Just Jack at the Bataclan

Although he released his debut album in 2002, amazingly (my italics) Just Jack didn't really cross my radar until the beginning of this year. I think the first track I heard was Writer's Block and I couldn't get the hook out of my head. It was soon joined by the rest of the Overtones album and my palms got all sweaty when I heard he was going to be performing at Rock-en-Seine in Paris in August. However, I wasn't as excited by the rest of the festival line-up and, when push came to shove, I wimped out of going. Then I heard he was going to be playing at the Bataclan - mere minutes from Rhino75 Towers - but...it was sold out. Luckily, my saviour appeared on Friday in the shape of R. who said he might have a spare ticket and was I interested? Was I ever!! Let's just say it was lucky I was wearing rubber pants. Which is how I came to be bopping along last night to North London's finest. And he didn't disappoint, fizzing and bouncing all over the stage, accompanied by some great lighting effects and a superb backing singer. I missed the first couple of numbers (grrrr), but for me the highlights were Glory Days, I Talk Too Much and Goth in A Disco (which I hadn't heard before). R. even got to chat to him afterwards and pronounced him to be "a very nice bloke". Last night marked the end of his European tour but catch him next time. Another Rockin' Rhino Recommendation. (Yeah, I KNOW the photo's sh*te, but FEEL the atmosphere :-))

Rhino's Round-up

Here's a little round-up of the things I've learned in the past week. Remember, I'm doing all this so you don't have to. Selfless to a fault. ::sigh::

• Wii Sports is actually MUCH more fun than I realised. When people ask, I shall finally be able to say that I played a little tennis at the weekend - I feel this will be good for my image. I'm still rubbish at golf, though, so the keys to the executive washroom remain - tantalisingly - out of reach.

• "99 Francs" is a good example of how an annoying book can actually be made into a very entertaining movie. Thanks in no small part to the talent of Jean Dujardin (a little less deelish here than in other roles, it must be said). Advertising looks such FUN. Plus we're pretty sure we saw Guillaume Canet in the cinema. Yumm.

• Damon Albarn's "Monkey" is, quite simply, wonderful. I know you've probably read that elsewhere already, but it really is. I say that even though my short-sightedness meant I had to keep asking "Who is that woman in white floating from the ceiling?" and "Why does that man have a pig's head?" because I couldn't read the subtitles. Some stunning set-pieces, including an under-the-sea scene featuring a large starfish. No Guillaume Canet though.

• Pramil is my latest restaurant recommendation. I can still taste those raspberries with green tea ice-cream (I mean that in a good way). Bon appétit!!
  

Brian Wilson

The Beach Boys were, obviously, more the music of my parents' generation than my own. In fact, it's fair to say that until the age of 13/14, I was only very dimly aware of them, having been raised on a musical diet of Motown, musicals and MOR pop. Then my Mum married for the second time and her new husband, who'd been a semi-pro musician, moved in, bringing country music, the Beach Boys and a whole collection of guitars with him. To the harmony-obsessed teenager I was, the Beach Boys were a revelation. There was one Greatest Hits album I'd listen to for hours on end, trying - and usually failing - to sing the different vocal lines, feeling the tingle I still get today from some of those soaring chords. Because those arrangements are sheer genius, make no mistake. A sort of crossover between 1950s glee club and the falsetto singing of some of the great Motown vocal groups, it's impossible to sing them as written and NOT sound like the Beach Boys. That's before we even get to the songs - beautiful, strange tunes recounting a world of ice-cream parlours, surfing and T-birds that had already long since disappeared - and indeed had never really made it to my side of the Atlantic. Yet those songs had an immeasurable influence on all the music that followed them. That's why I was so keen to see Brian Wilson at Le Grand Rex last night. In a way, he's like the ultimate musical reference. I can see why some might be disappointed. As Benoît said, it WAS like watching a Beach Boys tribute band only with Brian Wilson. The average age of the audience and, indeed, the band was about 55-60. But to hear "God Only Knows," "In My Room," and "Good Vibrations" sung by the man who wrote them was more enough to transport me to a better place. Sublime.

Sunday in the Park with Jens

Knowing as you do, dear reader, my love of all things Swedish, it will surely come as no surprise to hear that I spent all Sunday afternoon at the Parc de La Villette to catch the free set by Jens Lekman. What I wasn't counting on was actually getting to meet him afterwards and have a chat. Not only a great songwriter (anyone who samples the strings from the Mamas & the Papas version of "Do you Wanna Dance?" instantly has my heart) but a nice guy to boot, who very gamely agreed to let me take his pic with the girls. He's got a new album coming out in September and expects to be doing a gig in Paris sometime in November. Until then, I shall be doing my best to keep his profile up on Last.fm. Another true celebrity encounter (and I didn't have to stalk him round the supermarket this time). Remember, rhino75 - living the dream so you don't have to.

Hang Out with My Friends!!!

While I'm busy tagging and untagging pictures of myself on Facebook and furiously listening to music on Last.fm, some of my friends are actually out there DOING stuff. Cool stuff, too. So if you're in Paris over the next few days, you should go along and watch them.



First up is the ever-lovely Nardac, whose band Blutschwester (check out their MySpace) will be playing this evening at 21h00 in the 20th arrondissement. If you can't make it along to La Féline (6 rue Victor Letalle, 75020) tonight, they're doing another gig June 13th at Le Cave de Zorba (137 rue Faubourg du Temple, 75011), plus one in Amsterdam on June 8th. Here's a pic of her in action, sorry, sorry, I meant HERE'S some pics of the band from their gig in January.





Now, Saturday may be a write-off, but by Monday you should be raring to go again. Which is good news because the equally lovely and talented Sandrine is going to be performing in "Cabarets Furieuses" - I suppose it's like a series of sketches, really. Anyway, I've helped her learn her lines for a couple of them and they're really good, sharp, quirky and a bit offbeat. Plus, she's a terrific actress.
They're performing at the "Mélo d'Amélie" (4 rue Marie Stuart, 75002) at 20h30 on June 4th, or if you can't make it then, again on June 24th at 20h00 (that's the one I'm going to).
P.S. I shall, of course, be doing my own little piece of performance art this weekend i.e. the traditional Saturday night trolley-dash round the Monoprix food hall just before it closes. Something of a Marais institution, it normally starts around 19h45, but please remember, it's NOT suitable for small children and there are no subtitles for the hearing-impaired. Come early, come often.

God Only Knows

June 26, I'll be in the presence of genius.

She's My Man

Last night, dear reader, I found myself in Ana Matronic's shoes. Not literally, thank goodness (I've never been good in heels). But when she told an anecdote about how she'd watched the New York Dolls perform on the very stage where she stood, just for a moment there she became one of us, a simple fan. We could relate. And that made me love her even more. Because, as far as I'm concerned, she was the lynchpin of the whole Scissor Sisters show, a pure charisma bomb. She even spoke French. I only had eyes for her. Well, her and the rather swoonsome Del Marquis (there's something about an axeman, I always say.) Don't get me wrong, I love Jake and he was giving it his all but, somehow, he was still outshone by his bandmate (though both the Captain and I remarked that he seemed taller than we expected - whatever that means). We'd been building up to last night's gig since December and the potential for disappointment was high, but NO, it was everything we could have wanted and more. For me, the highlights were - in no particular order - "Everybody Wants the Same Thing", "Filthy/Gorgeous", "Take Your Mama" (totally my idea of a night out) and "Laura". Honestly, I haven't sung and danced all the way through a gig like that since Madonna's "Reinvention" tour. It was tight, it was slick, it was almost exhaustingly energetic but they still looked like they were having fun. Tremendous. Afterwards, we found Meg and Petite and ran round to the stage door in the hope of getting in a little post-show screaming as the band left the building. Unfortunately, this wasn't so successful. Apart from ourselves, there were only four teenage girls and a boy with a tambourine. And the only person we saw leaving the building looked like support act Snax's dad. So after about 15 minutes, we gave up and went to McDonalds instead. Of such nights, dreams are made. (BTW, I didn't think Snax was quite as awful as everyone else made out, leading to the - frankly libellous - accusation that I'd bought his €10 CD. I thought his "Your friend called me a faggot" was quite catchy really.)
P.S. This wonderful photo was taken by Tolivier, who was a) even nearer the stage than we were and b) kind enough to let me use it here. What a star! See more of his pics from the concert and what he thought of it on his blog, either by clicking on the pic or here.

A Major Contribution to French Cinema

I'm showing you this now, dear reader, so you'll have time to grasp the finer (my italics) points before voting for me over at FWaB Academy in the next few days. I know I can count on your support, even though the singing's flat and the sound's tinny, because a) Kitty's in it, and we love her, don't we? b) because it's made with love, just for you. Personally, I feel there's more than a touch of Godard about it all, but I could be too close to the glue pot the concept. Anyway, by the time you read this I shall be putting Captain J through his paces (lyrically) over a cocktail or eight in preparation for this tonight (now where DID I put those tickets?). Ronan Keating was right when he said that "Life is a Rollercoaster" - who would have thought it?

P.S. If you can't see the YouTube clip in your browser, here's the URL.

London Calling

As part of my gruelling (my italics) Eurostar-trash regime, dear reader, Friday lunchtime found me whizzing through the Channel Tunnel on my way to a date in Hammersmith with the rather gorgeous Dan Gillespie Sells. OK, there were a few thousand other people there - and, indeed, the rest of the band - but that's just details. I love him and he loves me, I can TELL. And boy did we have fun. All of us. It's a long time since I've been to a gig where not only did I know all the words and musical nuances to every single song, but so did everyone else. And where I had a big, silly grin on my face from start to finish. Yes, yes, alright, everyone else WAS 15, but that's not the point. I love him (did I already say that?). Look at him in the pic, trying to be all "rock 'n' roll," bless. Of course, if you're going to sing a lot of harmonies live, there's a danger you're going to be stuck behind your monitors most of the time. But as the evening warmed up, so did the band's stagecraft and by the encore (Queen's "Fat-Bottomed Girls") they were storming. And I don't know if I've mentioned this before but I love him. Fave moments: community singing on "Never be Lonely," a riproaring version of "Anyone" and "Sewn" (which I thought I'd heard too often, but no). And that moment when Dan looked at me and smiled. Well, he was quite far away, but I know he was looking at me. The rest of the weekend was spent eating yummy food here, buying most of Waterstone's, stuffing my face with delicious cheese and wine (thanks to Lady J. and A) and helping Matt get to grips with Argos AND Freeview (the blind leading the blind). The weather was crap, though.

Not Much Punch

"Performing when you're feeling less than 100% is VERY Judy Garland," Rufus Wainwright informed us at the start of his tribute concert in Paris this evening. Well, yes and no, Rufus love. With Judy, you knew about her life as a child star, the strapped-down breasts, the diet pills, the failed marriages, the drink and the uppers and downers. Watching her perform was thrilling not only because of her immense talent but precisely because there was always that risk that it would all get the better of her and her guts would come spilling out on stage. With Rufus tonight, well, we knew he had a cold. A bad cold, bless him. I felt for him, I really did. But there was no melodrama there, no crackle of electricity, no DANGER. Don't get me wrong, I had an excellent time and I certainly don't hold the cracked notes and slight dip in energy against him. Anyone who goes on stage when they're feeling like death and tries to entertain a crowd is a real trouper. And when he's on form and performing his own songs, Rufus is very, very good. Hearing him sing "The Man That Got Away," tonight, however, just brought back long-buried memories of the Sunday lunchtime drag cabaret at the Royal Oak in Hammersmith. You know, however much he shouts it, that Rufus hasn't "been through the mill," in fact, you very much suspect he's got someone rather tasty lined up backstage. Ditto sister Martha's HOPELESSLY overblown "Stormy Weather" - you can't stand snogging your boyfriend in the wings and talking about the price of fish and then potter on to tell people "Can't go on, everything I have is gone". Of course, you can fake it, lord knows even Judy faked it, but it has to be convincing. Otherwise it's just karaoke. Rufie was at his best in the uptempo numbers such as "That's Entertainment", "Chicago", "San Francisco, Open Your Golden Gates" where, whipped up a little by the FANTASTIC band behind him, his natural showmanship, humour and general pizzazz came to the fore. He almost had me convinced. I was tapping my foot and swaying in my seat. Then Lorna Luft came on and - in one song - showed them how it should be done. I wasn't even aware that I was giving her a standing ovation until I tried to sit down and found my annoying seat had folded up on itself. THAT'S Broadway, that's how those songs should be sung. Marvellous. Get well soon Rufus, I still love ya, but stick to what you do best, hon.
P.S. The Gayterati were out in force, naturally - you could hardly breathe in the loo at half-time for "designer" scent. I even indulged in a little air-kissing myself. I do love these "community" nights out - arf!

Rhino75's Product of the Week

Yes, I know, a NEW FEATURE. Exciting, isn't it? My plan is to bring you every week an EXCLUSIVE (my italics) through-the-keyhole glimpse of the exotica filling the cupboards at Rhino75 Towers. Week One: Dr. Stuart's Apple & Ginger Tea. Now, as many of you know, Rhino75 is a huge fan of Sweden and the frozen north in general. Any culture that can come up with Tyrkisk Peber vodka AND Agnetha Fältskog has to be doing something right, right?. Well, Dr. Stuart's magical beverage is Sweden in a cup. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Dr. Stuart's first name is Sven and that he's tall and blond with a fluffy beard under his white coat. Apples, ginger, cinnamon, just the brew for a cold winter's night. To be sipped wearing an H&M sweater, surrounded by candles (careful!), with possibly a little Carola or Roxette playing in the background. Underbara! If all goes to plan and I receive a lifetime's supply of said product from the manufacturer, next week I shall be featuring Cristal champagne. If not, probably my other great dietary staple, miso cup-a-soup. I know which one I'm rooting for. Ok, ok, this is a cheat post because this week so far has been all work and no play. Twelve-hour days, sore eyes, I haven't even had time to work on my new TV treatment ("Sergeant Kitty: Police Cat" - she sniffs all the evidence, rolls on bits of it and then...licks her bum? I need to work on the crime-solving angle a little more). Luckily, there IS some R&R lined up for the weekend, otherwise I'd go bonkers. And I've now got a ticket to see my new faves in London next month. TGIF.

Something for the Weekend (Part 2)

THIS weekend I and all other right-thinking people will, of course, be going to see my partner-in-wine and favourite axewoman Sam Nardac perform with her band Blutschwester at the Point Ephémère. I'm telling you now so that you can rejig your schedule. Because no excuses will be accepted. Gottit?? See ya there.

"It's so funny..."

"...how we don't talk anymore," sang Sir Cliff Richard, Britain's self-styled Peter Pan of Pop (see left). I don't know to whom he was referring but it could easily have been us, dear reader. For which apologies, but the problem with this New Year's resolutions business is that it's just so time- consuming getting them all going. I'm exhausted already and I still have to sort out my two main ones. However, if all goes to plan I shall be over-achieving on such a MASSIVE (my caps) scale, international fame and fortune can surely not be far behind. Fingers crossed. But I digress. What on earth is a big poster of Sir Cliff doing in my local metro station? By that I mean, why is he doing a concert in Paris? In all the years I've lived here, never once has a French person asked me about, or indeed made any reference to "zis Cleef Reeechard." I've never heard any of his music on the radio. So who's gonna go?? The Palais des Congrès is pretty big, after all. I'm worried. Given that he's now Sir Cliff, will they round up all the British people in Paris and force them to buy a ticket? Will we all have to do the Shadows guitar-walk? Actually, the Cliffsta, as I call him, and I go back a long way (doesn't everyone in **showbiz**?). In my London days, I'd just popped into Fortnums to pick up a few bits, as you do. I remember I was rooting through the wine bins looking for a choice bottle of claret when, all of a sudden, I noticed that everyone was looking at me. I put it down to the old Rhino75 charisma and tried to continue my search. But now I'd noticed them, I could sense that they weren't just looking, they were staring - and when I looked up then I saw they weren't actually staring at me (hah!) but just to my left. At Sir Cliff. Looking very unlike the Peter Pan of Pop and more like an old turkey. And why was he in the wine section? I thought he was teetotal. True story. Oh alright, I KNOW that anecdote had a slightly less satisfactory ending than Abba The Movie, (i.e. we didn't shoot off into space in an elevator to the strains of "Bachelor Boy") but it still counts as a Rhino75 celebrity encounter (just like here, here and here). Still to come: how I once had Jeanne Moreau nestled in my armpit and discussed accountancy with Kristin Scott-Thomas in a lift (not at the same time though, I hasten to point out - otherwise it sounds like some bizarre gender-reversal version of "Jules et Jim"). Peter Ustinov eat your heart out.

Crossin' the Pond

Just a reminder that posting may be a little erratic over the next week as I shall be "crossing the pond" to star with Nick in our very own version of "Ocean's Two" This is an historic event for two reasons: Firstly, it's the first time we've gone on holiday together since we were 17. Secondly, on Saturday (my birthday!! - shameless plug) , we will be doing this. If I can remember where I put the tickets. The rest of the time has already been allotted to shopping and cocktails, though I am also on a mission to bet on a secret lucky number for Mr. & Mrs. LOG. Be good.

Antony & The Johnsons

Let's face it, dear reader, it's a binary world. You're either hot or you're not. And last night we were ssssmokiiin' (in zeitgeist terms, at least). Antony and The Johnsons live at legendary Paris concert venue L'Olympia. With models. Some of whom were trannies. Yours truly, Noodle, Micke and Mr. B. Was it music? Was it art? Was it FABBBBULLOUUUS? Answer: All of the above. Seriously, I loved it. Antony's soaring, gospel-tinged voice is just as gorgeous live as on cd and he has that amazing - and rare - ability of the true "artiste" to create his own world and pull you in, so that you completely lose yourself in the moment. Corny it may be, but there were moments where I forgot where I was. And though there's a melancholy quality to his music, the effect it creates is more dreamy and wistful than depressing. The video part sounded like it had high cringe potential but, in fact, was the perfect complement. The whole experience was gentle, soothing, comforting, the aural equivalent of slipping on a (dark red) velvet dressing gown after bathing in warm milk. Perfect for an autumn night. Favourite moments: "Cripple and the Starfish" and "Rapture" (the encore). Does this mean I'm more old skool Antony, I wonder?