Video Hype

The video for 'Broken', the debut single from Asylum's new signing Mclean, is finally up on youth tube. It was directed by Nick Bartleet at Pixelloft. We shot it a while ago, but the marketing specialists decided to hold it back in order to build some heat at radio first.

As I've said in the past, sometimes you've just got to make an 'elements' video.



bl0tty09 seems to like it:

"never herd dis till da other nite wen dis girl i woz with woz playing it on her fone... FuCkIn BiG TuNe!!!!! plus dat girl in da vid got 1 nice ass boiiii!!!"

Mclean used to go under the nom de plume of Digga and was originally signed to The Schizofreniks, a loose collective of music producers, one of whose founding members reportedly underwent a transsexual transformation from female to male.

Mclean was in the studio with Tinchy last week. Bob Harlow was on hand to capture this 3 chip gold.



He will also be on the Sun sponsored Brrap pack tour alongside Ironik and Chipmunk this October.

Corin

A couple of weeks ago we shot the video for Paolo Nutini's forthcoming single 'Pencil Full of Lead'. Corin Hardy from Academy directed it and Liz Kessler was the producer. Chris Massey managed to pap this picture of Corin cotching outside the location - the Stephen Street Studios, just off Tottenham Court Road, where incidentally they used to film the Gloria Hunniford show.


Unfortunately In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, was in New York at the time covering fashion week. I did however manage to catch up with him briefly on the phone.

"Hey Jeffrey."

"Wussup homie?"

"Why are you whispering?"

"I can't really talk dude. Check it. I'm in a fucking suite at the Bowery. Shit is off the chains. Hedi's outside slavishly polaroiding this 18 year Michelangelo. The kid's nekkid except for a Boy London cap. And Karl's just sitting on the fucking couch eating baby food. It's some fin de siecle shit, I'm telling you brother."

"No way. You OK?"

"Yeah I'm fine. I've just been smoking hella cush weed and I'm horny as hell. I came into the bathroom to jerk off."

"Jesus dude."

"What?"

"Hey, did you get that picture I sent you?"

"Yeah. Who the fuck is that guy?"

"Corin Hardy. He just directed a P-Lo video for us."

"Well he's triple OG. Punk as fuck brother man. Homeboy doesn't care. That's what directors should look like. I love it. Kubrick parka and offie bags on his feet. Chic. Tell me he had a can of Special Brew in his back pocket? He should come and hang out on the drunky bench in Dalston. That's what it's all about. Tramp style. Fuck all those other plimsole wearing bitches. That's director realness. Shit dude, someone's knocking. Gotta go."

What?

The other day I was lost in such a hate-hole during a label meeting that I wrote the following gibberish in my daybook under the heading, 'Notes on the slow death of the music industry from inside the fart chamber'.

*****************************************************************************

The room smells of ego and fear. Verbal jostling. What? Scores on the doors. Midweeks. Middle weeks. Numbers. Single sales down. Albums up 34%. Vera Lynn. This World War 2 thing is really working. Album churn. Two hit message. Posters. Ad spend. X Factor slot. Slot it. Second phase tent poles. Jonathan Ross. Jools Holland. Alison likes it. GMTV. What's the ship? Tescos are saying 70 thousand. Sainsburys have lost confidence. Asda don't want it. What? They're the rock supermarket. They sell more copies of Kerrang than any other retailer. What's our competition? Gonna be hard at Radio 1. George hates it. The gatekeeper. Zuul. We need Rick Moranis up in this piece. Shouting. Shouting. What? iTunes bundles. Murder murder murder. 360. Expanded rights rape. The show sold out in 10 seconds. D2C. Direct 2 Consumer. Ass 2 Mouth. Sync opportunities. What? What? What?

*****************************************************************************

Hmmmmm. Mr Ahmed, who is my spiritual advisor and a keen follower of this blog, is sure to have something to say about this when I next have a session with him.

Anyhow, you all need to peep this - essential viewing in confusing times:



You can see the rest here. And here. And here.

I'm also now the proud owner of this:

Oh dear

In Your Face fashion editor Jeffrey De Winter is back this week to dicuss what video commissioners shouldn't be wearing this fall.


"When I first saw this picture, I was like 'What the fuck? Is this a joke?' Later I thought that maybe it was a 'so wrong, it's right' situation. But then I realised that it was just plain wrong. What was he thinking? Damn. He must have borrowed his little brother's football training track pants for the day. I love how the gold stripes accent the wee wee yellow on that nasty plaid shirt. What is that like Primark or some shit? The thing that really threw me off though was the brown leather thong sandals. Oh. And the weird red Manchester United beanie. He kinda looks Moroccan. You know, you're standing outside a Souk in Tangier: 'Tsk, tsk, tsk. Hey. Hello my friend. You want guide? Please my friend.' Shit is mad off-key."

Thanks to Nez for papping this.

Rushing mate

Sally has been producing a Mika video for Nez. They shot it last night. This morning she asked if I could drop the rushes off at The Mill as my cycle route takes me through town. I haven't even touched rushes in over 10 years. I hate rushes. My palms were sweating for the whole ride. I couldn't concentrate. It was like an appalling flashback to my earliest days in production. There's no more chilling task as a runner than dropping off the rushes. None. The burden of responsibility weighs upon you; all that endeavour, effort, stress, talent and money - acres of money - are condensed into a few cans of film that rest in your hands, waiting for you to transport them safely to the lab.

Now of course the rushes are, more often than not, stored on a hard drive.


But back in the late '90s it was always 35mm film.

A freelance runner that I worked with in '97 told me a good rushes story. He'd been working on an unending beauty commercial in Ile Noire studios. Day after day after interminable day of the same shit: Linda Evangelista in a shift dress flicking her hair about. Tedium gave way to ennui and finally turned to disgust. "I mean she's a supermodel. But by the seventh day I couldn't even fucking look at her. It was so boring."


After eight days the shoot finally wrapped and it was my man's turn to drop the rushes. The loader packed them into two boxes for him. He rolled out to his car and put them on the roof while he took off his coat. He got in, cracked open a can of coke, turned on the radio and found Powerjam, kicked it for a minute and then billed up a zoot for the journey. Fuck it. Whatever. He sparked it and drove into Soho. Homeboy pulled up on Wardour Street and hopped out of his car. Sitting on the roof were the two boxes of rushes. Mother fucker. "The mother fucking rushes were still on the roof. I was doing like 80 down the fucking Westway. I still don't know how they didn't fall off. Straight up magnet roof." He then threw up into the gutter.


One time in '98 I dropped some rushes off at Soho Images. The shoot wrapped late and I had to stay on to collect the walkies and sweep the location. It was about 2.00am when I eventually got into town. At that time Soho Images had a late night drop box because the delivery office shut at midnight. I walked up Meard Street feeling sketchy - I always felt sketchy when I knew I had to fuck with the drop box. I pulled the first tin out of my stash bag, opened the hatch and slid it in. But nothing happened. It just stuck, teetering on the lip. What the fuck? I reached my arm in. The chute was backed up with rushes. Jammed. Jesus. I pulled the tin out and carefully put it back in, making sure that it slipped over the other resting mags and hit the bottom. Scrape. Thunk. I did the same with the rest of the cans. One by one. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


Then it dawned on me. I put my arm back in, grabbed one of the lodged cans and pulled it out. Scribbled on a bit of camera tape was the following: Mercedes. DOP Ivan Bird. Gorgeous Enterprises. Fuck me. Fuck me. Yo chill. Chill for a second. I put it back and walked around the block. I was already composing the ransom note: if you wanna see the safe return of your missing rushes you need to meet me outside Corniche Video on Frith street at midnight tomorrow with three grand in cash. Three gees. That wouldn't have even touched the sides of a million pound commercial. But it would've paid off my credit card bill. I was stoned and paranoid about CCTV. So I took my coat off and pulled my hood up. I quickly glanced around. No one was coming. Safe. I shuffled back up Meard street, lugged three tins out of the chute and put them in my bag. My heart was pounding; I thought my legs were going to give way beneath me. I managed to walk to the corner of Meard and Dean street before I stopped dead. That's when it hit me. I'm a fucking pussy. And I'll always be a pussy. I'm not cut out for a life of crime. What am I? PLO? No way. I can't kidnap these rushes. This is retarded. I'm a retard.

I dumped the canisters back in the drop box, trudged over to the moody cab office on Cambridge Circus, bought a 10 bag of dirt weed and got a boss chops home, dejected and full of self-loathing at my cowardice.

Every other day my whole dress code switch

Deciding what you're going to wear on set is invariably hard - especially as the decision is often made at 5.30am, 15 minutes before your Addison Lee is due to pick you up and drive you to the shoot. You haven't had coffee. You haven't smoked. Your hair's still wet. And your lucky pants are in the washing machine. Celly starts ringing. Fuck. Hello. I know the driver's waiting outside. I got the text. What are you funny now? Look, another slug of Red Bull's not gonna hurt him. Gimme 5 minutes. Fuck.

If you're shooting outside on location in November in England then the decision is pretty much taken out of your hands. Wet weather gear. Thermals. And a balaclava. But what if you're filming in the relative warmth of Ile Noire Studios in September? Well that's a whole different story.

Thankfully the In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, has identified a few key crew looks that might act as inspiration and help you to arrive on set feeling good about your steez this autumn.

Rigger, grip, best boy bum bum chic:


This is definitely one of my favourite looks for this season. Steel toe-capped safety boots, heavy woolen socks rolled down, khaki combat shorts belted high and a threadbare, blue Arri Media T-shirt. Accessorize with a '95 limited edition 007 'GoldenEye' insignia bomber jacket. I think this ensemble works really well on plus size guys, but it also suits butch lesbians.

Rudeboy spark bruv:


Again this is a really versatile fall look. Box fresh white Stan Smiths - throw them away if they get scuffed - straight leg Armani jeans and a lairy Ralph polo shirt with a Stone Island jacket thrown on top. You might want to accent this with a box cutter in your back pocket. This look is perfect if you're also interested in drug dealing and football hooliganism.

Camera department baller:


Now this look just screams authority and aplomb. Nike Airmax, re-issue big E Levis with turn-ups and a white Haines T-shirt, preferably V-neck. Your top layer needs to be all about North Face. North Face windcheater. North Face neck gaiter. North Face ear warmer. North Face hair. Do North Face make Mag-Lites? If so get one. This look is guaranteed to get you laid at the Take 2 Christmas party.

Ball breaking producer:


This is a timeless classic. Ugg boots, J Brand jeans and a cashmere sweater or a little something from Top Shop. If you wanna take it back to 2001 you could also sling on a body warmer. Wear your hair up and accessorize with a MacBook Pro, open on an excel spreadsheet of your budget actuals. While this can be a unisex look, it's worth pointing out that Ugg boots on men can attract the wrong kind of attention.

Partizan runner:


Very hot right now, particularly amongst younger crew members. Elf shoes, spray on Dick Whittington stretch jeans, vintage T-shirt and a black leather French exchange jacket, sourced from a thrift store in New York. Best worn with a wide-eyed look of enthusiasm - the streets of London really are paved with gold. Don't attempt this look if you're a fatty boom boom though. There's nothing worse than a beer gut hanging over your jean leggings. Irregular meals and cocaine abuse can help with weight control.

Record company ding dong:


If you've ever shopped in Whole Foods on Kensington High Street, then you'll already know all about this look. Sperry boat shoes, Nudie jeans, button down shirt and a Barbour jacket. Swing a Billingham bag over your shoulder and you're ready to roll. A Blackberry is as essential as a clutch with this one; you'll need to be able to update your Facebook status while pretending to work. Big willy player.

Second AD D-bag:


This is definitely a more conservative look for those lacking a little in self-esteem. Caterpillar boots, baggy G-star jeans, firetrap T-shirt and a Diesel zip up hoodie. The great thing about this style is that it's so indistinct that no one will actually notice you - perfect if your job entails telling people to be quiet on set.

In the end my advice is just have fun with it. And do what works for you. Who cares what people think?

Jeffrey will be back next week with more fashion tips for y'all.

Universal Wine

Last weekend the Notting Hill Carnival provided me with my annual opportunity to sod West London with wee wee. As soon as I hit Chepstow Road I found the nearest offie and played Red Stripe roulette. Two for a fiver? Are you joking? Bank holiday cuz. Mans gotta make paper. The first one tasted of gold. The second one was like flat, warm hops water mixed with urinal splash back. What the fuck's up with Red Stripe? So fickle. I switched to the numbers and headed for Powis Square and the Rampage sound system.


The MC hyped the crowd.

"Oggie oggie oggie."

"Oi oi oi."

And then he introduced Egypt who did a live PA of her big tune, 'In The Morning'. People went wild in the dance. I saw two rudeboy congas as yoots battled to get to the front. A monstrous, steroid inflated pit bull started baying. Horns blared. The police surveillance teams looked on from their rooftop Babylons. The sweet perfume of skunk weed made me feel hungry. Mmmmmm. That barbecue smells so nice. Maybe I should get some jerk. Yeah. And plantain. And maybe a Twix.

Once these prandial needs had been met, I made my way to All Saints Road to check out the CMC stage, Carnival's only pure drum and bass sound system.


It was messy. The Special Brew sun burn crew were already repping. Dusty, skeletal ravers were gurning, trying to hold whistles between their rotten teeth. Limbs flailed. Western Union bandannas flapped. And then out of the haze he emerged; a diabolical rave man-child, moulded in his father's image - an anthropomorphic nightmare.


Suddenly there were raving children everywhere.


Jesus. This isn't right man. They must be dwarfs. But they weren't. I was surrounded by a whistle posse of infants grinning hopelessly, blitzed on beans, frantically lurching back and forth on their dads' shoulders.

"Make some noise."

The nippers started screaming. This is horrible. I've got to get the fuck out of here.

I finally got back to Dalston at around midnight only to discover that Best Kebab had run out of doner meat.

As Jamal explained with a shrug:

"Bank holiday cuz."