I'm listening to 'Happy Ending' by MIKA right now, which is possibly one of the best songs I've heard in a long long while. On a whim this evening, I thought - "Isn't he playing in London soon? Hmmm... Perhaps I'll buy tickets?" Unfortunately it looks like I'm a little too late for that, as his myspace page informs me that all his London shows, which (wait for it) aren't till December, are completely sold out!
I can't believe it. I am in so much pain. Not just because I think he is absolutely fantastic, but because if I hadn't been such a moody billy goat a few years ago, I would probably have been able to call him up 5 minutes ago and request tickets from him myself, instead of being forced to stage a dramatic mourning session in the middle of my living room for the benefit of my very irritated brother.
Five years ago, on a random school day, my friend Zozo (who you may or may not remember from my rendezvous with The Jigga Man) came to me, and asked me if one of the boys in her art class could paint me. At first I thought, "Uh... Why?" but then decided I'd hear him out. His name was Mica, and I had no clue who he was. I was new to a school that was smack bang in the centre of London, and all that was on my recently-liberated mind at the time, was hopping from club to club and shop to shop like some mad, energised bunny on heat!
So I went to the Art building, to meet this Mica. And in walked the skinniest boy I had ever seen! He had these huge eyes that kinda drowned out the rest of his face. His cheekbones were so high and so pronounced that he looked a little like a ghost, but a ghost with an exotic past life, if that makes any sense.
Anyway, Mica and I chatted for all of thirty seconds, in which I began to think that being painted by a lanky emaciated boy in the year above me, might not be such a bad idea. He then said that he wanted me to wear something specific whilst he painted me, and that he hoped I would like it. I can't remember exactly, but I think Zozo was also in the room, and she gave me this funny look that made me just a little apprehensive.
Mica walked into a side room, and then came back in holding what was, and still is, the smallest, tightest corset I had ever seen in my life. I gave him a look that implied that I thought he was retarded. First of all, there was no way I was going to be able to fit into that thing. And furthermore, there was no way I was going to stand in the middle of a very cold, very large room, wearing it on my not so toned, not so flab-free body, whilst this strange boy (who had made the corset by himself, with me in mind - I was flattered, but just slightly freaked out) painted me! I was pretty slim back then, but exercise was a very foreign, nay, alien, concept to me, and I much preferred to maintain the illusion that underneath my regulation-imposed school clothing was a fabulous, sculpted, trophy-worthy bod!
So I said "No" to Mica. And he looked like I had just destroyed him or something. He even sent his Art tutor to me a couple of days later to ask if I had changed my mind. Apparently the painting couldn't work without me, and it was going to play a huge part in his A-level portfolio.
Still, I said "No".
I never found out what became of his portfolio. I think in the end he used a girl in his year as his model. But even though our school wasn't exactly a gynormous one, I rarely saw him after that. I think he tended to keep a low profile, and I did so too at the time, so aside from one awkward "Hello" or the other when we walked past each other (like once a month) on our way to classes, I didn't speak to him again. Anyway, before you get the wrong idea and walk away believing (as I may or may not have led you to believe) that this guy, who has now become a global superstar had some kind of unhealthy fixation with Oluwabitchyola, I think it would be best if I shared one teeny detail.
I was the only black girl at our school. And I was a black girl with very long, very sizzling black braids. I don't think it was me he wanted specifically, I think it was my skin colour, and my hair, and what he thought would contrast brilliantly against the corset and the backdrop he had created.
So if you were looking for a story that would have me gloating at the end, as having once been the object of desire of someone who now has a No. 1 under his belt, and who is probably the sexiest Rock god to hit the British Isles since Freddie Mercury, uh.... I'm afraid you will have to look elsewhere.
This and 'Love Today' are my absolute favourites. And 'Happy Ending' of course. It's so weird because even though I barely knew him, I am SO so happy for him!
Christ! I really should be working. But Jeremy has commanded a post on this issue, so here I am, several hours earlier than intended.
What is it about me succumbing to people's wishes and commands of late? I was never like this before! In the past, I was a mule. If you told me (or suggested to me) what to do, I'd tell you, in plain and simple English, to piss off. On Saturday for example, my HauTe editrix demanded that I do some PR for the magazine. I had other plans. But no, being the great mumu that I am nowadays, I ended up spending two hours copying and pasting pictures, and attempting to construct 'witty' prose.
Scheeeuuw!
Naij - A documentary.
Before I begin, I would like to say that the organisers of the premiere really kinda got on my nerves in the run up to yesterday. I applied for an invitation to the premiere aeons ago, and also asked for their You Tube embed code, so that I could put the documentary's trailer on my Afro Beat blog (more shameless PR there, but whatever...) for publicity and awareness' sake.
They replied saying that they couldn't let me have the code, even though the blog was members only at the time, for 'copy right' reasons. A week later I found a You Tube embedded box (showcasing the premiere) sitting pretty on a friend's webpage. Turns out he knew the somebody of the director, or maybe the somebody of the somebody of the director. Who knows! (Gosh I really should stop with all this hating and bad bele-ing, and get to the good stuff!)
Anyway, so after giving me serious isho on the embed code front, they then said they'd run out of tickets for the screening but would be having another one soon. True to their word, they emailed me a month later saying the next screening would hold on April 29th at the Cine' Lumiere, and attached an invitation bearing my name.
Their very strict instructions stated that on receiving the invite, I should confirm my intention to attend immediately so as to secure my place on the guestlist, and that I should waste the colour ink (that stuff is expensive!) in my fancy printer, by printing a copy of their full colour invitation to guarantee admission. I didn't reply immediately because I was slightly irritated by all the protocol, but little did I know what next they had in store.
Three days later (I kid you not) I received an email saying something along the lines of - "You recently received an invitation to the premiere of Naij. Kindly note that until you respond in the requisite manner, your admittance to the venue will not be...." blah blah blah.
I huffed and puffed about their blockheadedness to anyone around me who would listen (basically, the four walls of my flat - even the Yote didn't have time to waste on such an issue) but sharply heeded their command. (I dared not front. I wanted to be on that exclusive list!)
This all happened about a month ago.
Yesterday, after a somewhat tumultous afternoon, I waded through the Knightsbridge area and arrived at South Kensington tube station. My friends (the poor victims of the movement for the cultural emancipation of OluwaBitchiola) were late, as I'd expected, so I made my way to the venue without them. Along the way I got stopped by not one, not two, but three sets of individuals of negroid persuasion, who sighted my clumsy A to Z and asked 'oh so innocently' if I knew which way the Cine' Lumiere was. Obviously I did! I had a bloody A to Z with me! (Bitchy did not go to this event with the intent to make new friends, Bitchy is bitchy, as you ought to know by now. Hehe...)
I finally got to the door, gave my name to the doorman guy, and found a gift bag being thrust into my hand, with smiles from affiliates and comrades of the director all round. In my head I thought, "can these really be the same people who sent all those uppity emails?" Who would have thought that they would shine their eyes so bright, and be so kind as to hand out cookies and Fanta (which I had changed to a Coke... what a diva), and meat pies. Had I known they would be so generous, I wouldn't have wasted a ridiculous amount of money on lunch in the area. Just kidding... teehee! I don't do meat pies. On days when I crave Mr. Biggs-esque delicacies, I go hunting for scotch eggs and sausage rolls. The real stuff. Mmmm.... Yummy!
Within half an hour, we were seated, and the show was about to begin.
The director, Jide, a young investment banker, gave a short introductory speech about the reasoning behind the project, and its intended outcome. Even though I'd been briefed on his stats by my resident gossip columnist, and knew that he was pretty young (as directors go), I still found that I was very impressed by the committment he had shown over two years to a project that could not have been easy... or cheap!
The documentary took the audience from about 1954 to 2007 in two and a half hours. We didn't once get bored, neither did we fall asleep, as in the case of Bamako. My friends and I still haven't gotten over that atrocious film by the way. In fact, just as the opening tune was being played (the national anthem of course), Maxine turned to me and whispered - "Bitchy, this better not be Bamako part two oh!"
And it wasn't.
We sat through incredible archive footage spanning from the petition for independence presented in London by eminent Nigerians (including Fela's mother) and the conferences by African intellectuals such as Nkrumah, Kenyatta, Awolowo, all the way to the current Obasanjo regime. The route (it really did feel like a journey) went something like this (I apologise in advance for any errors or misyarns at this stage. My memory is appalling. And also, feel free to skip this part of my post if you're a pro on Nigerian history)...
Petitions for independence by proud African nationalists (amongst which were many prominent Nigerians), the eventual granting of representation in a white-run parliament at home, a 1956 or so visit from Queen E'liza (as Osuofia would call her), the setting of a date in 1960 for independence.
The make up of the first Nigerian-run parliament (Awolowo, Tafawa Balewa, Okotie-Eboh (a wiley finance minister), the Sardauna of Sokoto, Azikiwe (a lot of people are still yet to learn that he really was just a figure head) etc), the internal strife and political backbiting and inefficiency. I had always wondered why my Yoruba uncles were full of little adulation for Awo - a man that I had been told was 'the father of the Yorubas'.
The first military coup by mid-ranking Ibo officers, the merciless slaughter of the Sardauna, Awo's imprisonment. The counter coup and rescue by another military officer (Aguiyi Ironsi), whose first press conference was hilarious - the guy really hadn't thought through any cohesive plan for the nation at all!
The northern coup, which saw many Igbos slaughtered, was led by figures such as Murtala Mohammed, but which eventually brought Yakubu Gowon to power. The peace talks in Ghana between Ojukwu and Gowon (Ojukwu wasn't having any of that cigar/food and wine-sharing nonsense).
The Biafran War - footage from mercenaries, international networks, it was incredible. Ojukwu's flight, Phillip Effiong's surrender, Gowon's mercy, and his government's subsequent inefficiency.
A coup to oust Gowon, led (I think, this could be wrong) by Obasanjo, Danjuma etc, which had Murtala Mohammed at its head. Murtala's assassination, the lost potential, the nation's widespread mourning, the firing squad death of suspects, Obasanjo's assumption of power, and the handover to Civilan rule - Shagari.
Corruption in Shagari's weak and useless regime, civilian unrest, the Buhari-led coup that brought in W.A.I - the War Against Independence, the brutality of that short regime, a botched attempt to kidnap Dikko from London (hilarious!!), Buhari's overthrow by Babangida (I could be wrong at this point as there was a whole part in the story they deliberately missed out because it was just the same people repeating the same mistakes or something)
Babangida's regime, the decline in the naira because of the worldwide oil glut, the Nigerian Mafia's drug invasion of America, the abandonment of government scholars in foreign countries, the advent of 419, June 12, Abiola's shady dealings, the annulment of the election, MKO's arrest, Shonekan's 'interim government' and Abacha (the defence minister in Shonekan's cabinet)'s assumption of power.
The Abacha years, the rediscovery of religion, new wave preachers, oppression, MKO's death, and Abacha's God-sent heart attack.
Abdusallami Abubakar, the handover to democracy, Obasanjo's release, 1999, Obasanjo's campaign and victory. The incredible changes between 1999 and 2007 that the nation has completely forgotten about, and an analysis of the dangerous failure to redistribute the newly acquired wealth to the poor.
Having written all this, I really have become aware of a sense of gratitude that I now feel towards Jide and his team. Prior to yesterday, I had struggled, and failed to put the pieces of my country's history (my history) together. My friends and I had often lamented about our complete ignorance of its complexity, and now, for the first time really, I've gotten to see that there truly is a fascinating story behind Nigeria. I no longer see Nigeria as a wreckage, a ship with no destination, substance or hope. I see it for the difficult experiment that it is (for that is what it has been all along), and for the immense challenge it represents to any person or group who attempts to control it or steer it in one united direction.
The Naij documentary was fascinating - I hate that word, but it was!! It was surreal in the beginning, when the Sardauna and Balewa opened mouths out of which popped some of the most upper class, Winston Churchill-esque accents I had ever heard in black men. And it was hilarious to observe the steep decline in the fone' as time went on. I had always wondered why my grandfather (who will be 90 this year) sounded like such a pompous tosser! On the telephone, he could pass for a member of the royal family, and I don't mean Prince William, I'm talking Prince Philly! You know, "Hyar, hyar" and all that osh pigosh!
To Jide at al, congratulations, c'etait fabuleux, long may you reign, more greeease to your wrist, etcetera etceteroo.
As part of my movement for the cultural enlightenment and emancipation of Bitchy (or OluwaBitchiola as I was christened after the razz outbursts of last month) I went to see Bamako.
Before I went, I told the Yote of my intention. He replied - "that's a little arty farty for you".
In Yote speak that meant "You won't enjoy it. Why on earth are you going?" but unfortunately at the time we were speaking I'd forgotten to put on my translator hearing-aid, and so didn't heed the advice of the wise one.
To cut a long story short, the Yote was right. I did not enjoy it.
Several people have already benefited from my long tirade about what a terrible film it was, but I would just like to share my view with the world in case Stephen Spielberg or Spike Lee voices a similar opinion in a week's time prompting a 360 degree revolution in world opinion on Sissako's project. And we all know I won't get any credit when that happens.
I suppose my take on the movie could be considered overly critical, so permit me to explain my starting point. Here are a few things I believe about cinema and the medium of film:
1) A film should be an experience, be it a pleasant one or not.
2) If a film is being shown in the West, it should be judged with the same criteria applied to all other films showing in the West, regardless of its origin. Meaning, the film should not be patronised with praise given simply because of the fact that it is based on Africa, set in Africa, and made by an African.
Bamako basically follows events in a makeshift courtroom where the plaintiff is Africa and her people, and the defendant is the World Bank, the IMF, the G8, multinationals and all such other Western powers/corporate entities. The courtroom is in a rural compound attached to some houses, and the inhabitants of said house carry on with their comings and goings as if the courtroom were not going on in their backyard.
Whether or not my synopsis is factually accurate, that is sha the general plot. Reading that, you're probably thinking (like I foolishly did) - "Wow, that sounds really interesting!"
WRONG!
Bamako had all the potential to be a captivating and clever film, but instead it was the dullest thing I have seen in a long time which sent me to sleep THREE... I repeat... THREE times. I would say that's a remarkable feat, given that it was only two and a half hours long.
The movie is basically one cleverly-worded lecture after another. There is nothing spontaneous or real about what happens in the courtroom. The lectures (I'm sorry... "testimonies") after the first ten minutes become tedious and snore-inducing. Sissako ought to have asked himself why it is that such lectures (on poverty, globalisation, debt, emigration, poverty, globalisation, debt... you get the picture!) are rarely given in blacked-out theatres. Perhaps its because in such environments, even if the speaker is the most enthralling specialist on the planet, the viewer's chemical faculties are more easily triggered, and he will fall ASLEEP?
None of the 'clever' elements in the film were introduced subtly. You could almost hear Sissako screeching "Look at me!! Aren't I clever?" with every multi-layered/quirky maneouvre. To illustrate... at the start of the film, to make it clear that the inhabitants of the backyard were going about their business as though the courtroom was not there, he showed the madame of the house having the straps of her top tied by her house-boy, in the way your mother/girlfriend would ask you to "zip her up". I thought that was clever until he showed it happening AGAIN on Day 2.
What else did I hate?
The Arguments.
Africa was depicted as a pathetic shell of her former self. I had problems with that depiction, but not (before you suggest it) because I'm some misguided Afro-centric nationalist who deplores any impression of the motherland that departs from the imagery of her beauty and riches. I had a problem with the depiction because it was simply incessant whingeing.
Yes, Africa is in a terrible state at the moment... The situation is more than terrible, more than bleak, I get it. The white man robbed her of her man-power through slavery, broke her spirit through colonialism and emptied (and continues to empty) her coffers through World Bank/IMF-sponsored economic policies. I get that too. Africa has been crippled by the West. Yes, I get that. Most of us who have ever looked into this issue for longer than 2 seconds (and who will probably be the only ones to ever go out of our way to watch the film) know all this.
Because we know all this, we also know that poverty, disease and desperation are not the only things that define Africa. We know that some of Africa's territories are breaking away from the cycle of desperation despite having to face these very obstacles the individuals in Bamako whinge about for so long. We know that Africa will get nowhere if her people are encouraged to sit on their asses and mope and moan about how badly they've been wronged by the West. The West knows its wronged us (well the powers that be do) and the West will continue to wrong us if we don't get our shit in gear or start taking matters into our own hands, and instead persist with the kind of attitude promoted in Bamako.
Another thing we (viewers) know is that Africa's 'citizens' share a considerable portion of the blame that the movie lays so shamelessly on the West. Our contributions (I speak not of crooked politicians alone) are/were instrumental to the huge mess Africa is in now. What Sissako implies through Bamako (Hey! That rhymes!) is that Africa has every right to blame the West for her misfortunes, and should keep on doing so for every single misfortune that arises from here on end!
Is that the message of progress? To sit around waiting for handouts from other sovereign nations when we will soon be (and in the case of Ghana, are already) celebrating the 50th anniversaries of our own sovereignty? Even though this may look like I'm trivialising the past (and continuing) sufferings of Africa, I can't help but be reminded of road accident victims in Lagos. You hit Mr. Passerby with your car, take him to hospital, foot the bill, and then get a phone call a week later from Mr. Passerby saying that his mother is sick and you must pay for that too, and another call a month later saying that he can't find work because times are tough, and so you must pay for his child's schoolfees.
To the optimistic or perhaps more academic eye, it may not look like that is what Bamako was doing. But to me, it did.
The only way I can think to conclude is to say that perhaps Bamako wasn't intended for an African audience. I don't think it can have been. Firstly, because it provides a purely unconstructive forum for 'victim' mentality which is the last thing Africa needs. And secondly, because it is just too damn boring for any African to sit through.
Bitchy is retiring. Feel free to pick holes in her long-ass argument. Shey BlogWorld is all about free speech? In any case she can handle a show-down on the comments page, so bring it on.
I'm sitting with my mother in a lounge in the airport. We're talking, and laughing, and enjoying my last hour in Lagos, when a pack of ghetto-fab people arrive. One's face is buried beneath waist-long dreadlocks, another is in a tight muscle-top (through which a blossoming pot-belly is visible from certain angles), another has tribal marks on his face, is wearing a cheap suit, and clearly doesn't belong. All are wearing sunglasses - the airport as you know is indoors.
I can see Mother's thoughts running through her mind. In a former life, I believe her name would have been Snobby Snobberson. She later confirmed that she was indeed thinking something along the lines of - "Who the hell are these? And why on earth are they sitting so close to me?"
Five minutes later, a similarly decked out party arrives. Mother mutters "Dear God... More of them?" Luckily no one else hears. From their exchange, it is clear the new invaders are friends of the earlier party. The all-star female cast in Party 2 is glittering under the weight of bling, bling and more bling. The quiet one in their midst is obese, to say the least. She squeezes herself into the seat beside Mother with much difficulty, and her spare parts breathe a sigh of relief as they seep over the chair's wooden base. She too is in sunglasses. She too is blinging.
The 'quiet one' in Party 2 is Mo'Nique a.k.a. Miss Parker.
The member of Party 1 in the 'tight muscle-top' is Cuba Gooding Jr.
Mother has no clue who they are.
I do. But I act like I don't.
Mother and I retire to a café on the 1st floor of the building. Through its greasy windows we see the members of Party 1 and 2 mingling and chatting more freely amongst themselves.
Cuba needs to take a leak. He walks, with tribal-marked/cheap suit dude by his side, through the hall. No one gives him a second glance.
The toilet facilities in Murtala Mohammed are not to his taste.
He walks back through the hall seconds later, and returns to his seat in the lounge (which is run by a private concierge company, not an airline, for those who are confused).
Cuba is restless.
Minutes later, he's off again. The toilet is out of the question, so he goes on a jolly meander. He looks from side to side, watching and waiting, watching and waiting. He moves very slowly, deliberately so.
And then... a Lady in Pink approaches. She is well-endowed. Cuba looks pleased. She hugs him, he does not resist. They remain thus, with her heaving bosom pressed up against his 'pecs', for an indecent amount of time.
Then Lady in Pink skips merrily on her way.
Others, having observed the scene for a millisecond or two, continue their buzzing and busy-beeing.
Cuba stands, hands on hips, ignored, but patient.
He waits.
Mother and I leave the cafe. We say our goodbyes. I walk through the passport and luggage checking facility (if it deserves to be called that), emerging hot and bothered on the other side after being frisked by a neanderthal in a mouldy brown suit.
Mother makes for the exit. Sneaking a peak at the muscle-topped man whose name she believes to be "Coobie", she finds him enveloped in a crowd of six or seven admirers.
Coobie is radiating.
Mother smiles to herself and makes a mental note to tell me of Coobie's eventual triumph.
At some point during the day, all optimism and enthusiasm flew out the frikkin window and I became a miserable cranky beast!
Events had taken a turn for the worse after I'd arrived at Murtala Mohammed Airport, grinned at the Customs guy and trolley-seller people like a deranged idiot, and nearly broken the backs of the Yote and his driver as they struggled with my embarassingly large suitcase.
The plan for Saturday had been that the Yote would take me home, I'd spend two or three hours clowning around with my mum, dad and my sister, and then he'd come by and whisk me off to his maison, where we'd spend the entire afternoon gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. Five minutes before the Yote and I were to commence any gazing or lovva-lovva-ing, he got called to a meeting. He then spent the next four hours at said meeting, and by the time he was done, I was seething (not at him of course) at the ridiculous individuals who had called him in on a Saturday! Did they not know Bitchy was in town? That she had been waiting for weeks to be whisked away by her Yote? Like... totally ruuude... dude!
The plan for the evening had been even more exciting. My dad had agreed to add the Yote and I onto his table at the This Day Awards thingiebob, and I had been so psyched about it. Just before you condemn me as a wannabe Lagos Big Girl, I would like to state that I, like many, think the Awards ceremony is a ridiculous farce - How exactly the winners represent "good governance and exemplary leadership" is beyond me. The ridiculous money-making scam masterminded by Mr. Nduka O and his goons at This Day, was not the focus of my attention... Diana Ross and Lemar were.
Now... You may remember the details of my love affair with Miss Ross from my post on Dream Girls, but you may not know about my even more passionate affair with Lemar. I love him so so soooooo much. I wouldn't go so far as to call him a genius or anything like that, I just think he ROCKS, and I love him for it!!
The Yote knew, long before he and I began this rocky-roaded relationship, how much I loved Lemar. So when I told him I wanted to go see Lemar, he didn't grumble or mumble... he simply said he was too tired and wasn't gonna come along in case I embarassed him in public with my drooling, swooning and off-key crooning.
By 7pm however, the thought of putting my contact lenses (let's face it, the glasses are funky, but I would rather die than see Lemar in those red frames) onto my very tired and very puffy eyes filled me with terror, as did the thought of putting on makeup, a dress and shoes, and making polite small talk with my parents' friends.
I had no choice but to stay at home.
I called my dad a few hours' later, and came so close to boohooing when I heard Lemar's incredibly beautiful voice so clearly in the background. He just happened to be singing one of my faaaavourite songs at the time. It was all too much for me to handle... It still is to be honest. I feel like crying now just remembering how amazing he sounded during the few seconds I heard him on my dad's phone. SOB!
The Yote then randomly decided to put on the TV, and lo and behold... they were showing the This Day Awards!! And we were just in time too, as even though Lemar had finished his set, they were calling Diana out at that exact moment. I was so excited!
And out she came... in a horrid yellow Big Bird-esque outfit, but she still looked soooo beeeoootiful!! For a 62 year old, she twirled with such energy and poise. I love love loved it! To make myself feel better, I'd been telling myself that she would probably only sing for 20 minutes and then leave, as all the other old school artistes my parents had been to see have done... but nope... Miss Ross was on the stage for over an hour!!
I watched with baited breath, knowing that Diva Diana was going to give me something to blog about, and at last, it came...
Half way through her performance, a man in a black fedora got up, strolled casually onto the stage, and gyrated in front of Miss Ross for a couple of seconds. She looked alarmed, but said nothing.
I thought.. "Can this be? Has she changed with age? Where is the bitch-slap? Or, her trademark move, the violent shove?"
Then... ten minutes later, a guy in a White Agbada cum Fila thing climbed the stairs leading to the stage, with a bouquet in hand. His noble intention was to hand her the bouquet and then be on his way.
What did Miss Ross do?
She wagged her finger at him, the way you'd wag it at an ugly dog named Poopie, and then said, "Don't you come on my stage!"
White Agbada cum Fila dude was flabbergasted, as were the other members of the audience. In true Naija style, he paused for a couple of seconds wondering what to do, and then held his bouquet high and flung it at her perfectly manicured toes.
It was sooooo funny! She was clearly perturbed, but tried not to show it. She carried on smiling and doing her Diva Supreme routine, whilst her bald bodyguard sheepishly picked up the damaged bouquet.
I suspect Miss Ross had thought he would shrink back to his seat with his head bowed, after she disgraced him in front of his fellow CEOs, Senators, Governors etc... Little did she know that the Nigerians at such a gathering didn't give two sheeets if she was Diana Ross or Diana, Princess of Wales.
You can't blame her I guess. After all, as I later explained to my mother, who couldn't get over how rude Miss Ross had been, that was probably the first time in her 40-something year career that she performed for an "elite" group of people and members of them interfered with her personal space. I also think that if the first guy hadn't gone on stage to dance with her (which was rather stupid of him, I mean, come on she's Diana Ross for goodness sake!!) then she might have been more polite to the other guy who simply wanted to give her flowers, and wasn't expecting her to grind him like a Koko-let in appreciation.
Like a true professional, she carried on with the rest of her set, at the end of which she received thunderous applause. A couple of times during her performance, the camera skimmed over my parents' table, and I could see my daddy's big head swaying away. Teehee! I didn't have to be there to know that he was singing along to every word. The dude is obsessed... He looooves Miss Ross! And of course, on Sunday morning, all I heard was his harmonious (not!) rendition of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" and "I'm Coming Out!"
Sigh... I should've ditched the Yote and gone to the show with my parents. But then I was tired, and I wanted to kotch with my Yote. Isn't he blessed with such an amazing girlfriend? Who else would give up a night with Lemar and Diva Ross just for him? Teeheehee!
Motown.... I've been obsessed with it since like the age of 5 when I discovered that my beloved Michael and Janet were in some way linked to the Jackson 5, who had been discovered by Diana Ross, who'd head-lined the Supremes, whose boyfriend and baby-daddy was Berry Gordy, who had master-minded the careers of Lionel Richie, Stevie Wonder, The Temptations and who owned the entire music MACHINE known as Motown.
I was so obsessed my dad bought documentaries on Michael Jackson just for me (and on Madonna and ABBA for himself... weird). Later on, in that heaven-sent month when NTA showed every episode of "The Jacksons: An American Dream", which is still my faaavourite mini-series of all time, my very busy father would wait up till midnight, or whatever God-forsaken hour they were showing it, just to press play on the video recorder. He didn't know what all the fuss was about. He never watched the episodes, he just did it so that his brat of a daughter would get to watch the enactment of a story she already knew inside out. I dunno why he didn't just agree to extend my bed-time by four hours so that I could go through all the trouble myself.
By age 8 I could recite hundreds of bits of trivia, not just about MJ the great, but about his family and his "friends" too. The quest to see just how many Motown-related facts I could stuff into my brain without exploding gave way to a true and genuine appreciation of Motown, its hits and its stars. From about 14, I bought compilation after compilation, watched the zillions of biographical mini-series (It turns out Gordy had a penchant for the cheesy but delightful productions), and last year, I even saw the "Motown Dancing in the Streets" musical... twice!
After that rather unecessary summary of my obsession with all things Motown, you won't be surprised I'm sure when I say that for the last month or so I had been DYING to see Dream Girls. I'd heard about the movie aaages ago on E! to be honest, but only developed an interest in it when I learned it was about the Supremes. You see, I'd switched off instantly when Ryan Seacrest or whoever it was, announced that Dream Girls would be starring our dear Miss Knowles. Love her, I do - You could even say I "Lust" her (I know I'm using it the wrong way okay?) because if I was a same-sexer I most definitelywould do her. But then, I neither love nor "lust" her movies. To put it simply (and I hate to be so boring and state the obvious)... they suck!
Dream Girls doesn't hit British cinemas till Friday - I know... how slooow are we? But, ever the resourceful Sherlock, Bitchy kept a close eye on the cinemas within her vicinity and jumped and danced for joy on Saturday afternoon when she discovered the movie would be opening on Sunday, and not on Friday as advertised.
Getting to the point is taking forever, so I'm just going to get there.
I Loooooooooooooovvvvvvveeeed IT!
It was just.... phenomenal... In every way - The MUSIC, the colours, the clothes, the story-line, the MUSIC, the choreography, the sheer fluffy-bitchyness of the entire thing, the depth, characters, the personalities... the everything!
First, our friend Miss Knowles, looked amazing! Although 6 or 7 shades lighter in complexion that Miss Ross, and in possession of a voice (again..) 6 or 7 times richer, she pulled it off! It was incredible! When she danced, I saw Diana, and whenever she so much as moved, I saw her again! See the clip below of my absolute favourite bit in the movie, for an illustration of this Diana-esque behaviour! She also took a leaf or two out of Diana's book, and didn't once attempt to sing like the Diva Supreme, which would have been a complete disaster if she had - Diana Ross played Billie Holiday in Lady Sings the Blues decades ago and withstood all pressure to sing the Billie way, instead doing a personal imitation that earned her a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination.
She did annoy me a little I confess, but only when she talked. She wasn't Diana when she talked... she was back to being irritating, boring, over-dramatic Bee. But she didn't talk often thankfully, so in all, it was grrreat! Her performance clearly wasn't worth the $15 million (or whatever ridiculous sum Yodi said) Daddy Matthew weasled for her, because she so blatantly wasn't the intended star of the whole show!
Jennifer Hudson...
Blew me away from the minute she walked on in a leopard print silk scarf and stomped onto the stage at the amateur contest. I had heard she was incredible, that she'd won the Golden Globe and been nominated for an Oscar, but I hadn't really given it that much thought. As Florence Ballard... Oops.. sorry... Effie White, she was just phenomenal - Am I being paranoid, or have I used that word twice already? The scene media critics raved about where she sang her heart and guts out alone onstage was so worth every bit of the hooha it received.
I couldn't believe how good she was. I spent the entire movie trying to work out where I'd seen her before, and why her face and voice were so familiar. I then felt like such a dumbo when I got home and onto Google to find out that she was the Jennifer Hudson I'd cheered for (and then gotten bored of) on American Idol 3. Its amazing how far she's come. I found out today that she beat over 200 people to the role, including Fantasia who'd beaten her in 2004 to the Idol title. I also found out, much to my relief, that she'd had to put on over 50 pounds for the role and hadn't, as I'd imagined, spent the last 2 years stuffing her face with chicken thighs and cupcakes just because she didn't make it to the A.I. final.
Right now, I'm listening to Eddie Murphy singing "I Meant You No Harm" which is probably the most beautiful song in the film. Of course, as you'll find out, he never finishes it, and even on the soundtrack I purchased on Sunday from Amazon (I love how speedy they are!) its unfinished too. Its so sad! A lot of the other songs he does in the movie didn't quite make it onto the soundtrack (the US version that is... I was too impatient to wait for the fuller UK version to come out in 2 weeks), and its a shame cuz he was so sooooo good. I was really surprised by him. I'm not a fan of his pregnant-girlfriend-dumping ass, and so had even forgotten about his disastrous attempts in the '80s and '90s to make it as a singer, although... that's probably a good thing because he really was a thousand times better than I'd been expecting (even without the prejudice from his crappy music videos tainting my vision).
After all this, it pains me to add that Jamie Foxx was in fact, the most disappointing thing in the entire film. His performance was several centigrades below lukewarm. It just wasn't good enough. His singing too, left much to be desired, which was such a shocker after the Unpredictable album. With hindsight I suppose it was the songs and production on Unpredictable, rather than the man doing the singing, that made it a success, but that still doesn't make it easier for me to swallow the Foxx's far from Foxxy performance as Berry Gordy... Oops! I mean... Curtis Taylor Jr.
I'll stop here before I give away the entire story in the process of bemoaning Jamie's terrible performance.
Ooh.. one more thing. I'm not for a second implying that Dream Girls or Hudson deserve Oscars, before anyone crucifies me! There were definitely a few parts of the movie that got on my nerves... and even though they were few and far between, they managed to do just a little damage to my overall enjoyment of the whole film. The problem, I think, stems from its being an adaptation of a musical. A couple of parts are just a tad theatrical, or cheesy, or downright random. Now, I easily forgave them, because I'm a lover of musicals, but I'm not sure Oscar and his friends will be able to. Come to think of it, perhaps I shouldn't pretend as though I always knew Dream Girls the motion picture was based on Dream Girls the Broadway production. After all, I'm the same person who turned to her little sister and said "Why the hell are they bursting into song every minute? This is so cheesy!" to which she replied, "Its a musical, you mumu!"
This is my faaaavourite bit in the entire film! I can't get enough of it... I've watched it over and over... Yes, I'm a loser. But, Beyonce' is just faaaabulous! I wanna be a Dream Girl too!
I know you have no idea who I'm talking about, unless of course you're E-weezy (who deserves a medal for being so so cool and surprisingly daring enough to go to a concert on my recommendation having never heard of the artist before!). We saw Alice Russell this evening, and instead of sitting at a bar having post-show drinks with her and "the crew" (after dazzling my way through her security people of course), I'm here... on the internet... blogging!!
If you spoke to me today or yesterday, you would've learned that I was more than just a little apprehensive about this concert. I'll have you know that it wasn't just because I was pulling the usual Bitchy stunt i.e. getting cold-feet and being all whingey before an event. I had legit reasons for calling up the Jazz Cafe and attempting to get my money back (Yah.. kinda didn't tell you that part E-weezy... teehee! But aren't you glad they said no? *Big grin*).
I discovered Alice in January or so this year, and was blooooown away... seriously! I raved about her to anyone and everyone who would listen. Her album was so flippin fantastic, and I couldn't believe no one knew about this "soul sister" who should've been "hotonthemuthafuckinblock," as Chydo would say.
A month later, after staring a little too intently at the back of her album cover, I noticed the face of a white woman grinning up at me. I ignored it at first cuz there was NO way in hell she could be white. Before I continue, I should add that I'm not racist.. I'm not saying white people can't sing.. What I am saying is that she sounded so black that she was blacker than black, and there was just no way she could be anything but black. Google came in handy, as it always does, and her website revealed that she was, in fact, white! Getting over that shock, took a while, but in that time I managed to get hold of her second album. I raced home to play it, only to skip from track to track, accept defeat and hand it back to the mother (who was actually the rightful owner, as she had been the one to make the purchase under the influence of all my gushing and raving). I didn't even stop to copy it onto my laptop. It was that heart-breaking.
A couple of weeks ago I remembered there was an Alice concert coming up, and so did some more Googling and Amazoning on her. Turns out she had a new album which had only just come out. So I did as anyone would do, and I ordered it. It took a while to get here, so in my haste I ordered the concert tickets too. The album arrived on Monday morning I think, and by Monday afternoon I was almost in tears. Okay fine I'm exaggerating again but it was .... terrible! There was none of the croony but funky but soulful but upbeat stuff that'd been on the first album. It was all techno and boring!
This morning therefore, when I thought of what the concert would be like, I did not for a second think that I would get anywhere close to Jazzywonderland. I didn't even get ready to go to the bloody thing until E-weezy arrived and looked down at me through her merchant banker spectacles (She's a Bitch in the City too by the way... but she's not a Bitchy Bitch, if that makes any sense). Actually its a lot more accurate if I say that she looked up at me (as I'm.. ehem.. taller, by.. ehem... quite a bit) but she did give a very disdainful, disapproving look. She may even have shaken her head at me.
Where was I going with this? Uh.. yah.. arriving at the Jazz Cafe first of all, was like a completely new experience. This time, we didn't approach the venue from the grotty, revolting end of Camden (apologies if you happen to live at this end, but you really should send a petition or something to your Council!). We came from the Primrose Hill end. So everything did look a lot nicer. I won't say what I said to E-weezy about the difference a crowd full of white, as opposed to black, corn-rowed and afro-puffed people, makes to the general ambience of a venue. Ooops! I said it. Last time I was there, was to see Erro who (in case you didn't know) is the definition (although the newly-pottbellied 'definition' as I woefully discovered) of neo soul. So of course, that time, everyone in the cafe was of African descent. In a place that's as dimly-lit as the Jazz Cafe, such faces and hairdos don't exactly brighten up the place, if you catch my drift. So it was rather refreshing to be one of only four or five negroid faces in the room.
[*Please remember at this juncture that I am not racist, neither am I some prejudiced negroid who has lost sight of her roots. I am... Bitchy! Politically-incorrect etc etc.. For a refresher on the characteristics of my.. ehem.. fictional character, kindly go to my first post*]
I can't believe I haven't gotten round to describing how phenomenal she was. She... was... phenomenal...
We went to Jazzywonderland and back, on a magic carpet ride (Yes, I know I'm mixing up my cartoons okay? It's deliberate.. sheesh!) Everything I'd thought or said about her previous two albums flew right out the window.. Her voice was incredible. CDs do her a terrible injustice. The other great thing about her is that she was fun.. like really fun. She danced about, and made faces, said funny things, forgot the words and made them up when she covered Gnarls Barkley's Crazy, which was the best remix ever!
I love her... I don't know if I'll be listening to her newer two albums again.. But I love her anyway... Maybe there's an "Alice Live in Concert" or something like that. If there is, I'm gonna get it. Why? Because.. I LOVE her!
This morning, at about 02:30am I had what can only be described as an out-of-body experience. I lost my mind, I lost track of time and I lost all sense of propriety.
After dinner last night, the FTs, Zozo and I made our way to Mo*vida. That turned out to be crawling with slimey, bright orange Antonio Banderas lookalikes who were clearly loaded but extremely tacky as well. That was, the first (Yeah I know I'm over a year late okay?) and last time I will ever step foot into Mo*vida.
Next stop was Kabaret. A bunch of old friends were gonna be there, and we were desperate to get away from the fake tan and cigar sparklers. The music was great, the people were great and it was turning out to be an awesome night. And then at 02:00am I felt myself being pushed ever-so-slightly, and in a flash, caught a glimpse of JayZ's face as he was bundled into a table in the corner of the club.
Now, if you've never been there, it might be helpful for me to add that Kabaret is tiny! It's probably the smallest club I've ever been to. Its so small I don't know what I go looking for there on such a regular basis. So as you can imagine, my friends and I were shoved and bumped around as several desperate people (surprisingly fewer than I would have expected though) crammed themselves into the small space between my friends and I, and JayZ's bodyguards.
I'm not gonna pretend that I wasn't excited that he was there, but obviously, after like 15 minutes, my focus returned to the music. And then I got tapped on the shoulder by Steve, the puffy-afro'd promoter, and he goes "Do you and your friend wanna meet JayZ?" At first I thought he meant me and all my friends, so grabbed hold of Zozo and FT1. And then he's like "No... just you two" i.e. me and FT1. Dazed and confused, I let him lead us past the massivo bodyguard, thinking that I was gonna shake this guy's hand, say hello for a couple of seconds, and walk back out to meet my friends.
45 minutes later, I was sitting at a table with Chris Martin (Coldplay), to whom the first thing I said was "Oh my God, so sorry I didn't recognise you earlier! I love your wife!" Before hastily adding, "Ooh I love you too! 'Fix you' and all that!" [Yes... I'm an idiot!] I had also met Hype Williams, said brief hellos to Woody Harrelson and David Blaine (in my head I was like "don't you dare come near me, weirdo").. and I'd met JayZ, who I was sitting next to. Did I know that I had been sitting there for bloody ages? Not really. Was I having fun? Not really.. He's not exactly gifted at making conversation, and there were some other irritating model-wannabe/pouty types sitting with us, who were having the most enthralling (not!) conversation about..... Shit! I can't even remember what they were on about.. they really were that stupid! Did I remember that I had left two amazing people (one of whom is probably never gonna forgive me) on their own, in a club where they didn't know anyone else, and barely knew each other? No.
For like the first time ever in my life, I had stopped thinking. Obviously I was extremely flattered that Steve had considered us hot enough to be part of the "groupie" crew, and that JayZ and co obviously agreed with his verdict otherwise they would've sent us away, as they did to one girl! But I still can't explain why my mind (well, the part that's supposed to make you sensible) shut down like it did.. I mean, I'm not exactly the biggest JayZ fan. I did buy his last album (a bootleg version of course), but did I ever play it? No! Yeah I appreciate that he is one of the biggest entertainers of all-time, but then I don't really care much for rap, and I've only really gone crazy over the stuff he's done with other people. Although that said, I was completely clueless as to what to do when Beyonce's "Deja Vu" came on, which (as you know) has him, the man I was sitting next to, "doing his thing" on the track or whatever. It was so bloody awkward.. I love the song, and if I'd been with my friends, I would've been gyrating like a maniac, but I wasn't.. I was with the boyfriend of the singer, who was doing this clappy thing (which was so cool.. until his 50-something year old manager joined in, and I realised that "the clappy" was some kinda routine they had going on) and who wasn't really talking to me, or anyone else for that matter, so I couldn't exactly start bumping and grinding like a maniac in their midst.. I would've been kicked out.
... What amazes me, is the speed at which I forgot that my friends were out there, and had been out there for bloody ages, by themselves, with no clue as to when FT1 and I were gonna go back to them, or what they should be doing. Worse still, neither of them had wanted to go out, it'd been FT1 and I dragging them (literally!) along with us. And what I don't get is that I wasn't exactly having the time of my life, yet I couldn't bring myself to leave. My head was not working, and neither were my legs. Like the idiot-girls at the table (excluding FT1 of course) I simply sat there, dancing a little in my seat, smiling, making rubbish conversation with Jay's manager, in fact, completely ignoring "Jay" himself, who I had absolutely nothing to say to... and who didn't really wanna talk to me, or anyone else, for that matter. He was so uncharismatic (is that a word?) that at one point, FT1 leaned across the table and yelled, in her heavy Spanish accent, "Stop sulking!!" .. which was hilarious, but kinda scary, cuz I had a mental image of us being thrown (Fresh Prince of BelAir style) off the table, which, at that time, would honestly have been the worst thing in the world! My 'world' really had become that microscopic!!!
I didn't remember my friends were out there (God I am so SO ashamed) until the grizzly bouncer turned to face us, and announced that one of them was crying, at which point I started to regain my mind and cranial instruments. She was tired, she was angry, and as I later found out, she had been yelled at and publicly humiliated by the hideous bouncer for simply trying to get him to get a message across to me that she was leaving. She was pissed, she was livid.. and she was hurt.
A whirlwind of chaos followed, and somehow (I swear, my brain was still trailing some 5 or 6 looong paces behind me! Although it was catching up) we made it back to my flat. I discovered (here comes the cheesy revelation you've been waiting for.. teehee) that I'm really not cut out for the heartless bitch role. I cried and sobbed like a baby when I realised just how upset she was! And then cried on the phone like a lunatic, apologising to FT2. And then I tried to get all excited again about the night by phoning Chydo, who is a huge fan of my.. uh.. "buddy" Jay, but she wasn't having it... So I.. uh.. cried myself to sleep. What a night
Anyway, Mica and I chatted for all of thirty seconds, in which I began to think that being painted by a lanky emaciated boy in the year above me, might not be such a bad idea. He then said that he wanted me to wear something specific whilst he painted me, and that he hoped I would like it. I can't remember exactly, but I think Zozo was also in the room, and she gave me this funny look that made me just a little apprehensive. 
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