Sunday, November 27, 2005

Mazes, retail crack and the cardrat adventure


IKEA is a remarkable invention and the evolution of its advertising is an interesting, perhaps cautionary tale. A few years back there was this stuff produced by cultish Chiat/Day survivors or something involving motifs like Swedish gangsters admiring towels and a mysterious tattooed man who did things like lock staff away if they did not understand brand concepts properly. Amusing, well shot etc and made me less ashamed of going there despite the fact that it was more stressful than being forced to staple rabid rats to bits of card at gunpoint. Then the Nordic jokers rejected style in favour of day-glo inclusivity with a campaign based on a palette consisting of skittles and happy meal packaging, complete with non-threatening, non-aspirational gimps filling their living spaces and identities with generic plastic and particleboard tat. As the place is so far beyond needing conventional forms of Marcomms all that is about now are some feeble tube cards saying that if you pay less for your kitchen you can somehow work less. Never mind that most of us electric slaves are on some form of feeble salary and whether a kitchen costs a bit more is a question of marginal madness on the consumer debt front for all but the lucky. The difference between posting onesself a nail bomb filled with battery acid and one adding a few old pushpins and a desiccated mouse to the mix.

Not much can be said about pikea that has not been said elsewhere. I have noticed that I have not a single friend who has not said that a visit there is a last ditch, very stressful experience resulting in expenditure over £100 regardless of what they intended to purchase. The maze is well designed with cul de sacs maximising the chance for impulse purchases of redundant oven gloves and PRC frying pans en route to escape. The standard of design oscillates between passable faux modernism, post modern migraine and plain suburban beige ugh but appears to be going through one of its better phases, at least in the case of TV stands. I am dissenter who is helpless to resist, slumping around the place stewing in guilt for not finding a better way. Except when the proper shops have a seconds sale.



Sunday, November 13, 2005

Jumping someone else's train


A wall in Verona
Originally uploaded by The Salaryman.

Christmas and the run up to it is a great time for yesterday’s peddlers of sonic dried candy floss residue for the charts to put together yet another ‘best of’ or ‘ultimate collection’ of some sort as a stocking filler for people whose cultural landscape is less evolved than that of a bit of plankton grooving along to the vibrations of defecating mackerel. The tunnels and pathways of commute Hades have received a plastering of related promotional announcements, most of which are so far beneath contempt as to breach the very limits of gravity. One very well promoted one deserves special recognition for odium as those responsible have somehow escaped sufficient critical censure throughout the years. I stared at the thing and noticed several periodicals pimping the same in between my periodic questioning as to whether the Northern Line’s signalling system is comprised of fag ends, chewing gum and a stolen ‘AAA’ battery. The no-so-recent revival of the electro sound and interest in 80s retro by those that crawled the carpet during its early days has offered a tardy commercial opportunity to a tired couple of chancers who made it far bigger than deserved.

Eurythmics. A name like that screams modernity, an international outlook or at least some kind of relevance. Not in this case. 1983- get anyone with passable musical nous into some London studio with some analogue synth gear, chemical inducement and some fucking time on their hands and you will get one notable single. ‘Sweet Dreams (are made of this).’ is one such record. Fine – credit there but lots of good electropop was made back then by duos of wankers who at least had the decency to go away after they had burned out their three minutes of possible creativity. The living cartoon that is Dave Stewart and faux soul foghorn Annie Lennox were too clever for that. Further hits came like a periodic hailstorm of frozen mucus, most notable being ‘There must be an Angel, playing with my heart as I spew predicable O-level couplets in a stupid wig, yeah, etc.’ the ‘arty’ video for which involved men arsing about in unicorn outfits. A maelstrom of artfully packaged MOR followed on. And on and on. Lennox even created a solo record that forever will be on ‘repeat’ for suburban emotional cripples and corporate events organisers.

In the same era, Soft Cell merged synths rather more convincingly with Motown (rather than Dusty Springfield, the sozzled sound of best avoided wedding receptions) and the queerer side of Soho. Yet this more artful and dangerous duo were painted as the one hit wonders that Stewart and Lennox should have been. The culture market is a strange place indeed.