Breakspoll Nomination and Meeting The Boomchucka Circus
We are happy to announce we have been nominated in the seventh international Breakspoll for the Best Live Act, so please spare a couple of minutes to cast your vote here:
http://www.breakspoll.com/vote.asp
You don't have to make a vote in every slot, but please consider supporting some of our friends in the following categories:
Best Single: Mr Frisk - Let Me Out
Best Remix: Subsource - This Town (Hook N Sling Remix)
Best Large Club Night: Synergy
Best Small Club Night: Monster Monster / Archangel Breaks / Planet Angel / Soundcrash
Best DJ: Far Too Loud
Breakthrough DJ: Freshold
It's mightily probable that a rather well known drum n bass act might well clinch the best live act title from us, but every vote'll help put us on the map.
In preparation for the upcoming journey to Palestine I went to meet the good folks at the Boomchucka Circus in Bristol where they were just finishing up their first rehearsal session - a marathon 9-5 one at that. Ruth, Sheila and Annie were in the midst of practising a couple of routines and organising the running order of the show. I was greeted with a slightly muted response which I put down to them just about getting to the end of an eight hour rehearsal. I imagined that after an eight hour rehearsal with Subsource, I'd probably be burbling like an overstewed vegetable, so was content with an exchange of monosyllabic greetings whilst they wrapped things up for the day.
I got to sit down with them afterwards. Their primary question, "Have you ever done anything like this before?". They seemed like straight-answer people.
"No."
The conversation that followed revealed what the real intent of the question was getting at, bringing up very real issues that I hadn't even thought of. Rather than discussing my documentary CV or my technical prowess behind a camera as I thought they might (which is a good job, because as a big believer in figuring things out as you go, I'm pretty much winging it), they were more interested in how I'd cope in a foreign country away from home. Being aware and sensitive to others' religious and social customs isn't just for etiquette and grace, but a guide to avoid arrest, avoid being kicked out from our hosts' residences and possibly much, much worse. As a British-born foreigner in my home country, I feel pretty well prepared. It's not explicitly on the national curriculum, but coming up through the educational system in a small town where there are only two Chinese families, you learn to blend in and follow what the others do even if they're procedures you don't follow at home. Out there, I really don't think I'd make a pig of it.
Looking fairly traumatised, they reminisced over some of the darker stories to have come out of the past annual trips, and perhaps this explained the earlier sceptical greetings - other individuals that had been out with them before had lost the bottle somewhat whilst out there and their irrational behaviour had caused a good deal of unnecessary stress. After an uncomfortably long pause that allowed just enough time for me to imagine what disastrous consequences could have unfolded at the West Bank Barrier involving a brash, sunstroked Londoner, a bunch of armed guards and some children that needed 'saving' from a cave, conversation was diverted to Dirt and Goat Curry.
I'm well accustomed to the art of eating foreign cuisine when it matters that you don't upset your host. Firstly if at all possible, you'll make life a million times easier for you if you don't ask what it is until after you've finished. It's important that you've swallowed the last bit AND removed any debris from your teeth because clawing away at your throat and spitting out enamel chunks during post-meal chit-chat isn't polite anywhere. If they do insist on telling you what it is (which usually means that they consider it a delicacy and puts more pressure on you to not just eat every last bit but also take a second serving if offered), the trick is to approximate it to something palatable, but just think of as having turned slightly. In most cases, some combination of month-old chicken/fish/cheese will do. Most uni students have learned to stomach the basics anyway.
My Dad's advice when travelling has become Law. If you've got your passport and your wallet, you can get away with forgetting anything else.
"Is it hard to get a visa for Palestine?"
"Er.. probably it's best not to mention that you're going to Palestine until we get to the border, then we just sort it all out there", Ruth offered with a somewhat pained expression on her face.
Ruth, not just a circus entertainer (poi spinner/fire eater/stilt-walker) but also a self-empoyed events organiser, she booked us for a show back in November 2006. (We all certainly remember this one pretty well.) Seemingly very organised, we bumped into her several times over last year's festival season - usually doing something important-looking or entrepreneurial. She was due to drive to Cardiff after the rehearsal for a fire-eating gig but she was supposed to borrow Annie's car, which died there and then. It sounded like an opportunity to get some photo shots, so I offered a lift whilst we left Annie waiting for pickup services. En route, we stopped off at Annie's Mum's house for Ruth to grab her gear. After no answer knocking on the door, she'd shimmied with cat-like acrobaticity over the fence (or perhaps burglar-like given the hat she was wearing) and returned, confused as to why the lights on at the rear gave the appearance that somebody was in. After 10 more minutes of knocking and waiting, she'd resigned herself to having to return to Annie to grab a key, I thought I'd try the doorbell. Annie's Mum answered the door almost immediately with offers of home-made lemon tea. Ruth looked at me sheepishly.
Arriving at the Revolution Vodka Bar, knowing she had work to do, I told her I'd catch up with her later for the show. The next ninety minutes passed pretty slowly - being in a foreign country plagued with internal instability and guerilla uprisings would be a piece of piss compared to being a teetotaller in a vodka bar like this.
Somehow I don't think Allah would approve.
The next time I caught up with Ruth, she was four inches taller and dressed to the nines. The music was loud and pumping, so in the post-gig compliments to her, I'm not sure if she noticed that I'd regressed to giddy schoolboy status for the duration of her corset-wearing, avoiding eye contact and choking on my own sentences. Whilst her show with the Lost Vagueness burlesque troop was awesome, the party and vibe was really not in line with what either of us thought constituted to somewhere bearable. "I think we really need to get the fuck out of here."
Ruth got in the car smelling of a sweet kerosene scent left over from the fire-eating.
Since I was making my own way to Israel and meeting them somewhere there, I wanted to be absolutely sure I knew I'd do things right and wouldn't get turned away at airport security. I'd read up a little on the whole situation, but not entirely sure of the whole thing. "So do I have to ask them to not stamp my passport at Israel in order to avoid hostility at the West Bank gates?". With the same pained expression as earlier, she said I just need to go to Israel as a tourist but not to mention Palestine at all.
It turned out that on her first tour there, she had no idea of anything. She had gone there straight from the Netherlands, and when asked where and why she was going to Israel, she'd told them straight about going to Palestine as part of a circus. If you think about it, it is a pretty ridiculous story and the security at the time must have decided she was taking the piss, and gave her a full interrogation and strip search. This was further compounded by the fact that they'd found traces of explosive material on her clothing. "Probably kerosene", I offered. Eight hours in airport security in total, plus being implored and begged by an almost hysterical female Israeli guard to not cross into Palestine for fear of her being raped and killed. I suspect after already having paid the admission price of someone go up your ass with a latex glove, you're not likely to just give up.
Ruth told me that out of the people that were with them on the first tour, only her and Sheila had kept the flame going and now they had taken over the organisation. "What keeps you going back there?".
"Well, it's mostly based on this one wild night of a party that me and Sheila had one night in Palestine," she said with a romantically, nostalgic glaze. "I was totally wrecked." I didn't ask any more and left that thought to resonate to the sound of Radio One's rolling beats. We've all had moments like that in our lives - a reference point for other hedonistic experiences to fail to live up to until the next one comes along. I have no idea what to expect from the trip, but new experiences await.
The Boomchucka Circus relies on sponsorships and the rest is self-funded, if you would like to contribute financially, please get in touch with them or myself. Thanks loads!
Oh, don't forget to vote!
http://www.breakspoll.com/vote.asp
You don't have to make a vote in every slot, but please consider supporting some of our friends in the following categories:
Best Single: Mr Frisk - Let Me Out
Best Remix: Subsource - This Town (Hook N Sling Remix)
Best Large Club Night: Synergy
Best Small Club Night: Monster Monster / Archangel Breaks / Planet Angel / Soundcrash
Best DJ: Far Too Loud
Breakthrough DJ: Freshold
It's mightily probable that a rather well known drum n bass act might well clinch the best live act title from us, but every vote'll help put us on the map.
In preparation for the upcoming journey to Palestine I went to meet the good folks at the Boomchucka Circus in Bristol where they were just finishing up their first rehearsal session - a marathon 9-5 one at that. Ruth, Sheila and Annie were in the midst of practising a couple of routines and organising the running order of the show. I was greeted with a slightly muted response which I put down to them just about getting to the end of an eight hour rehearsal. I imagined that after an eight hour rehearsal with Subsource, I'd probably be burbling like an overstewed vegetable, so was content with an exchange of monosyllabic greetings whilst they wrapped things up for the day.
I got to sit down with them afterwards. Their primary question, "Have you ever done anything like this before?". They seemed like straight-answer people.
"No."
The conversation that followed revealed what the real intent of the question was getting at, bringing up very real issues that I hadn't even thought of. Rather than discussing my documentary CV or my technical prowess behind a camera as I thought they might (which is a good job, because as a big believer in figuring things out as you go, I'm pretty much winging it), they were more interested in how I'd cope in a foreign country away from home. Being aware and sensitive to others' religious and social customs isn't just for etiquette and grace, but a guide to avoid arrest, avoid being kicked out from our hosts' residences and possibly much, much worse. As a British-born foreigner in my home country, I feel pretty well prepared. It's not explicitly on the national curriculum, but coming up through the educational system in a small town where there are only two Chinese families, you learn to blend in and follow what the others do even if they're procedures you don't follow at home. Out there, I really don't think I'd make a pig of it.
Looking fairly traumatised, they reminisced over some of the darker stories to have come out of the past annual trips, and perhaps this explained the earlier sceptical greetings - other individuals that had been out with them before had lost the bottle somewhat whilst out there and their irrational behaviour had caused a good deal of unnecessary stress. After an uncomfortably long pause that allowed just enough time for me to imagine what disastrous consequences could have unfolded at the West Bank Barrier involving a brash, sunstroked Londoner, a bunch of armed guards and some children that needed 'saving' from a cave, conversation was diverted to Dirt and Goat Curry.
I'm well accustomed to the art of eating foreign cuisine when it matters that you don't upset your host. Firstly if at all possible, you'll make life a million times easier for you if you don't ask what it is until after you've finished. It's important that you've swallowed the last bit AND removed any debris from your teeth because clawing away at your throat and spitting out enamel chunks during post-meal chit-chat isn't polite anywhere. If they do insist on telling you what it is (which usually means that they consider it a delicacy and puts more pressure on you to not just eat every last bit but also take a second serving if offered), the trick is to approximate it to something palatable, but just think of as having turned slightly. In most cases, some combination of month-old chicken/fish/cheese will do. Most uni students have learned to stomach the basics anyway.
My Dad's advice when travelling has become Law. If you've got your passport and your wallet, you can get away with forgetting anything else.
"Is it hard to get a visa for Palestine?"
"Er.. probably it's best not to mention that you're going to Palestine until we get to the border, then we just sort it all out there", Ruth offered with a somewhat pained expression on her face.
Ruth, not just a circus entertainer (poi spinner/fire eater/stilt-walker) but also a self-empoyed events organiser, she booked us for a show back in November 2006. (We all certainly remember this one pretty well.) Seemingly very organised, we bumped into her several times over last year's festival season - usually doing something important-looking or entrepreneurial. She was due to drive to Cardiff after the rehearsal for a fire-eating gig but she was supposed to borrow Annie's car, which died there and then. It sounded like an opportunity to get some photo shots, so I offered a lift whilst we left Annie waiting for pickup services. En route, we stopped off at Annie's Mum's house for Ruth to grab her gear. After no answer knocking on the door, she'd shimmied with cat-like acrobaticity over the fence (or perhaps burglar-like given the hat she was wearing) and returned, confused as to why the lights on at the rear gave the appearance that somebody was in. After 10 more minutes of knocking and waiting, she'd resigned herself to having to return to Annie to grab a key, I thought I'd try the doorbell. Annie's Mum answered the door almost immediately with offers of home-made lemon tea. Ruth looked at me sheepishly.
Arriving at the Revolution Vodka Bar, knowing she had work to do, I told her I'd catch up with her later for the show. The next ninety minutes passed pretty slowly - being in a foreign country plagued with internal instability and guerilla uprisings would be a piece of piss compared to being a teetotaller in a vodka bar like this.
Somehow I don't think Allah would approve.
The next time I caught up with Ruth, she was four inches taller and dressed to the nines. The music was loud and pumping, so in the post-gig compliments to her, I'm not sure if she noticed that I'd regressed to giddy schoolboy status for the duration of her corset-wearing, avoiding eye contact and choking on my own sentences. Whilst her show with the Lost Vagueness burlesque troop was awesome, the party and vibe was really not in line with what either of us thought constituted to somewhere bearable. "I think we really need to get the fuck out of here."
Ruth got in the car smelling of a sweet kerosene scent left over from the fire-eating.
Since I was making my own way to Israel and meeting them somewhere there, I wanted to be absolutely sure I knew I'd do things right and wouldn't get turned away at airport security. I'd read up a little on the whole situation, but not entirely sure of the whole thing. "So do I have to ask them to not stamp my passport at Israel in order to avoid hostility at the West Bank gates?". With the same pained expression as earlier, she said I just need to go to Israel as a tourist but not to mention Palestine at all.
It turned out that on her first tour there, she had no idea of anything. She had gone there straight from the Netherlands, and when asked where and why she was going to Israel, she'd told them straight about going to Palestine as part of a circus. If you think about it, it is a pretty ridiculous story and the security at the time must have decided she was taking the piss, and gave her a full interrogation and strip search. This was further compounded by the fact that they'd found traces of explosive material on her clothing. "Probably kerosene", I offered. Eight hours in airport security in total, plus being implored and begged by an almost hysterical female Israeli guard to not cross into Palestine for fear of her being raped and killed. I suspect after already having paid the admission price of someone go up your ass with a latex glove, you're not likely to just give up.
Ruth told me that out of the people that were with them on the first tour, only her and Sheila had kept the flame going and now they had taken over the organisation. "What keeps you going back there?".
"Well, it's mostly based on this one wild night of a party that me and Sheila had one night in Palestine," she said with a romantically, nostalgic glaze. "I was totally wrecked." I didn't ask any more and left that thought to resonate to the sound of Radio One's rolling beats. We've all had moments like that in our lives - a reference point for other hedonistic experiences to fail to live up to until the next one comes along. I have no idea what to expect from the trip, but new experiences await.
The Boomchucka Circus relies on sponsorships and the rest is self-funded, if you would like to contribute financially, please get in touch with them or myself. Thanks loads!
Oh, don't forget to vote!
