The Scottish Grand National Festival is Decadent and Depraved

Red-faced men in fancy dress dig madly in their sporrans for bills to wave in my face. 'Give me three pints of lager, love, a lager tops, and two lager shandys.'

Valium-infused women in sequins and rhinestone incrusted sandals hobble to the bar, requesting, in their best impressions of a posh accent, 'one vodka with lemonade, one vodka with blackcurrant and lemonade, two gin and tonics, one vodka soda and lime, one vodka lemon and lime, a brandy and lemonade . . . do you have any white wine?' while the feathers adorning their disheveled hair give them the appearance of so many poorly-plucked hens.

Two men lock arms to legs and tumble across the carpeted floor, knocking their heads on the beams.

A group of men in kilts and women who have long-since kicked off their shoes put their arms around shoulders and sing along to the band covering 'Wonderwall' at the top of their lungs, before toddling rapidly back to the bar for another drink.

Pods of women sans shoes, with dresses half-unzipped, are strewn across the carpeted expanse, clutching vodka mixers and going on about sales on the high street, as their makeup runs in horror from their faces and the feathers do a desperate attempt to fly off their heads.

'This is a fucking freak show.'

It is a big race day at Ayr Racecourse. The ponies are running. The Scottish Grand National Festival is decadent and depraved.

Stop Making Sense

I've been re-watching the Talking Heads concert film today. I put it on once while I did other things, just to listen to the music and I was quite satisfied. But, I've been meaning to re-watch it recently, both in the hopes of learning something, and in the hopes of figuring out how to quantify its awesomeness. So I sat down to watch it properly, and for the umpteenth time my mind was blown. I often site 'Stop Making Sense' as the best concert film ever made, but I should also be siting it as one of the best films ever made, without qualifications. It's a bit of unfettered cinematic genius -- pure visceral joy. David Byrne is utterly mesmerizing, and no matter what your opinion of the Talking Heads (though if you have a poor opinion of the band, I might suggest you are out of your mind), you cannot deny Byrne's hypnotic power. While one expects a lot of quick cuts from a concert film, Jonathan Demme rightly sticks to long sequences of David Byrne that do not cut away.

In addition to Byrne, of course, the film is absolutely beautifully shot. It deviates completely from standard concert film tropes, coming on more like an art film than a long-playing music video. There are shots utilizing a long lens to flatten depth of field that are utterly mind blowing -- beautifully composed frames of band members, lit in monochromatic grays or blues, stacked upon one another, all different sizes, all playing their requisite parts.

(too bad about the Tom Tom Club interlude, but hey, nothing is perfect)

It's a great fucking movie, a brilliant film, an amazing concert, a fantastic band. Yeah. Makes me want to go out and film things.