The deaths of certain celebrities are momentous enough to prompt the timeworn question "where were you when so and so died?" For the previous generation it was all about Elvis, JFK and John Lennon. For us it was ODB and of course Princess Diana. The night Diana stacked it I was riding back from a party in Sebb Chew's Proton, listening to 'Only Built 4 Cuban Linx', when we passed a newsstand outside a corner shop on North End Road with a tatty late edition notice that displayed the following - DIANA KILLED IN PARIS CRASH. We turned on the radio and a special bulletin confirmed the news.
I can't remember where I was when ODB died.
However, on Thursday when the King of Pop took his last pethidine laced breath I was koching in Best Kebab waiting on a small doner wrap. Jamal walked in. He seemed diminished somehow, lacking his usual swagger and clearly agitated. His face was blotchy - his narrow eyes red-rimmed. He'd been crying. He started talking to a man standing by the counter.
"I can't believe he's dead cuz".
"What?"
"Ain't you heard? Michael Jackson cuz. He's dead. He had a heart attack, you get me. I can't believe it".
The man didn't reply.
"I swear he never touched them childlets cuz. That was just the media chatting breeze. Michael wouldn't have done that cuz. I know he wouldn't."
The man laughed. One of the brothers handed him his order and he walked out. Jamal barely seemed to notice.
I hate shooting in studios. It's always a joyless, oppressive experience - not least because most studios are situated in the hinterlands of West London, near dismal stations on the Piccadilly line like Park Royal. And anything that reminds me of West London is like having my face rubbed in my childhood in much the same way that you'd smear a cat's face in its own urine to punish it.
Black Island has got to be the worst. I'm probably alone here though. Most people love the convivial atmosphere of the canteen; they love popping onto the different stages at lunch to look at the sets and catch up with crew members that they haven't seen for a while. Fuck that. As soon as I set foot in the car park of Ile Noire I'm bored out of my mind. Where's the hi-jinx? Where are the jokes? The monkeyshines? There's never anything funny to Flip there. Just a monitor, bare cups of tea and a bunch of geezers sitting around reading the papers. Studios are inherently racist against flip cameras. Anti gold. Give me a location shoot any day. At least a local Lambrini drinking nut bag might rave at you - "Yo can I get some matches? Fuckcunt. DOCTOR GIVE ME A PILL. Are you my lawyer?"; or some rudeboys might try and steal some shit out of the Arri truck - "Oii, what size is that camera?"; or a wee wee granny might ask what you're filming - I always say Eastenders. And if the entertainment runs out, there's usually a boozer nearby that you can retire to. So don't try and tell me that studio shoots are better. I'm not listening. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
A case in point was the Preston video shoot last week. I was primed with all media. Flip Cam. Check. Cybershot. Check. The Flip never even made it out of the bag. Before I knew it I was slumped in front of the monitor on a Tetley's comedown. I only took one still all day - that of producer Paul Weston wearing vampire teeth.
At first I thought Preston was quite safe, but he turned out to be really vain - the kind of dude that would make his girlfriend watch him try on different outfits before they went out on a Saturday night. It reminded me of working with boy bands. There's a 'hair guy' in every boy band; the guy who dumps a gallon of gel on his hair and then can't stop fucking fiddling with it, tousling it, compulsively checking it in every available reflective surface. "Does my hair look OK?" If they could stop looking at themselves for more than a second they'd realise what a cunt they are.
Picture the scene. It's late. Maybe about 1.00am. You've left The Cat and Mutton or The London Fields and you're heading back to the live-work loft space that you rent in the inky depths of Hackney, near where the kid got stabbed last week, having stopped off at Tennessee Chicken along the way to pick up a halal bucket and a bottle of Fanta. Your flat mate's staying at his girlfriend's tonight so you've got the place to yourself. Before settling down to a night of YouPorn and blazing, you decide to watch 4 Music for a while. A Lady Gaga video comes on. Yeah she's quite fit. She'd probably collect it. Your hand is now down your trousers. The next video starts. What the fuck. The video that you directed a few weeks ago is playing, but it seems different. The song sounds peculiar. The edit is discrepant. You blink a few times. Did someone spike me in the pub? No. You are not tripping. This is not a Ketamin flashback. We took your cherished video, re-edited it to a dance, bassline, drum and bass, dubstep, Blaze, Bimbo Jones remix of the track and didn't tell you.
Despite all your solipsistic delusions, we didn't do this to deliberately wig you out. Here's the rationale: re-editing a video to a dance-ish remix gets you on a bunch of specialist TV channels - Flava, Flaunt, Bliss, Clubland TV, Starz, MTV dance, 4 Music late night; this in turn moves you up the moribund TV airplay chart so that when the boardroom jocks open up their copies of Music Week on a Wednesday, they can feel a little more confident that their record is going to be a 'hit'. Faith is everything. And like scripture, the airplay charts act as a panacea for everything that they privately fear is wrong with the project.
The reasons why we don't involve directors in this process are fairly obvious. It would be way too painful, expensive and time consuming. It's hard enough getting one edit right. "But I love that shot of the singer". What the one where his eyes are closed and a pile of chins are concertinaed down his neck? The one where he looks a little bit like he has Down's syndrome? That one? "But it's so expressive. He looks like an angel. I think it's really important to be brave with this edit". No. These battles are too draining to have twice. Anyway it doesn't need to be good; it just needs to exist.
So what's the solution?
Welcome to the world of illegal video re-editing. Get a Mini DV tape of the finished video, a CD of the remix and 500 quid in cash. If you still have a corporate cab account get an Addison Lee to the corner of Colvestone Crescent and Riddley Road - if not the 38 will have to do. Pressed between Ahmed's telecommunications, where you can get your iPhone unlocked for a tenner, and Mobolaji the butcher, who specialises in under the counter mandrill heads and other bushmeat delicacies, you will find a small black door that is always open. As you descend the dimly lit, carpeted staircase the aroma of kif and stale body odour will drown you. At the bottom call out for Thami. After a few moments a man of indeterminate age and race will loom out of the shadows, his wrinkled dugs loosely covered by a dirty vest. He is blind - his eyes glazed by a white mucous membrane - and prone to receiving visions of such intensity that they leave him breathless and prostrated. Hand the tape, the CD and the cash to Thami the seer and leave. In a feat of unfathomable editing sudoku he will then flop, chop, flip, loop and speed up the existing footage until it works with the new track. A new Mini DV master will be ready for you to collect and service to Fastrax the very next day.
Here's a recent example of Thami's work for you to enjoy:
Ecstasy happens to all of us at some point. It's unavoidable. Put on my raving shoes and I boarded a plane. Glug. Bosh. Gulp. I'm raving, I'm raving. Getting pissed on Es is of course one of the funnest things that you can do. And after a pill lacuna lasting nearly 7 years, I was reminded of this fact a few weekends ago as I attended a stag do in Devon powered solely by xtc, nasen-tutter and booze.
The hi-jinx culminated in a Saturday night trip to the Fusion 2 nightclub in Kingsbridge. When we arrived at 11.00pm it was deserted. By midnight it resembled a mobbed gay club. There were only about four women in the whole venue. Another stag party dressed as pirates jostled and nudged on the dance floor. We might as well have been in the Joiners Arms. I went outside and did a line off the bonnet of a van in the car park. (Fusion 2 must have the hottest security in the UK - it'd be easier to take drugs in prison.) Back inside the creepy red sculptural features that adorned the walls, and looked like rectal prolapse, quivered to the sound of 'Bonkers'. To celebrate I drank a bottle of blue WKD, had a slug of Jagermeister, and necked a bean and half a TCB. Fuck. To quote Mannie Fresh: "I'm in the club seein' all kind of colours and shit". Initially I held it down. It's fine. After 20 minutes my mouth went dry and my chest began to tighten and gently compress my heart. Wait a minute. I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe. I'm doing a Leah Betts. Oh god I'm about to taste the bitterness of E death. This can't be fucking happening. A few sips of water calmed me down. Relax. You know about this. And then the sound system discharged. Dum. Dum. De. Dum. "You've got to show me love". Woooooooooh. I'm back. I can feel another rush coming on.
The club finished at 3.00am. We went back to the barn where we were staying. Some tabla music started playing. I started hallucinating.
Luckily I'd Prefer Not To TV was on hand to Flip this ode to the gayness of stags:
In other news, we shot the video for Little Boots' next single 'Remedy' last Friday. Sarah Chatfield, aka Chattaz, from Colonel Blimp directed it and Georgina Filmore did the budget. Here's a picture of Sarah and Victoria together on set:
Shane Davey is directing the next Enter Shikari video for Claire on Wednesday. The song is called 'No Sleep Tonight'.
And next Wednesday Ollie Evans off of Partizan is making the video for Preston's first solo outing, 'Dressed To Kill'.
Finally Atlantic have signed Jay Z. J Hova will be over in the next couple of weeks on a promo trip and I'm going to ask him if I can commission his videos.
Here's the finished video for The Twang's new single 'Barney Rubble', which is basically a tune. I'm backing this. Anyone else going to see them at the Electric Ballroom on 14th July?
