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The Boss: a colossal, unashamed ham

The Boss materialised on stage like Hercules in denim, but his blue-collar belters were more Broadway than Pyramid stage

There is a religious quality to Brucedom. Disciples tend to tell benighted heathens that all they need to do is let Springsteen into their hearts and surrender to his almighty Bossness. “You have to see him live,” they say. “All will be revealed.” Doubtless some people at the Pyramid stage on Saturday had a Damascene experience but for many others, in those parts of the field which thinned out dramatically during the elephantine, two-and-a-half hour set, the light failed to materialise.

On one level, Springsteen’s sheer passion and energy are something to behold. He gives a good impression of being the most virile 59-year-old on earth, running, soloing, hollering, and sweating the good sweat. Next to Neil Young, who would look at home sitting in a rocking chair scaring children off his lawn with blasts of feedback, he looks like Hercules in denim. Everything about him is writ large, in block capitals, underlined. And if it grabs you, if the immensity strikes you as majestic rather than faintly ludicrous, it must be thrilling stuff. Alas, this critic, despite doing his homework, putting in the hours and opening his mind to the fullest, found it fundamentally silly.

For someone acclaimed as a perceptive blue-collar bard, he’s rarely far from self-parody. Many of his songs sound like numbers from a Broadway musical about a guy who works in a garage. If you drank a shot every time he sang the words work, dream, streets, highway or refinery, you would be unconscious within an hour (less than halfway through the set). During Working on a Dream (two shots), he begins testifying like a southern preacher, or, more accurately, like a Saturday Night Live comedian doing an impersonation of James Brown, about building a house of lurve, a building of soul and a loft extension of hope.

But then it seems that the whole point of Springsteen is that he’s a colossal, unashamed, scenery-chewing ham. Born to Run is both the most preposterous song in his catalogue and the most heart-thumpingly joyous. Dancing in the Dark and Glory Days are elevated, rather than marred, by their corny use-before-1985 synth riffs. More of a problem than the garage-guy lyrics, the oh-lawdy business and Clarence “Big Man” Clemons‘s reliably ghastly sax solos, is the realisation that, despite Springsteen’s stature, he has very few songs that have entered the mass consciousness. Only the three just mentioned – along with Because the Night and Thunder Road – excite mass singing all the way to the back. Calls for Born in the USA go unanswered. Fair enough, because it’s a good song massacred by its bombastic arrangement and is now avoided by the very man who made it, but during long stretches of bar-band rock and American Land’s horrible Irish jig, one wished he would throw another bone to the agnostics.

There were the odd special moments. Springsteen paid tribute to his hero Joe Strummer, by opening the set with Coma Girl, a relatively unknown Mescaleros track that was written on the Glastonbury site itself. Apparently, his band learned how to play it on the tour bus down. Being bored, irritated and only occasionally thrilled by the man routinely called the most electrifying performer in rock is no fun at all. He is clearly a good guy with a heart as big as New Jersey, he radiates warmth and charisma and he is, on occasion, a marvellous songwriter. Who wouldn’t want to be converted on a Saturday night in Glastonbury? Unfortunately, this critic felt like someone standing in front of a magic-eye picture and being told that, if he stares long enough, he will see the Statue of Liberty but who finds, two-and-a-half hours later, that it’s still just squiggly lines.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds


Meet the new history boys and girls

Theory is a thing of the past for these hip young historians, says Oliver Marre

What does history mean to you? Dusty tweed in ivory towers, perhaps, or a man of a certain age, with a slightly funny voice, being both caustic and informative on television? Does it mean tramping around a site of historical interest on a wet afternoon? Or, at best, a weighty tome read by an open fire.

Today’s schoolchildren do not leap at the chance to study history – in fact, it’s no longer even a core subject. The Conservative education spokesman, Michael Gove, says that history has been dying out in Britain’s schools in the last decade – and it’s true that the percentage of pupils taking GCSEs in the subject has fallen. But that might be about to change because history is becoming cool and the fightback is being spearheaded by a group of young, fashionable writers.

They have been an actor, an artist and a TV presenter, are aged between 25 and 35 and they all have book contracts. One wrote his account of the year 1381 in a corner of the trendy London members’ club, Soho House, during leave from his day job at a men’s magazine. And rather than being looked down upon by the old guard, they are highly regarded by the academic establishment: David Starkey is considered a mentor by two of them; Simon Sebag Montefiore by others.

“They have brilliant new ideas, excellent writing and they’re exceptionally clever,” says Georgina Capel of the literary agency Capel & Land, who represents established historians Sebag-Montefiore and Tristram Hunt, and who counts four of the new crop among her clients. Her only worry is that they might be “too pretty” to be taken seriously. “They’ll just have to prove what formidable minds they have.”

So who are the new history boys (and girls) and why have they come along now, when the subject is said to be in decline? The crop of six being tipped as the Starkeys of the future are Dan Jones, Claudia Renton, Ben Wilson, John Bew, Francesca Beauman and Simon Reid-Henry. They believe the key to revitalising history is a mix of strong narratives, exciting personalities and quirky facts.

According to 31-year-old Reid-Henry – a geographer by training who is currently working on his second book for general readers – this wave of young historians has sprouted up to fill the vacuum left by the departure of theory – or the “-isms” – from mainstream academic life. “Academic history has been facing a ‘What the hell are we doing?’ moment,” he says. Claudia Renton, who is 27 and writing a biography of the Wyndham sisters (she carries their famous portrait by John Singer Sargent around with her on her iPhone), agrees: “I think writing your books with specific political aims in mind is an old-fashioned approach. It’s not particularly helpful. I think if you produce a good narrative history, which convincingly creates the world you’re writing about, then people will read it and draw their own conclusions.”

“The greatest of all crimes,” Francesca Beauman insists, “is dullness.” For her, the secret to making history compelling is to pick quirky subjects. “Two years into my degree when it came to picking subjects for our dissertations, everyone else was choosing to write about something sensible like ‘The New Deal 1933-1939′ but it seemed more fun to become the world’s expert in something nobody else knew about, hence, pineapples, the subject of my first book.”

Of the six historians, Georgina Capel represents Simon Reid-Henry, Claudia Renton, Dan Jones (27 years old; recently published a well received book on the Peasants’ Revolt); and John Bew (29; working on a book on Lord Castlereagh, the British foreign secretary who oversaw the defeat of Napoleon).

Unlike Bew and Reid-Henry, Dan Jones and Claudia Renton left university after their undergraduate degrees, he to work in journalism and she to act. Since then they have co-authored a book on historical heroes with Sebag Montefiore. “They were both wonderful,” he says now. “They are the vanguard of the new generation of talented historians and gifted storytellers. Dan’s book on the Peasants’ Revolt is both exciting and scholarly and I know that Claudia’s will be equally admirable.”

Renton is attempting to finish her book on the Wyndham sisters before beginning law school, but until recently she was juggling history with a successful acting career. It was only after starring in ITV’s Distant Shores and a run at the National Theatre in The Voysey Inheritance last year that she conceded it needed a period of full-time concentration. “I try to write about 2,000 words a day,” she says. “Although if I feel like cheating, I can always quote a really long letter.”

Renton describes writing history as “like being able to read someone else’s diary without getting busted”. She explains that, despite getting a first-class degree from Oxford and citing her tutors at Trinity College as her inspirations, it was working with Sebag Montefiore that was “the best education I could have had: write so that people can enjoy, wear your knowledge lightly. Enjoy the process, rather than trying to impress. Acting definitely informed my approach: it taught me how to get under the skin of my characters and the importance of a strong narrative line.”

Jones agrees that having a separate career can be advantageous. “Working as a journalist” – he was features editor of Men’s Health magazine – “helped me immeasurably with knowing how people like to consume biographical narrative history. I had toyed with the idea of staying in academia but I was advised not to by people at Cambridge. You see too many academics in Britain dragged down by constant paperwork and they never have the time to write much.” Jones was taught at Cambridge by Starkey, whom he describes as an “inspiration”. “Contrary to his Mr Nasty image, he has been a great patron of young historians. I am very friendly with him still.”

Ben Wilson, 29, also worked with David Starkey – he was employed after Cambridge as a researcher on Starkey’s Channel 4′s Monarchy series on Channel 4. Wilson’s third book, What Price Liberty, was published recently by Faber and, as befits a member of this pack who look forward while looking back, his was among the first books to be sold online – not through Amazon and other similar websites, but to be downloaded for whatever price people chose to pay. Based on the model used by Radiohead for their last album, the publisher made it free to access (ideally to be read on a Sony e-reader, Kindle electronic book, or even a normal computer) and asked for donations. “What was very pleasing was that some people came back and paid after they’d read it,” says Wilson.

The new historians are aware of the need to use the web to engage with their readers. While Reid-Henry points out it’s nothing new and harks back to a world of pamphleteers, Jones says it gives a good opportunity to prove the abiding relevance of history. “We can write on blogs about contemporary events seen through a historical prism,” he explains. “But we have to accept that people are not just buying books any more: when you look at a historian you’re being offered a brand and people expect you to share your lives with Twitter updates and Facebook postings, as well as your findings in your books.”

For future historians, the fact that this generation is happy to do so is fortunate indeed.

Who’s who: a little history

Simon Reid-Henry 31, educated at Cambridge. Fidel and Che was published this year by Hodder & Stoughton.

Claudia Renton 27, educated at Oxford. Her biography of the Wyndham sisters to be published by Quercus in 2010.

Dan Jones 27, educated at Cambridge. Summer of Blood, a history of the English Peasants’ Revolt, was published this year by HarperCollins.

Francesca Beauman 31, educated at Cambridge. Her third book, Shapely Ankle Preferred, a history of lonely-hearts advertisements, will be published by Chatto & Windus in 2010.

John Bew 29, educated at Cambridge. Has written a number of academic books; his latest, From Enlightenment to Tyranny, about Lord Castlereagh, is to be published by Quercus in 2010.

Ben Wilson 29, educated at Cambridge. His third book, What Price Liberty, was published this year by Faber.

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‘I like to do whatever I want’

Is it punk? Is it hip-hop? Jamie T defies categorisation with his gritty, witty vignettes of twentysomething urban life

It looks as if the evening will end with Jamie T slumped in a backstage corridor with blood spattered across his white vest. In the dressing room, his band, the Pacemakers, are exultant, cracking open cans of Kronenbourg, their debilitating hangovers of earlier in the day now vanished in the wake of a blinding gig at Northumbria University in Newcastle. But it’s the rigours of the show that have left their leader shattered: two songs in, the lights went up on the crowd and he’d thrown himself onto a sea of hands; carried to the back, he clambered up into the high-raked seating area and urged the fans there to pile down to the front. “I’ll start picking on one of you in a minute!” he warned. With his mike chord stretching back to the stage, he started a version of his Top 10 hit “Calm Down Dearest”, with the crowd of students and Geordies singing every syllable back to him, followed by a chant: “Jamie! Jamie!”

No wonder he’s spent after the gig, but then when I met him at teatime earlier in the day, he was already in the pub, drinking a pint with a sambuca to chase it and asking if we could sit outside so he could smoke. He had with him a bag of records that he’d just bought second-hand: a Fats Domino LP, the soundtrack to The Rocky Horror Show, an Iron Maiden album and more, all on vinyl. “I shouldn’t really have gone into the shop,” he admitted, pale of face but grinning, eyes flitting from side to side. Like much of what he has to say – in interview and on record – his reasoning could have been clearer, but the gist was there: “I wiped about six grand’s worth of music off my iTunes by mistake; the computer got blocked up so I tried to – this is fucking stupid – I tried to put my music on a hard drive, but I was watching that Martin Scorsese blues thing at the same time, and there’s this great bit about space in it and how someone put this Blind Willie McTell record out into the stratosphere…

“So I deleted it off my computer,” he continued, as his carrier bag blew away across the street, “but I also deleted it off my fucking hard drive… so because I don’t have a CD player, the only thing I own now is vinyl.”

It’s not easy to pin down the 23-year-old Jamie Treays. Despite critics raving about his Mercury Prize-nominated debut Panic Prevention – the Observer Music Monthly made it their second-best album of 2007 – no one was sure whether to call him a singer or a rapper, or whether the record sat within the traditions of punk or hip-hop. Starting with the bewildering rallying cry “Fucking croissant!” the tracks careered past with an energy reminiscent of the Clash, the lyrics dense with imagery spat out to conjure an impressionistic picture of young London: “Girls singing on the bus, fellas kicking up a fuss”; the reek of a crack pipe in Trafalgar Square; the splash of spilt lager and subsequent recriminations. There was even a sample of John Betjeman, reading his poem “The Cockney Amorist”.

In person, he’s mischievous, often evasive, with words whistling through his crooked gnashers. I say to him that no one knows quite what to make of him and he says, smiling: “I know, but I like that. I do whatever I want, I’m not watching anyone else, I’m not trying to fit into any box.”

Revelations that he comes from a middle-class family in suburban Wimbledon, and for a period went to the same Surrey public school as Tim Henman, might have invited scrutiny of his authenticity, but this rather misses the point that ever since the Rolling Stones emerged out of Richmond, the social mobility that has energised British pop has worked both ways. His birthright lets him mimic Bob Dylan to me one minute, the comedian Chris Morris in character as ragga singer Carlton “Killawatt” Valley the next and then sing a snatch of Queen (“I texted my mate once to say I thought they were the best pop band in the world, and he texted back: ‘That’s a funny way of coming out…’”)

Endearingly fogeyish, he says the last gig he went to was the Specials at Brixton, and “I’ve heard of this Twitter thing but I don’t really understand it. I don’t want to sound like a dick, but I don’t use the internet much”. But he’s keen to leap to the defence of his own generation, too, even if he’ll run a mile from being painted as their spokesman. “I don’t know about modern music much,” he’ll say, “but kids today are probably more like kids in Japan. From what I know, which is very little, I’ve never been there, they go out in punk rock gear and the next day they’re Teddy boys. Culture is changing – it’s put on, put off. But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. It’s a new generation and all you old cunts can fuck off! It doesn’t mean there aren’t still [different pop] tribes, and people grow up in the same old shit.”

Lurking on the edges of his song is a political awareness if not an agenda. “I don’t talk about politics because it’s not something I’m educated in,” he insists. “It annoys me when people start getting righteous in bands. But then again some of my favourite bands are pretty righteous. Ha ha ha!”

It took 18 months to tour Panic Prevention, of which Treays says with a puff of his cheeks: “I’m not saying it’s a hard job, because it’s not, but it does take a lot out of you and at the end there’s a bit of Vietnam veteran syndrome. I was having a hard time.” Hunkered down in the studio constructed in the shed at the bottom of the garden of the house that he now shares with his older brother – down the road from their parents – he started work on an album of acoustic songs. “I’ve got a friend who likes wearing brown cardigans and Ray-Bans and sitting around feeling depressed about his life and he introduced me to people like Ryan Adams and a lot of folk. And I hate the way people say ‘I found Dylan’ but … that’s what happened!”

Despite this, Treays soon found he was bored of this new direction and he scrapped the sessions. Instead, with his friend Ben Bones, who produced Panic Prevention and plays drums with the Pacemakers, he started piecing together the scarcely less polished but even better album that will come out in August with the title Kings & Queens. It’s preceded by an EP this month which gives a good taste of the new material, particularly the title track, “Sticks ‘n’ Stones”. Laugh-out-loud lines include: “As I travel down the track all my memories flood back/ We were running like infantry men back to your mamma’s flat/ It’s the only place but home I feel relaxed enough to crap/ I know it sounds crude, but there’s something in that.”

“It’s based on real life,” Treays says to me of the song over his second lager. “It’s the idea of: ‘I remember you smoking weed in the park and now you’re working in the city. What’s going on?’ I don’t really know any stockbrokers, but then again, when you’re writing songs, you can make things up. What annoys me is, though, is when people ask me what my songs are about. It fucks me off. Find out for yourself! I fucking wrote them – listen to them. I don’t want to sit here and talk about them.”

Pity his poor A&R man. “We rang him, man, and said: ‘We think we’ve got the single. Yeah, we think it’s really good, it’s wicked.’ We’d found all these lift versions of songs” – classics rerecorded as muzak – “and we sent him ‘Highway from Hell’ with me singing it like wosshisface from AC/DC and it was really horrible. I know he wasn’t amused. I found it fucking funny. Oh well.”

Following that evening’s gig and sweat-stained singalongs of hits past and future, it doesn’t look as if Treays is in any state to speak, but it turns out the blood on his T-shirt is simply the result of a nicked thumb, and he’s soon enough on his feet again and heading off to a student ska night. “Pressure-wise, if anything gets too much, I just run away,” he had said earlier. “I still get freaked out when people know who I am, it’s still uncomfortable- although I love performing. I can’t work it out myself!” He concludes: “As the Eagles said, just take it easy.”

• Caspar Llewellyn Smith is editor of Observer Music Monthly. Jamie T’s Sticks ‘n’ Stones EP is released on Virgin tomorrow

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June 24, 1993: Concert Goes Live on NetJune 24, 2000: President Goes Live on Net

June 24: It’s the anniversary of two internet milestones: The geek band Severe Tire Damage performs the first live net concert on this date in 1993, and exactly seven years later Bill Clinton delivers the president’s weekend “radio address” by web for the first time.
1993: The internet was moving from military to mainstream, and [...]

June 16, 1959: George Reeves, Superman, Felled by Speeding Bullet

1959: Los Angeles police arrive at the home of 45-year-old actor George Reeves, famous for his role as TV’s Superman, and find him naked and dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Ruled as a suicide, Reeves’ death inspires a series of conspiracy theories and the interpretive biopic Hollywoodland, as well as [...]

June 15, 1878: Muybridge Horses Around With Motion Pictures

1878: Photographer Eadweard Muybridge uses high-speed stop-motion photography to capture a horse’s motion. The photos prove that the horse has all four feet in the air during some parts of its stride. The shots settle an old argument … and start a new medium and industry.
Former California Governor Leland Stanford financed Muybridge’s photo experiments. They [...]