Claire has been busy of late. Her most recent commission is for new Atlantic signing Wolf Gang. The song's called 'The King And All of His Men'. It was directed by Daniel Brereton at Warp Films. Rachel Dargavel produced it. She's the new Tamsin. She'll be producing a lot of videos next year.
The video is already number 7 in the NME TV chart and it got added to 'New Music Plus' on The Box yesterday. Big.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
If a tree falls in a forest...
It's 9.00pm on a Monday and I'm standing by a shitty bar, holding a shitty pint of the numbers, in a shit hole of a venue near Angel, about to watch a band that I'm certain are going to be shit. I will normally go to any lengths possible to avoid going to gigs, ranging from excuses - "I really wanna be there tonight, but I've got to be at a baselight, flame, offline, online session" - to out and out deceit the following day - "Of course I was there dude. I was standing near the front. You just didn't see me."
But occasionally I'll receive a boardroom directive personally instructing me to attend a specific concert. Slap. Three-line-whip-o-clock. You can't wriggle out of these shows. No way. You just have to man the fuck up and deal with the reality that you're going to have to spend an evening listening to live music.
In these situations your sole objective is to make sure that your MD sees that you're there. Nothing else matters.
Monday night. I arrive on my own. The venue is pretty empty. It stinks of piss and spoiled beer. I can't see anyone from the label so I head for the narrow bar situated in the back on a slightly elevated platform. Eventually a surly, dwarfish barman takes my order. I notice his dirty fingernails tapping the rim of the glass as he draws my tawny pint of the numerals. I lean back on the bar and take a few sips. The beer's flat. I mumble the word 'cunt' just for something to do. I can't even summon the energy to look at my crackers. The bar area starts to fill up and I get pushed to the side. At that moment I realize that I've got acute indigestion. Another downside to going to gigs after work is that you never get to eat properly. The beef burrito that seemed like such a good idea half an hour ago, now feels like a cruel alimentary ordeal. My need to fart is only outweighed by my fear of following through and shitting myself.
Suddenly the band start playing. Wait. Hang the fuck on. What do you mean they're on already? Shit. They're fucking on. Actually on. I must have been so lost in my reverie of intestinal discomfort that I failed to notice them take the stage. I look around for my colleagues, but the venue is now packed. I can't see anyone that I know. To make matters worse I'm pressed against the wall to the side of the bar. I can't move. A platinum cougar in leather trousers rocks out beside me, her face lumpy and Botox immobile.
Two songs pass by. And then a third. Oh god. I frantically scan the room, but from my vantage point I'm still unable to see anyone from the label. This is a debacle. I think about the Irish philosopher George Berkley, who talked of objects ceasing to exist once there was nobody around to perceive them. The philosophical riddle reverberates in my mind: "If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?"
I'm sweating. I push through the crowd. My head thumps. The question is now: "If an employee goes to a gig and his MD doesn't see him, was he really there?"
I seriously begin to doubt my own existence. I look at my hand and it seems to be translucent. I'm fucking disappearing like Marty Mcfly in 'Back To The Future'.
And then I find him, standing by the sound desk like an MD angel. I don't think I've ever been happier to see someone I work with. We nod hello and then spend the rest of the gig reading our crackers.
Friday, 16 October 2009
Video Hype
The other night David Wilson took home the award for Best New Director at the 2009 UK MVAs. Here's his new one for Little Boots's next single, 'Earthquake'.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
The Deuce
On Tuesday night the Odeon West End cinema in Leicester Square played host to the annual UK Music Video Awards. Adam Buxton presented the show and made me belly laugh. David Knight and Louise Stevens organized the shit out of it.
The night was a personal high for me. I was extremely honoured and proud to have done 'The Deuce'. Big up to anyone that voted for me.
However, reality bitch slapped me the following morning at 8.00am after about three hours of sleep.
Celly starts jingling.
Who the fuck's ringing me at 8.00am? Shit. I don't even know that number. Pure fuckery. It might be the post house though. I'd better answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hi Tim, sorry to call so early, but we've got a bit of a problem. The Flame op's been working on the changes all night, but the original project was in Smoke, a system he's not familiar with, so when he tried to export the additional layers over, they didn't cover the dissolve handles on shots 11 and 13, leaving black holes."
At least this is what I think he said. But he might as well have been talking in alien. After the euphoria of the previous evening, I revert back to my emotional default setting: anxiety.
"So what does that mean?"
"I'm getting someone here at 9.00am who should be able to resolve it. But realistically we won't be able to play out your master for another couple of hours. Sorry."
I could get fucked off. But what's that gonna achieve?
"OK. Thanks for letting me know."
I phone someone in digital.
"Dude, you good?"
"Yeah dog."
"Cool. So look, the master's gonna be a few hours late I'm afraid."
"Oh shit."
"Yeah sorry. It kinda is what it is. Does that fuck up our MSN exclusive?"
"We might miss it."
"Is that bad?"
"Yeah it's quite bad."
"Sorry brother man. There's not a lot I can do."
Whatever anyone else tells you, conversations like this are the basic daily reality of being a video commissioner. Prizes don't mean shit if you miss your MSN exclusive.
On another note, In Your Face fashion editor, Jeffrey De Winter, was supposed to be covering the MVA 2009 red carpet action, but he scored a bunch of shrooms and went missing in Deptford. I managed to leave my gold camera in the office so I had to pick up a disposable in a shop in Leicester Square.
"Hi, do you sell disposable cameras?"
"Yes boss. Do you want Kodak or the other one?"
"Which is best?"
"Kodak boss."
Here are some shots of the homies by the homies.
Iceland.
Mega Force 1.
Navaz.
Tatz.
Nez Nez.
Nathan. Tiddaz. Ross. Biggie.
Biggie. Nez Nez. Who's little head?
Jules et Joc.
Kearns. Biggie. Timmy.
Biggie. Nator. Sweeney
Good times.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Let's Roll
Neil Gordon, or Neil 'Balls' as he's known to his friends - on account of his long standing involvement in Big Balls Films - is the undisputed heavyweight champion of the video 'making of'. In slightly aggrandizing fashion he often refers to the 'making of' as the 'B roll', meaning the 'B' or second unit camera. This is what they call them in America.
Here he is in action on the video for Alesha Dixon's forthcoming single 'To Love Again'.
There's nothing new about the 'making of'. Ever since the inception of the music video there has been an appetite for watching the film making process unfold from behind the scenes. MTV were of course the pioneers of the 'making of', and for a long time the exclusive 'MTV making of' was something coveted by both artists and labels alike - a sign of approbation, a recognition of hitting the big time baby. 'Yo MTV, welcome to the making of my video. Represent. Yeah, yeah.'
In many ways the lowly 'making of' formed the blueprint for much of MTV's more recent long form programming - 'Cribs', 'Pimp My Ride', 'Meet The Osbournes' - facile, music celebrity led, reality entertainment.
The big change for 'making ofs' occurred in the mid noughties. Like the dot com boom in the nineties, the content gold rush that started in 2004 was just as frenzied, misjudged and unsustainable. The explosion of YouTube meant that suddenly every label had to have 'content'. No one really knew what that meant, but they knew that they had to have it.
And obviously one of the easiest ways for labels to aggregate 'content' was to start commissioning their own 'making ofs'. In an era of relentless promo schedules, the video shoot affords you unparalleled access to an artist. In between takes they are basically loafing in a chair, moaning about being bored or cold, drinking tea and eating Nurofen. So fuck it, you might as well film the shit out of them.
A whole generation of young, opportunistic film makers emerged to meet the demand. Neil, and his colleagues at Big Balls, were among the founding fathers. In those days the going rate to shoot, edit and deliver a 4 minute 'making of' was £1500. Getting set up was relatively cheap - all you needed was a Sony EX 1, a computer with Final Cut, a hard drive and a tinternet connection. The main outgoings were tape stock and taxi fares to shoots, although at the time it was relatively easy to blag the commissioner into getting you cabs on their corporate account. I can attest to this: all our 'making of' guys had the Atlantic marketing department Addison Lee password.
So most of the £1500 was profit and if the film maker was a reasonably adept editor, it was possible it churn out a couple of 'making ofs' a week. In busy periods that could amount to a healthy turnover of 12 grand a month.
Simultaneously a young music video director struggling to launch their career in 2005 was getting sent bullshit tracks with 20 grand budgets attached. Their 10 per cent take home should have been two grand; but once their over ambitious idea came in over budget, they were invariably forced to drop their fee in order to get the video commissioned. A vicious cycle developed: the only way for a new director to get sent any of the dwindling number of bigger budget projects was to build and expand their showreel by taking a solid whack in the measures. Four weeks work for a grand or less. And they were lucky if they got to do this four times a year. Her Majesty's Customs and Sexcise don't even bother charging you income tax on earnings of four grand a year. You make more on the job seekers national handbag.
While up coming video directors scratched around, trying to make nickels meet, the 'making of' cartel were rinsing it. This begs the obvious question: why didn't more people get on the b-roll gravy train?
Who knows.
Maybe the answer was slight snobbery? Perhaps directors feared that 'making ofs' were somehow demeaning, that crew members wouldn't take them seriously as 'proper' film makers if they saw them on set in that capacity?
Or maybe they just didn't have the contacts to hustle the work?
Or maybe being ghetto-ass-broke-as-a-joke had a limited romantic appeal? The suffering artist in his wretched Hackney garret. But eventually not being able to afford to leave the house just becomes depressing.
Regardless, these concerns don't seem to trouble Neil as he cheerfully interviews Alesha, who sits in her splitter, arranged over the front seat like a luxurious puddle of Westwood, weave, lashes, liner and gloss. Her glamour squad cackle in the back - no more than folkloric crones squabbling over a shared eye.
Neil has got 'making ofs' down to a fine art. He boasts that recently he cut a 5 minute b-roll out of 19 minutes of rushes - a four to one bang bang shooting ratio. The formula is simple: intro with the artist - 'Hi, it's 7 in the morning and I just got to my video shoot. I'm a bit tired, but really looking forward to it'; a brief montage of each set up, including a shot of the monitor and the clapper board; a longer interview with the artist during the lunch break where they attempt to describe the concept without revealing the fact that they haven't actually read the treatment - 'It's really about my emotional journey from dark to light'; more montage; the 'wrap' call (you can bribe some ADs to do this as a cut away earlier in the day if you want to fuck off before the end); outro with the artist - 'So we've finished. It's been a long day, but I've really enjoyed it. Thanks for watching. I'm going back to the hotel to have a bath'.
Bosh.
Neil's method is leaner than a tuna steak cooked on a George Foreman grill. He knows what we want and always delivers. No extended interviews with the director or the DOP or the SFX boffin. Fans don't wanna watch that shit.
Neil and I laugh about rookie 'making of' filmers who shoot every set up continuously and end up having to capture and then wade through 4 hours of bullshit to find the 4 minutes of gold. It's always jokes to hang out with him on set. We've been on countless shoots together across the globe - Lisbon, Las Vegas, Havana. In the often lonely world of video commissioning, your 'making of' filmer is both an ally and confidant, someone to disappear off to the boozer with when the shit hits the fan on set, someone with whom you can bitch about the artist, and someone who'll tell you honestly whether the footage on the monitor is actually any good.
Without wanting to sound too elegiac, the 'making of' industry is not what it used to be. Budgets have plummeted and, if YouTube viewing figures are anything to go by, public interest seems to have waned. Content has become more sophisticated and increasingly interactive. Kids constantly crave new digital experiences with their favourite artists, and sadly the 'making of' feels like something of an anachronism these days.
I have to leave the Alesha shoot early. I say goodbye to Neil and jump into an Addison Lee - a cash car that I'll have to pay for and then claim back through a hideously convoluted reimbursement process. It'd be easier to fucking walk.
I'm not a big fan of nostalgia, but sometimes it's hard.
Here he is in action on the video for Alesha Dixon's forthcoming single 'To Love Again'.
There's nothing new about the 'making of'. Ever since the inception of the music video there has been an appetite for watching the film making process unfold from behind the scenes. MTV were of course the pioneers of the 'making of', and for a long time the exclusive 'MTV making of' was something coveted by both artists and labels alike - a sign of approbation, a recognition of hitting the big time baby. 'Yo MTV, welcome to the making of my video. Represent. Yeah, yeah.'
In many ways the lowly 'making of' formed the blueprint for much of MTV's more recent long form programming - 'Cribs', 'Pimp My Ride', 'Meet The Osbournes' - facile, music celebrity led, reality entertainment.
The big change for 'making ofs' occurred in the mid noughties. Like the dot com boom in the nineties, the content gold rush that started in 2004 was just as frenzied, misjudged and unsustainable. The explosion of YouTube meant that suddenly every label had to have 'content'. No one really knew what that meant, but they knew that they had to have it.
And obviously one of the easiest ways for labels to aggregate 'content' was to start commissioning their own 'making ofs'. In an era of relentless promo schedules, the video shoot affords you unparalleled access to an artist. In between takes they are basically loafing in a chair, moaning about being bored or cold, drinking tea and eating Nurofen. So fuck it, you might as well film the shit out of them.
A whole generation of young, opportunistic film makers emerged to meet the demand. Neil, and his colleagues at Big Balls, were among the founding fathers. In those days the going rate to shoot, edit and deliver a 4 minute 'making of' was £1500. Getting set up was relatively cheap - all you needed was a Sony EX 1, a computer with Final Cut, a hard drive and a tinternet connection. The main outgoings were tape stock and taxi fares to shoots, although at the time it was relatively easy to blag the commissioner into getting you cabs on their corporate account. I can attest to this: all our 'making of' guys had the Atlantic marketing department Addison Lee password.
So most of the £1500 was profit and if the film maker was a reasonably adept editor, it was possible it churn out a couple of 'making ofs' a week. In busy periods that could amount to a healthy turnover of 12 grand a month.
Simultaneously a young music video director struggling to launch their career in 2005 was getting sent bullshit tracks with 20 grand budgets attached. Their 10 per cent take home should have been two grand; but once their over ambitious idea came in over budget, they were invariably forced to drop their fee in order to get the video commissioned. A vicious cycle developed: the only way for a new director to get sent any of the dwindling number of bigger budget projects was to build and expand their showreel by taking a solid whack in the measures. Four weeks work for a grand or less. And they were lucky if they got to do this four times a year. Her Majesty's Customs and Sexcise don't even bother charging you income tax on earnings of four grand a year. You make more on the job seekers national handbag.
While up coming video directors scratched around, trying to make nickels meet, the 'making of' cartel were rinsing it. This begs the obvious question: why didn't more people get on the b-roll gravy train?
Who knows.
Maybe the answer was slight snobbery? Perhaps directors feared that 'making ofs' were somehow demeaning, that crew members wouldn't take them seriously as 'proper' film makers if they saw them on set in that capacity?
Or maybe they just didn't have the contacts to hustle the work?
Or maybe being ghetto-ass-broke-as-a-joke had a limited romantic appeal? The suffering artist in his wretched Hackney garret. But eventually not being able to afford to leave the house just becomes depressing.
Regardless, these concerns don't seem to trouble Neil as he cheerfully interviews Alesha, who sits in her splitter, arranged over the front seat like a luxurious puddle of Westwood, weave, lashes, liner and gloss. Her glamour squad cackle in the back - no more than folkloric crones squabbling over a shared eye.
Neil has got 'making ofs' down to a fine art. He boasts that recently he cut a 5 minute b-roll out of 19 minutes of rushes - a four to one bang bang shooting ratio. The formula is simple: intro with the artist - 'Hi, it's 7 in the morning and I just got to my video shoot. I'm a bit tired, but really looking forward to it'; a brief montage of each set up, including a shot of the monitor and the clapper board; a longer interview with the artist during the lunch break where they attempt to describe the concept without revealing the fact that they haven't actually read the treatment - 'It's really about my emotional journey from dark to light'; more montage; the 'wrap' call (you can bribe some ADs to do this as a cut away earlier in the day if you want to fuck off before the end); outro with the artist - 'So we've finished. It's been a long day, but I've really enjoyed it. Thanks for watching. I'm going back to the hotel to have a bath'.
Bosh.
Neil's method is leaner than a tuna steak cooked on a George Foreman grill. He knows what we want and always delivers. No extended interviews with the director or the DOP or the SFX boffin. Fans don't wanna watch that shit.
Neil and I laugh about rookie 'making of' filmers who shoot every set up continuously and end up having to capture and then wade through 4 hours of bullshit to find the 4 minutes of gold. It's always jokes to hang out with him on set. We've been on countless shoots together across the globe - Lisbon, Las Vegas, Havana. In the often lonely world of video commissioning, your 'making of' filmer is both an ally and confidant, someone to disappear off to the boozer with when the shit hits the fan on set, someone with whom you can bitch about the artist, and someone who'll tell you honestly whether the footage on the monitor is actually any good.
Without wanting to sound too elegiac, the 'making of' industry is not what it used to be. Budgets have plummeted and, if YouTube viewing figures are anything to go by, public interest seems to have waned. Content has become more sophisticated and increasingly interactive. Kids constantly crave new digital experiences with their favourite artists, and sadly the 'making of' feels like something of an anachronism these days.
I have to leave the Alesha shoot early. I say goodbye to Neil and jump into an Addison Lee - a cash car that I'll have to pay for and then claim back through a hideously convoluted reimbursement process. It'd be easier to fucking walk.
I'm not a big fan of nostalgia, but sometimes it's hard.
Sunday, 27 September 2009
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.
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."
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."
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