Daily Archives: December 9, 2021

In their pomp three decades ago, Happy Mondays would probably just have been emerging from bed at 7.30pm the hour at which they took the stage for this enticing evening of Madchester revivalism.

In terms of cultural standing, many might see their supporting billing on this seven-date arena jaunt as counter-intuitive: after all, the Mondays loping, drug-fuelled fusion of indie-rock and acid-house was genuinely era-defining, referenced still as the core soundtrack to the emergence of 90s dance culture in the UK. They actually headlined Wembley in April 1990, with a giant letter E onstage behind them.

The wayward Mancunians initial life-span was explosive but brief, however, as they quickly fell apart amid spiralling narcotic habits in 1993, after making only four albums. Theyve reunited in line-ups of varying completeness ever since, only ever managing one further unsuccessful album.

Here, then, their purpose was simply to dust off the crown jewels of baggy, and get the party started, which they achieved with an effortless primordial groove. Shaun Ryder, 59, once a figure of droopy-lidded menace, barked from beneath a black baseball cap, cuddly and confused by the lights, while his non-singing co-frontman Mark Bez, 57, gamely prowled the stage, waving his maracas out of time.

These days, the pairs popularity springs from their TV appearances. Hows Dancing On Ice going, B? Ryder asked his spar, who only got bumped out of Celebrity Masterchef last summer because of some undercooked flatbreads, and is due to appear on the all-skating reality show in January. You wouldnt *believe how slippy it is, Bez replied, before tripping over the monitors to huge applause, and kneeling adoringly before their female vocalist, Rowetta Satchell, as she belted out a triumphant Step On.

When James hit the stage, it was clear that this oddly sober sell-out crowd was theirs, and the response to the musical mood-shift from lairy hedonism to questing spirituality was an appreciative roar. I first saw James in December 1983, and back then youd never have believed theyd one day be arena-fillers.

Their frontman, Tim Booth, now 61, recently described early James as hopelessly indie-schmindie, yet he struck gold circa Madchester while spurning its druggy vocabulary, and with a guru-esque zeal has held together an ever-shifting personnel without intermission, recently releasing a 16th long-player. So, hes earnt that top billing.

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Happy Mondays and James, review: lairy hedonism and questing spirituality from two very different 90s bands - Telegraph.co.uk

Over the last 12 months, graphic novels have explored everything from injustice to hedonism. But perhaps unsurprisingly in a year that saw many reflect on their lives, a crop of fine memoirs dominated the shelves.

The biggest event of the year was the return of Alison Bechdel. The Secret to Superhuman Strength (Jonathan Cape) is a meditation on exercise and happiness that paints the Vermont cartoonist as a neurotic wretch, moving between sporting obsessions as relationships come and go. Karate, running, cycling, skiing and yoga all promise peace of mind, but it never lasts. Bechdels previous books have made her one of the superstars of graphic fiction, and this funny, perceptive and merciless account shows that, while her personal bests may have slipped, her talent remains undimmed.

Lauded in her native France, lodie Durands Parenthesis (Top Shelf; translated by Edward Gauvin) is finally available in English. Durands young life was shattered by a tumour that brought severe memory loss, epilepsy, pill after pill and operation after operation. She draws tense consultations, giant tumours and gouged self-portraits in a desperately affecting book about the struggle to hold on to yourself when your world is in pieces.

Sabba Khans family moved from Kashmir to east London before she was born. The artist and architectural designer puts her overlapping identities at the heart of The Roles We Play (Myriad), which explores history, culture, family ties and psychotherapy. Imaginative framing, expressive sketches and thoughtful prose combine in a fascinating debut full of acute observations (after the 2005 London bombings, her headscarf has grown louder than me), with a recommended song for every chapter.

Where Khan explains herself with scrupulous care, Shira Spectors Red Rock Baby Candy (Fantagraphics) spins a chaotic spectacle of bright collages and strange visions, her text bouncing off drum kits and reaching into bloodstains and ink spills. Vibrant illustrations sit alongside descriptions of her fathers cancer diagnosis and her attempts to conceive in an inventive debut memoir thats as deeply felt as it is stylistically playful.

The finest British graphic novel of the year was In. by Will McPhail (Sceptre), a clever and touching account of a young illustrator dealing with his mothers illness and his own ennui. This beautifully composed debut mixes nuanced observation with hipster satire, and scalpel-sharp one-liners about the things that dont matter with stumbling attempts to articulate the things that do.

It has been some time since Barry Windsor-Smith was a promising newcomer the comics veteran began his career drawing for Marvel 50 years ago but Monsters (Jonathan Cape) is likely to be his defining work. This big, bruising epic about an attempt to create a cold war supersoldier features Nazi scientists, helicopter gunfights and psychic powers. But while Windsor-Smith doesnt shirk on spectacle, hes more interested in pulling back the curtain on sordid military-industrial compromises, and showing how hate leaches from one man to another in a study of violence, redemption and parenthood.

Exploitation echoes down the centuries in historian Rebecca Halls Wake (Particular), which delves into the neglected story of female slavery and resistance. Hall combines re-creations of revolts with an account of her own research, which is held back by unhelpful archivists and myopic official histories. She uncovers vital details, such as why women played a crucial role in slave-ship mutinies they were often left unchained on deck. Aided by Hugo Martnezs stark artwork, Hall compellingly describes the terror and resilience of people who were brought across the ocean in shackles and enslaved for generations, speaking of reckonings still to come.

Slavery shadows Dash Shaws Discipline (New York Review of Books), a startling, panel-free work that follows a Quaker family ruptured by the American civil war. Brother Charles abandons pacifism to fight for the Union, while his sister Fanny deals with schisms at home in a book whose powerful images spring out of white space. The seasons change as war takes its toll, and earnest letters adapted from real correspondence beat with tension beneath their matter-of-fact surface.

There was hedonism too this year, in the return of Brecht Evens, whose The City of Belgium (Drawn and Quarterly) explores a bacchanalian nightscape. Three characters, their lives on the edge of change, dance their way through lurid bars and dark passageways in a swirl of tall tales and lush inking. Evens is a master of crowd scenes and colour, and his psychedelic symphony bleeds into a pensive, washed-out dawn that suggests that even the wildest trips must end sometime.

Simon Hanselmann drew a webcomic every day for the first nine months of the pandemic. The collected Crisis Zone (Fantagraphics) sees his longstanding cast of witches and anthropomorphic animals cram themselves into a house, bicker, shoot pornography and take drugs. They are hit by Covid and become the subjects of a reality TV show in a provocative and funny descent into social-media notoriety and violence.

For something more wholesome, settle down with Esthers Notebooks (Pushkin; translated by Sam Taylor), in which cartoonist Riad Sattouf lays out a series of strips based on his friends daughters Paris schooldays. Theyre not exactly escapist racism and the spectre of terrorism intrude on the playground frighteningly early but these three funny, insightful volumes, packed with phone envy, classroom politics and friendship, are a comic treat.

Browse all the featured books and save up to 15% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.

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Best comics and graphic novels of 2021 - The Guardian

ICSCs Here, We Go event in Las Vegas

The eve of ICSCs conference in Las Vegas is traditionally a last bastion of hedonism for real estate bros. Music, liquor and cigar smoke flow through the Wynn hotels European Pool, where retail giants like Winick Realty Group host cabanas and where bathing suit tops are famously optional.

Meridian Capital at Wynn Resort

This year, things are different. The Wynns pools were quiet and mostly empty on a picturesque, 70-degree Sunday. New York-based debt brokerage, investment, and retail leasing firm Meridian Capital Group was the lone group to rent a cabana.

It was exciting to come here and get back to normal, said James Famularo, the firms president of retail leasing, puffing on a cigar and relaxing poolside in sunglasses. As normal as possible, but its not going to be normal.

In past years, ICSCs annual event, known as RECon, has been held in May and regularly attracted around 30,000 retail landlords, brokers, retailers and other commercial real estate players. It became known as a mecca for schmoozers and dealmakers.

James Famularo of Meridian Capital Group

ICSC emerged from a Covid hiatus this year with a new conference, branded Here, We Go, this week at the Las Vegas Convention Center, a winter holdover until the May event returns. Vaccinations are mandatory and about 9,000 attendees registered, according to an ICSC staffer.

The event comes after the organization laid off the majority of its employees, including 18 of its 22 event staffers, three months into the pandemic. Even prior to last year, the nonprofit had struggled with declining membership and longstanding internal strife, according to interviews last year with more than a dozen former staffers and current members.

Expectations going in were mixed.

At the beginning, I thought this was a forced event from a trade organization that was suffering because they havent had events, said David Birnbrey, chairman of the Shopping Center Group, which hosted a cocktail reception Sunday night. [But] it was necessary for people to get back together quickly, and I think ICSC was very proactive.

Some prior hosts, like Vornado Realty Trust, skipped the parties and hosted private dinners, according to sources. Vornado declined to comment.

ICSCs Here, We Go event in Las Vegas

The event itself lacked many of the usual big names in New York real estate. Major brokerages who were present included JLL, Newmark and Avison Young. CoStar, the real estate data behemoth, had one of the largest booths.

Members of the Ghermezian family which owns Triple Five, the Canadian-based conglomerate behind the Mall of America, the American Dream Mall in East Rutherford, New Jersey, and an upcoming project in Miami were in attendance. Houston-based Hines was also present, with a small booth. Ashkenazy Acquisition Corp. reserved an office on the second floor of the conference center.

Some companies brought a smaller staff than they did to past May events, anticipating sparser attendance and fewer high-level decision makers. Others brought up concerns over Covid, especially as the Omicron variant begins to spread through the country.

I dont know that its gonna come back 100 percent in 2022, said Michael Mason of Newmarks Chicago office, who noted that in person meetings and shows like ICSC are critical for dealmaking.

I think May will be a lot more attended, no question, said Shlomo Chopp, a managing partner with Case Equity Partners.

The allure for some is not just the trade show, but the glitz of Vegas.

If you share a drink with somebody and youre at the craps table with them, you can call them and theyll answer your call, Famularo said. You get to know somebody on a different level.

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Fear and loathing at ICSCs resurrected Vegas conference - The Real Deal

In Cratylus, the Greek philosopher Plato talks about the reasoning behind the name of Himeros, the Greek God of desire: The name himeros (longing) was given to the stream (rhous) which most draws the soul; for because it flows with a rush (hiemenos) and with a desire for things and thus draws the soul on through the impulse of its flowing, all this power gives it the name of himeros.

Silhouetted against an ethereal background of sultry pink and yellow, flowing with the melody and rhythm of Peaches the title track from his sophomore mini-album Peaches EXOs Kai paints quite the same picture. Since his debut with the boyband in 2011, one thing about Kai has always been clear: his work goes beyond the labels of just singing or dancing he is a performer. To engage with him, even on a superficial level, is to open your senses to his fluvial language, which begins with music and expands outwards, crafting a heady medley of dance, expressions something he excels at and physical descriptions. His is a seductive art, a mastery of the right words, said at the right time in the right tone, all meant to leave one gasping for breath and under his spell.

Of course, we got a glimpse of it on his solo debut last year. Aptly titled Kai (), the mini-album came riddled with one addictive track after another, all painting a picture of Kais multifaceted enigma, at the center of which was a demand to pay attention only to him. He reduced our world to a singular point him on the title track Mmmh, consumed our memories on Amnesia (Cant remember anything before you, he said), and embodied desire itself on Nothing On Me (I want nothing on me but you, he sang).

On Peaches, he expands the world hes created and adds maturity, a streak of danger and just a hint of vulnerability. Just like Kai (), Peaches comes bolstered by a steady R&B background. Its the little touches he adds, however the choppy progression on Vanilla, the soaring chorus on Come In, the hedonistic picture he paints on Domino that make it a work of genius.

If last years Mmmh was an aggressive, forward, titillating call to the dark side, Peaches wraps those cruel intentions in sweet whispers and almost deceptive appreciation. Reveling in being the bad guy, Kai constantly treads the line between love and lust. The possibility of getting your heart broken always looms on the horizon, but his words in your ear placate you enough to accept the outcome. When coupled with the phantasmagorical visuals of the music video where the simplicity of the song becomes entangled with Kais smooth, slick moves and dreamy sets you get the feeling that youre Eve trying to resist the call of the apple on the tree. Or well, the peach, in this case.

The best track on the project, however, is the refrained, choppy, yet intense Vanilla. The years have not been kind to the flavour or the term being termed vanilla with respect to anything, more often than not, is akin to an insult. If there was anyone, however, who could infuse it with charisma and magnetism, its Kais crooning of Vanilla, vanilla, is what Im craving set to choppy bongo beats and languid chord progressions.

As he says, Your soft touch feels good, I keep calling out your name, I savor this sweet moment, one is reminded of the words of Philostratus The Elder: Desire (himeros), the companion of love (eros), so suffuses the eyes that it seems clearly to drip from them.

Kai switches it up immediately after in Domino, hereby dubbed as the sister-track to Reason, from his solo debut. Domino comes in strong right off the gate, booming with bass and sweeping us off our feet with his surprising low-tone. Just like Reason from his 2020 release, Domino paints a picture of excess and hedonism, at the center of which is Kai, beckoning us to get a taste, because once is all it takes for us to collapse like dominoes.

Another surprise on the mini-album is the atmospheric Come In, talking about taking the feeling of love by the horn and boldly proclaiming what you feel. What starts as a groovy, hip-hop based track expands in an atmospheric pre-chorus, before segueing into a refrained, yet heady chorus layered with breathy ad-libs. Pure heroine, we say, and he agrees: I tend to get tird of sweet flavors quickly, Yet somehow, you always feel new.

Kai. Credit: SM Entertainment

The only time the project seems to stumble is on the penultimate track, To Be Honest. On a tracklist filled with little delights, whether through sonic arrangements or Kais own vocal abilities, To Be Honest is comparatively plain, resembling a track one would experiment with while finding their footing rather than one from a fully-evolved musician such as Kai.

Wrapping up this roller-coaster ride in comforting lo-fi is the soft, vulnerable Blue, which feels like ironic, yet honest homecoming. After the bravado and dangerous allure of Domino and Vanilla, Blue becomes a breath of fresh air. As if shedding a skin, Kai takes a moment to be honest about his desires: I want to sink like small dust, I want to stop in time for a moment, Exhaling sighs is hard enough, This darker silence is bad enough. For a performer whose duality is one of K-pops most alluring concepts, dare we say, Blue seems closer to Kim Jong-in than it does to Kai, as if reminding us that underneath the tough exterior is a man willing to be honest with himself in the softer moments.

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Kai Peaches review: desire comes alive on the singers sophomore release - NME

On October 22, 1958, British European Airways Flight 142 was nearing the end of its trip from London Airport to Naples when an Italian F86 jet fighter, diving at 400 mph, struck the cockpit, killing all 31 people on board. The remains of the Vickers Viscount were scattered near the village of Nettuno, south of Rome. The fighter pilot, though seriously injured, survived.

One of the victims was Terry OGrady, a 22-year-old steward (as flight attendants were then called), who was planning to train as a pilot. His brother Rory OGrady, only eight at the time, has written an unusual and enjoyable book (The Flight of The Arctic Fox, Conrad Press, 11.99) about the lives and connections of all on board. The aircraft was named after Sir Leopold McLintock, a Victorian polar explorer known as the Arctic Fox.

The idea of a book arose when the relations of the dead met at the dedication of a memorial on the 60th anniversary of the disaster. This gathering was the initiative of Terry Bannon, son of the planes radio officer, who had worked with the Italian authorities to trace as many relatives as possible.

The late 1950s was an era now hard to recover. The memory of the Second World War remained vivid for all those who had lived through it. Both pilots on BEA Flight 142 were war veterans, as was the radio officer Jimmy Bannon. In fact, he had been in the crew of the next to last RAF plane to escape Singapore in February 1942 and had taken the controls when the pilot was killed by Japanese ground fire. Back in Britain, Bannon had served as a Lancaster tail gunner, possibly the most perilous position in any bomber. More recently, he had flown in another Viscount with the Royal Family and Nikita Khrushchev on his state visit.

Yet Britain and Western Europe had largely recovered from the Second World War, while growing prosperity and technological advances made travel safer, more convenient and attractive. Rome, which had been starving in 1945, was now the home of la Dolce Vita, and a vibrant easy-going hedonism rather different from what was available in London.

Among the passengers was a quartet on a mission that might have provided the plot for an Ealing comedy. Jane Buckingham, a glamorous English model, was on her way to Rome to confront her lover, a wealthy Indian prince, over reports that he had taken up with the Hollywood star Eva Bartok. Accompanying her were three of Fleet Streets finest, with hopes of a juicy scoop.

Jane Buckingham was a fascinating character, redolent of smart but sleazy 1950s West End society. She had been born Eugnie Moore to a North London tailor and his wife, who abandoned the family early. Aged 17, she had a baby by a French student, but luckily for her future career the child was adopted. Good looking, intelligent and funny, Eugnie began to be noticed in postwar London. A model agency suggested she change her name, and her career was launched. She modelled luxury clothing in smart magazines and became the face of Schweppes tonic water and various washing powders. She habituated night clubs like the Stork and the Embassy, initially as a hostess, increasingly as the guest of the rich men she met there.

Jane was looking for emotional as well as financial security, and she thought she had found both when in 1954 she married Reginald Kawaja, a wealthy young Lebanese who whisked her off to Canada and then to St Kitts in the Caribbean. She bore him a baby daughter, Yasmin, but found that she was trapped in an old-fashioned extended Lebanese family controlled by her dictatorial father-in-law.

She slipped back to London, leaving her husband and daughter in St Kitts, apparently for good. At a weekend house party, she met Prince Shiv of Palitana, an immensely wealthy Indian playboy (the couple are pictured above). They began an affair which lasted more than a year, and which she may have taken more seriously than he did. She was busy with modelling jobs for Christian Dior and was not always by his side.

Then the gossip columns began to report that the Prince was involved with the much-married Hungarian actress Eva Bartok, who refused to deny that they were engaged. She had just divorced the German star Curd Jrgens, who was infertile and objected to Eva having a daughter he knew could not be his. (Bartok later claimed Frank Sinatra had fathered the baby, Deana Jrgens, during a brief affair).

Its not surprising that Jane Buckingham sensed danger. She needed to speak to Shiv, but he had motored down to Rome to see his father, the 26th Maharaja of Politana. At this point, a slightly shady freelance journalist called Lee Benson approached Jane with the idea of confronting Shiv on the street in Rome. In addition to Benson, there would be a lead reporter, Paddy Roberts of The Sketch, and a photographer, Brian Fogaty. Paddy Watson, an up-and-coming young female feature writer for The Sketch, would write the story while the veteran Fogaty would aim for dramatic photographs of the passionate reunion or, more likely, the angry confrontation. Jane probably wouldnt get her man back, but she would be well paid by The Sketch and would gain useful publicity. Sadly, of course, the sting never came off.

Rory OGrady has done more than pay tribute to the individual victims of an air crash. He has revived their memories and placed their life stories in the context of their times, and of the worlds in which they moved. Some, of course, were ordinary people leading uneventful lives, but even here he has laboured imaginatively to bring them alive. Others were quite exceptional people.

OGrady excels in writing about women, such as Lady Jenny Weir, wife of the Scottish industrialist Sir Cecil Weir, who, among many other services he had rendered his country, had in 1942 convened all the pharmaceutical companies to cooperate in exploiting the invention of penicillin. In October 1958 he was on a business trip to Canada and Lady Jenny was planning a brief holiday on Capri with her friend Frances Miller.

There is much to learn and enjoy in this remarkable book.

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Gone to earth: the last flight of the Arctic Fox - TheArticle