs but even then you dashed into a salon and Miranda met a fit copper, so no real drama ensued. Despite this scary incident you were back street walking again the next night. Brave, liberal, fabulous. Or just a bit risky? I'm worried about you. Please take a cab.

• I apologise for my unequivocal fashion blasphemy but, ahem, don't people sometimes laugh when you mix up crazy prints /wear a Heidi outfit to Central Park / wear a belt around your rib cage ? I think you look incredible and aspire to have the creative courage to mix a print and rock a Galliano newspaper print dress like you (twice!). Unfortunately if I wore that on the Victoria Line or to drinks with the girls I would get laughed at in my face. Believe me I have flirted with it - crazy psychedelic cardigan paired with Pat Butcher chandelier earrings. Thank the Lord above for my sisters and friends and their constructive feedback.

• You brunch like, a lot, and are often seen munching on a pretzel or a doorstep wedge of pizza. Yet you have the stomach of a 12-year old and as far as I can recall I have only seen you at one yoga class, which you talked all the way through. What's the deal?

• Do you ever cook in that teeny kitchen? Believe me, I am no Nigella and I love dinner out as much as the next person but I have never seen you even turn a tap on! Is it a superfluous room in your apartment , purely for show? An area for mixing  cocktails with Stanford? Extra shoe storage perhaps? If the latter, excellent space-saving initiative.

• Can I borrow that Sonia Rykiel stripy dress please, you know the one you arrived in Paris in? Oh, and the ruffled rose Louboutins? Cheers.

• Can we hang out?

* Thank you to InStyle.com for this amazing article, full of inspiration.

I Only Want You to Love Me

This afternoon, on a crisp Autumn day in London Town, I paid a visit to the Miles Aldridge photographic exhibition, I Only Want You to Love Me, at the beautiful Somerset House.

This stylish and thought-provoking exhibition provides a retrospective of Aldridge's work and coincides with the publication of his glossy book of the same name published by Rizzoli. Aldridge was born in North London and his father is the graphic designer Alan Aldridge. He studied illustration at Central St Martin's and after a brief stint directing pop videos, he fell into fashion after sending some of the photos of a model girlfriend to British Vogue and they contacted him (as well as her). He started working almost immediately and has shooted for noted fashion designers such as Karl Lagerfeld, Yves Saint Laurent and Paul Smith.

Women and colour are Aldridge's main obsessions and this is arrestingly clear in his work. The photographs are visually beautiful, highly stylised and feature women posed in what on the surface appear to be traditional roles (secretary, housewife etc) but when you look deeper under the surface there is a sense of disturbance. The colours are deeply saturated from sugary candy pinks and beige to shocking magenta and verdant green and the composition is incredible.

All images shown in the exhibition are featured in magazines, the majority in Vogue Italia, and Aldridge's longest and most creative collaboration is with Editor-In-Chief Franco Sozzani who featured his work in a piece named Home Chic for Vogue Italia in October 2011 and Home Works in March 2008. In addition to the beautiful large-scale photographic prints produced throughout his career, visitors can see hand-drawn storyboards, drawings and polaroids that offer an intriguing and intimate insight into Aldridge's creative process.

The exhibition challenges the mind and polarises opinion. On the surface the technicolour images appear rather artificial, and the cinematic influences of David Lynch, Douglas Sirk and Alfred Hitchcock are apparent throughout. The photographs, however, are controversial - in my personal opinion, some of the shots seem to empathise with the models and others objectify and degrade them, leaving you wondering whether Aldridge actually likes women at all. The accompanying narrative to the exhibition suggests some of the models may seem indifferent and show emotional ambivalence, but in fact Aldridge wanted to present them in a state of contemplation and with a sense of hopelessness. Undeniably, some of the exaggerated prints are exploitative - a head pushed down on a bed, unnecessary exposure of the models bodies and them posed surrounded by broken bottles and plates in a suggestively violent scene.

Yet, whatever your opinion there is no mistaking that the prints provide striking, highly stylised fashion images with a powerful impact. Not to be missed.

To me, the great moments in Hollywood are close-ups of a woman's face, thinking, and she's just realised that her whole world is wrong.

Until Sunday, 29 September

Embankment Galleries East, South Wing, Somerset House, Strand, London, WC2R 1LA

http://www.somersethouse.org.uk 

Tickets: http://www.somersethouse.org.uk/book-tickets/8d7b98b9-1438-4cec-9904-65d3dad2246b

 

 

 

Woolfson & Tay and loving independent bookshops

Books Are My Bag is the biggest ever campaign for bookshops – running right up until Christmas 2013 - and encourages all those who love books - like, real books you can actually hold in your hands where the words within are served on delicious paper - to share your book-love by visiting your local bookshop. This is, of course, the best place to connect with books, where you can see them, smell and touch them, and maybe event talk about them with people who care as much as you do. Regular readers of Material Whirl may recall I recently wrote about this subject here. I like books, and I like talking about them.

So I am always pleased to discover a brilliant bookshop that feeds my greedy book-love. Enter Woolfson & Tay, a stylish independent bookshop, café and gift shop a stone’s throw away from Southwark tube on the famous orange lamppost route in Bankside. Tucked discreetly away from the bustling commotion of  the South Bank, this is a great place to grab a coffee and while away an afternoon with only your favourite novel and a latte for company

Now I am a great lover of a secondhand bookshop but, to be absolutely clear, this is no antiquarian hangout. Instead, you will find an elegant and carefully selected range of crisp, new titles from the latest modern fiction to vintage classics – all with that intoxicating newly printed smell. The shelves are lined neatly with an impressive range of books that have been on your must-read list for as long as you can remember. This is a place to stop, slow down, take a breath. You can browse and select in your own time, and I think you will agree there is something rather beautiful about actually holding a book; reading the back page synopsis and absorbing its cover rather than scrolling aimlessly down a screen of images.

You'll find more on the menu at Woolfson & Tay than just sumptuous books. There are author talks and performances, events such as 'The Sunday Record' and tai chi classes and workshops. A homemade Asian lunch is available from Monday to Friday - a sample menu includes Fried Tofu Squares in Sweet Sour Soy Tamarind Sauce, with side of Asian Salad in Wasabe-Miso Sesame Dressing and Nasi Lemak with Malaysian Chicken Curry - as well as an eclectic mix of tea, coffee and cakes. Yum. The gifts and cards are stylish and unique and I guarantee your friends will love you if you purchase something special for them from here.

What gives this indie bookshop even more of an edge is the fact that it is independent. It contains real people and real books and it is right here, right now on your local street. So as well as enjoying the creative space you can feel content knowing you have done a good deed for the day – supporting your local community with every flick of the page and sip of hot, strong coffee.

Woolfson & Tay is situated on the charmingly named Bear Lane. Grab a hot drink and a window seat for ample opportunity to watch Bankside go by – office workers grabbing a lunchtime pint at The White Bear, actors on their way to Jerwood Space, tourists on their way down to the river. This could well be your dream indie bookshop in South London.

Check it out.

http://www.woolfsonandtay.com

http://www.booksaremybag.com

http://www.indieboundbookrecommendations.co.uk

http://www.booksellers.org.uk

I wish, I wish, I wish

'Fashion is part of the daily air and it changes all the time, with all the events. You can even see the approaching of a revolution in clothes. You can see and feel everything in clothes'. 

Diana Vreeland

Here is my fashion wish list for this week. A panoply of delectable pieces that I wish were mine.  Pink to make the fash-pack nod admirably.

HIGH STREET

DESIGNER

INSPIRATION

The wrong side of 30.

This week I turned 35. This video clip kind of sums up how I feel.

Please be warned, it contains a birthday expletive.

[gigya src="http://swf.tubechop.com/tubechop.swf" flashvars="vurl=8dLNlDFQs0A&start=187.73&end=235&cid=1412754" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344" ]

Thanks for all your birthday wishes.

x

Lech off

An interesting thing happened tonight. An attractive woman walked along the Tube passageway in clacking high heels, silk trousers and vest top, stylishly cut hair and a copy of Vogue tucked nonchalantly under her arm. She sailed past a group of men and made her way into the platform almost gloriously unnoticed. They admired her respectively, but quietly.Except they didn't. They looked her up and down with a leery gaze. They tried to get her attention by jeering and blocking her way. They didn't get it (the attention being unwanted of course) and became agitated. She carried on past as confidently as she could, but with an angry defiant blush. I wanted to say something but couldn't be bothered with the backlash myself.

Ladies, welcome to 2013. Where some men (and I really do emphasise some, not the entire species of the male) still believe this kind of nonsense is acceptable. While taking public transport or perhaps simply walking to work (as if Mondays aren't hard enough) they stop and stare steadily until through anger or sheer embarrassment you are forced to react - or vilify you if you dare to ignore them. Even worse still, some think its tolerable to grab you or press themselves up against you.  It is utterly diminishing and it makes me really, really cross.

I scour all the monthly fashion magazines for inspiration on what to wear to pound the streets of London. I would love to be experimental and attempt some of the incredible outfits featured, after all fashion should be fun, but without the fear of (some) men thinking we are all doing it for THEM. Yet, and I am sure my girlfriends will testify, sometimes if we show as much as a flash of ankle on the Tube, that is enough to attract an utter berk. Often my choice of outfit is not based on what I fancy wearing, but dependent on whether I will be out and about on my own or accompanied by friends/husband. This really gets on my wick.

Please do not judge me or assume I am self-adoring, or a bit of a big head. Totally far from it; the opposite in fact. I hope I speak for all women everywhere who may have experienced this kind of twaddle - blokes staring unashamedly at your bits and making you squirm uncomfortably or pull up/pull down what was in fact a perfectly positioned top or skirt. Young boys making rape 'jokes', having your bum pinched or patted (yuck) by total strangers, men with enormous  big bellies honking their horns when you are out running and a sweaty mess (note to paunchy men: it makes us run faster and more determinedly) to name but a few.

Fortunately this is being documented on the Everyday Sexism Project which catalogues instances of sexism and blatant perviness that occur on a daily basis. Laura Bates is aiming to show that it does exist, it is a problem and it most definitely is not OK. Twitter has finally accepted that trolling tweeters (AKA socially inept misogynistic cowards) are well, not very nice at all, and have introduced an in-tweet 'report abuse' button. (Erm, we knew that already, there is still a long way to go). Thanks to the tireless work of the fabulous Stella Creasy MP, who refused to ignore rape threats on Twitter, the abuse of women is firmly back in the media spotlight. In an age where Page 3 and the like is still disgustingly in existence (although a big kick in your nuts Nutz - the Co-Operative Group has threatened to ban you and other 'lads-mags' from sale in its 4,000 stores unless covered by sealed modesty bags ), fortunately we have women like Lucy-Anne Holmes who is working on the No More Page 3 campaign to get rid of this horribly outdated practice (Because Boobs aren't News). Hurrah for the transformative moments that are fighting against some of the most egregious forms of sexism.

But for now the day-to-day casual sexism and on-the-street nonsense continues. For some women, the hot weather brings more than alfresco dining and copious jugs of Pimms. A recent post on Spotted Walthamstow, a facebook page for rants, thanks and questions said 'Dear idiots of E17, I am not wearing shorts for your ogling/leering benefit or because I am a tart. I am wearing shorts BECAUSE IT IS HOT' and the comments from both men and women were mixed but most utterly naffed off at being jeered simply for trying to avoid heat exhaustion and wear our lovely new sandals.Maybe for writing this post, I will be dismissed for being a hysterical female making a big old hoo-ha about nothing. It is harmless! Oh get over yourselves, it is just staring. Its part of the male's inner instinct to admire the female form. We cannot be blamed or restrained. Besides, if you will insist on wearing clothing that displays your forearms and a smidge of elbow then surely that's asking for attention?

I totally disagree. Being leched, jeered or perved at can make the most tenacious of us ladies feel a bit vulnerable. It gets right under your skin and leaves you wanting to scream, shout, or run and hide. It is bloody embarrassing and makes you furious, but it is also a little bit frightening when there's absolutely no one else around and the death-stare dirty look that you have mastered after all those years of silliness from boys just isn't working, and what if they do more than just jeer? We simply shouldn't have to tolerate it.

Ladies, may your choice of clothing be dictated only by the season, the weather and your inclination. Not by fear of attracting lecherous nonsense. It is not an invitation. It never will be.

Lech off.

I can watch a sunset on my own

Watching me like you never watch no one

Don't tell me that you didn't try and check out my bum 

Cause I know that you did

Cause your friend told me that you liked it. 

Any song whose opening lyrics include the word 'bum' and where the underpinning theme is heartbroken defiance rather than sentimental longing is a winner in my humble opinion. For those who are unacquainted with this piece of music, it's Merry Happy by Kate Nash and I think you should have a listen.

Merry Happy was the fifth song from Nash's number one album Made of Bricks and was released in March 2008. Although not commercially successful, I loved it immediately. Listening to it now catapults me straight back to my time in Australia and gives me a bit of a funny feeling in my tummy, a combination of nostalgia, excitement and poignancy. At the end of 2007, I was a pale Pom wandering around Sydney aimlessly, dazzled by the sights, and trying to work where on earth I should begin my antipodean adventure. All the while missing Blighty quite a bit.

I purchased Made of Bricks with my first temp job pay and played it to death on a clunky, tinny CD player bought from Target. Clad in beautiful tea dresses and chunky heels and with a fiery flow of auburn hair, Nash's indie pop/rock/punk style really resonated with me. Her cockneyfied vocals, perky piano riffs and discernibly enunciated lyrics was like a home from home for me.  Her prose was chirpy and kooky, with references to cups of tea, CSI, mates who are fitter (and birds pooping on your head) and brought a taste of London Town to my little room in Darlinghurst.

I went to see Nash at Oxford Art Factory in Paddington, Sydney with my sister in the new year of 2008. She was engaging, hilarious and belted out some brilliant tunes.  However, a quick Google search will leave you in no doubt that Nash's work is not everyone's cup of tea, and  often polarises opinion.

Yet for those who've had their heart yanked out, stamped on and displayed for all to see either now or in a past life, then Merry Happy is the song for you. It's a great big potent tonic. It laughs in the face of heartbreak, of silly boys who muck you about and don't want to stick around. It piddles all over the belief that you are supposed to be a total wreck when you have been unceremoniously dumped and shows you that actually, you can  be quite alright, thank you. It persuades you to go away, find yourself, take a deep breath and laugh. Dance at discos, eat cheese on toast - do whatever you can to be, well, just you.

Listening to this song steadies me during wobbly moments, makes me smile, conjures up images of being alone somewhere far, far away on my own and not being in the least bit scared. It invigorates me and makes me feel I can do anything if I give it a bloody good go. It is defiance and hope with an accompanying piano and a cheeky grin.

Go find your sunset.

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