Latest news with #Waterboys
Daily Mail
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Daily Mail
JONATHAN BROCKLEBANK: It's time preachy rockers remembered why they picked up a mic in the first place - don't tell us what to think, just sing!
A few weeks ago I had an online argument with a rock star. I do not normally do social media spats but my dander was up, it was late and it is possible a glass of red did some of the talking. I thought I'd just say my piece, let the rock star ignore it, then slope off to bed – but no, he came back at me. So I came back at him. He tried to have the last word. I wouldn't let him. Oh, Mike Scott from the Waterboys, how did we get here? Bickering after midnight on X – formerly Twitter – all those years after hits like The Whole of The Moon and Fisherman's Blues cast you as essential listening and me as dutiful accumulator of your oeuvre. I cannot say exactly how Mr Scott got to this place. I got here through decades of being rubbed up the wrong way by rock stars telling people what to think. I don't mind them telling us what they think. My problem is with the assumption that it carries any more gravitas or relevance than what your next-door neighbour or your taxi driver thinks. I bristle at the veiled implication that, if they enjoy their music, fans should tailor their world view to their hero's one. Just as I prefer taxi drivers to shut up and drive so I cannot help thinking many a music show would be greatly enhanced if the performer would only shut up and sing. The point of contention between me and the head Waterboy was a series of speeches Bruce Springsteen delivered at recent UK shows on his indignation at the Trump administration. Now, I am as disappointed as The Boss is about the presence of the current commander in chief in the White House. But what his successful election campaign demonstrated beyond doubt is it doesn't matter a damn what celebrities have to say about politics. Springsteen (who freely admits he has never had a job in his life) has for decades been the articulator of American blue collar workers' emotions. He's very good at it and, sure, it must be troubling for him that such high numbers of this very demographic backed the 'wrong' presidential candidate. Do you know what I think blue collar workers might be saying to their talismanic troubadour? 'Sing the songs, Bruce. It's what you're good at. It's why we're here. Lectures we can live without.' I was telling Edinburgh-born Mike Scott that conscience artists like Springsteen would be better off reflecting on the reasons America ignored them than sermonising to British audiences who didn't have a vote in the first place when, in any case, that ship had sailed. He was telling me: 'Really? You know what Bruce should be doing better than he does?' Well, not exactly. But I have been a loyal customer since the 1980s. Am I not as entitled to a view on the Springsteen brand as I am on Marks and Spencer or easyJet or Levis casualwear? Consider it feedback. My view as a fiftysomething rock fan is that we in the audience grow up. People my age are not looking for musical messiahs. We don't pay hundreds of pounds – as I did once for Springsteen – to receive political guidance or soak in the wisdom at the feet of some visionary or shaman. We're there to hear Born to Run and Dancing in the Dark, to sing along to Hungry Heart, and be enriched by the sights and sounds of thousands of people enjoying a notable talent performing great songs. Where do they get off with the preaching? And, given that the heroes I speak of are older than I am, isn't it time they did some growing up too? Take 79-year-old Neil Young who, for 'protest' reasons that I was too weary to fully fathom, first was, then wasn't, then was playing Glastonbury. Then he was, then wasn't, then was allowing the BBC to live stream it. Oh, for pity's sake, Neil, give over. Either do the flaming gig or don't. Enough with the endless indulgence and point-scoring and obsessing about making the occasion anything more than climbing onstage and delivering the goods to fans of your music. Indeed, and it pains me to say it about another hero of mine, but Young should compare and contrast his shambling, sparsely attended turn at Glastonbury with that of a performer a year his senior. Rod Stewart was that rare festival artist who seemed to remember that he was in the entertainment industry. Interestingly, Sir Rod had let slip in the hours prior to his performance that he was rather a fan of Nigel Farage. The kiss of death, one might assume, for a musician about to face a right-on festival crowd. Not a bit of it. They sang along to I Don't Want to Talk About It, boogied to Da Ya Think I'm Sexy and even teared up at the emotional punch of the showstopper, Sailing. Here is the thing about Sir Rod. He doesn't give two hoots whether people agree with him about Reform UK or not. These are his politics in 2025. Everyone else is welcome to their own. How refreshing for an artist to laugh off the shackles of self-importance and know that his view matters no more or less than anyone else's. And here is the thing about his audience on Sunday. They came for a great time and they got it. The day a singer's politics matter more than the songs which made us listen to them in the first place is the day the entertainment ends. It is not simply because I am bored with the preachy tendencies of the music industry that I take issue today with three of my favourite rockers. It's also because, in acts like Kneecap and Bob Vylan – both of whom performed at Glastonbury – we see the logical extension of the preaching. We see nonentity extremists spouting hatred from the stage, leading their audience in chants which call for killings. We see men dressed in balaclavas, glorifying a terrorist organisation which brought decades of bloodshed to Northern Ireland and the UK mainland. They even name themselves after an IRA punishment attack. In decades gone by rock stars agitated for peace. Some used their stage to unite divided peoples. In the 1980s and 1990s they used it to try to end a famine, to end apartheid, to raise money to combat HIV and AIDS. Worthy causes all. Is the stage now the recruitment centre for radicals and insurgents? Did thousands of flag waving idiots really participate in an anti-Jewish death chant because a lunatic on stage bade them to? That is indeed what the BBC had TV audiences witness. So I am sorry, Mike – love you and all, but I still respectfully disagree. I think rock stars should remember what put the microphone in their hands in the first place. I think a degree of humility is called for on the extent to which their politics influence society. I say it's a good thing most audiences know their own minds.
Japan Times
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Japan Times
Parental grief and spiritual terror collide in ‘Dollhouse'
If I had gone into the mystery film 'Dollhouse' cold, seeing director Shinobu Yaguchi's name in the closing credits would have made me doubt my own eyes. Yaguchi has long been Japan's leading purveyor of smartly crafted comedies with a zero-to-hero arc. Among the best is the 2001 'Waterboys,' a feel-good comedy about a boys' synchronized swimming team that inspired countless knock-offs, and the 2017 'Survival Family,' whose story of a dysfunctional family forced to fend for itself when the world's electric grid goes down was both funny and prescient. The premise of 'Dollhouse' — a creepy doll wreaks havoc on the humans around it — is a horror genre staple, one domestic example being Hideo Nakata's 2015 'Ghost Theater,' in which a malevolent doll spreads terror and confusion in a small theater troupe. But Yaguchi's take is disturbingly different, drawing on elemental parental fears and ancient strains of Japanese culture and religion. Masami Nagasawa, who also starred in Yaguchi's 2014 'Wood Job!,' plays Yoshie, the mother of the cute 5-year-old Mei. She and her nice-guy husband Tadahiko (Koji Seto) dote on the girl, but when Yoshie goes shopping for snacks while Mei and her friends play hide-and-seek in the house, she returns to every parent's nightmare. Her discovery of her daughter's body in a startling reveal is impossible to unsee. A year later, a still-traumatized Yoshie buys an old doll because it resembles Mei. That night, Tadahiko is surprised to see the doll sitting at the dinner table and Yoshie talking to it as if it were alive. He plays along, more so after a therapist tells him Yoshie's 'adoption' of the doll may speed her recovery. Then Yoshie gives birth to a baby girl. Flash forward five years: The girl, Mai, takes an interest in the now forgotten — and very conscious — doll and they are soon fast friends. But the doll, jealous of the attention the couple lavishes on Mai, is out for payback. In shifting from the psychodrama of a mother maddened by grief and guilt to out-and-out horror as the couple struggles to rid themselves of the doll from hell, the film risks losing its bearings and descending into self-parody. But Yaguchi keeps the story anchored in a semblance of real-world logic, while ratcheting up the supernatural scares and solving the puzzle of the doll's origin. The doll doesn't walk and talk like the menacing eponymous character of the American 2022 shocker 'M3gan,' who had the excuse of being an AI-powered robot. But it does evade Yoshie's frantic attempts to discard it, like trash that keeps implacably returning because it wasn't properly sorted. The couple finally calls on assistance, starting with a temple priest who declares that the doll is cursed and progressing to a doll expert (a grim-visaged Tetsushi Tanaka) who comes up with a bizarre plan for getting it out of their lives. By this point, merely tossing it won't work. From a Western perspective, the lengths to which the characters go to calm the doll's vengeful spirit may seem excessive or absurd. But in Japan, where the ritual disposal of dolls is a long-established practice, they make karmic sense. And though 'Dollhouse' concludes with twist after twist, to the point of exhaustion if not absurdity, its ending feels welcome and right. Whether or not that means the doll is gone for good, I'll leave for you to guess.
Irish Examiner
09-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Examiner
The Waterboys review: New tunes and old classics in the mix at 3Arena
The Waterboys, 3Arena, Dublin,★★★☆☆ Mike Scott doesn't faff about, jumping straight into a flailing and urgent Be My Enemy, kicking out encouragement to the other Waterboys around him to keep up. To his left, visual foil and professional rock'n'roller Brother Paul chops at the organ keys like they've challenged him to a fight. Without breath or break they charge into Medicine Bow with Scott clanging out the changes on his Perspex guitar and personifying that 'typhoon on the rise'. The Waterboys go at it like a gang of young lads in a battle of the bands rather than a seasoned act. 'Nice to be back. Nice to be home,' honorary Dub Scott tells us before they hurtle on. This Is The Sea is recast ('Things happen, songs change,' says Scott) as mid-period Dylan with lyrics altered to allude to '1933' and 'a thousand ways to complain". It's fairly plain who he's aiming his ire at. The middle section presents their admirably ambitious concept album Life, Death and Dennis Hopper. Despite Scott and co picking the choicest cuts, including a rocking Hopper's On Top, The Who-like Transcendental Peruvian Blues, and a very groovy Michelle (Always Stay), and converting 3Arena into a psychedelic cinema to present them, audience reaction is more polite than rabid, presumably due to unfamiliarity. The Waterboys at 3Arena, Dublin. But while my mate Kate texts 'What's this?' and another nearby punter starts watching GAA on his phone, many more are turned on to some fine music. Job well done, Scott thanks us for listening, and returns to more familiar fare. The opening trumpets swell of Don't Bang The Drum reawakens the doubters and when the beat kicks in – rhythm section Eamon Ferris and Aongus Ralston are solid as the Brian Boru Bridge – the place goes bananas. Brother Paul gets his Keytar out for A Girl Called Johnny, throwing shapes like a man wrestling a particularly slippery fish but in a very funky way. Both he and fellow keyboardist James Hallawell lose it altogether for The Pan Within, duelling from across the stage before wrestling the same instrument to close it out. More cameras flash than for the last papal visit when Scott encores with The Whole Of The Moon, repeating the 'Too high, too far, too soon' refrain for maximum effect. But the best is saved for last as fiddle god Steve Wickham re-joins the band for a truly uplifting Fisherman's Blues, taking this reviewer all the way back to Shinrone in 1988. A game of two halves then, but two very good ones. Read More Iggy Pop review: Veteran rocker makes welcome return to Dublin for In The Meadows
Irish Daily Mirror
30-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Irish Daily Mirror
WIN TICKETS TO SEE THE WATERBOYS LATM, CORK, THURSDAY JULY 10, 2025!
The Waterboys have been led by Scottish singer and guitarist Mike Scott since the 1980s and have evolved through countless line-ups, winning a fearsome concert reputation along the way. Their best-known songs include The Whole Of The Moon, How Long Will I Love You, This Is The Sea and Fisherman's Blues. Thanks to our friends at Live At The Marquee we have a pair of tickets to giveaway to one lucky winner to see The Waterboys Live at the Marquee, Thursday July 10, 2025 PLUS overnight B&B stay for two sharing at the 4* Clayton Hotel Cork! To be in with a chance of winning simply fill out the form below. If you can't see the form above, CLICK HERE Terms and Conditions apply, see entry form for details.
Sydney Morning Herald
09-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Sydney Morning Herald
The concept album is dead – and it was never great to begin with
In German, there is a word, verschlimmbessern. It is used to describe an intended improvement that turns out to have the opposite effect. Airbags were invented to save lives, but they explode with such force that they sometimes kill. Cane toads were introduced into Queensland to cut down on harmful pesticides, and whoops, an irreversible ecological plague. There is no greater example of musical verschlimmbessern than that of the concept album – vaguely defined as a record designed around a central narrative, a unifying theme or a particular artistic device. The definition may be hazy, but the very whiff of it sends music critics into fits of schwärmerei (German for 'unbridled and excessive enthusiasm'). The intention is to elevate an LP into a literary work of art, and the artist into a mythical genius. Yet more often than not, the 'concept' serves only to confuse and complicate, resulting in a record that succeeds neither as a collection of songs nor a cohesive piece of storytelling – a half-built ship with a fancy paint job, lost in a desolate sea of compromised ideas. The concept album emerged in the 1960s, with Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Beatles and its like, and it endures to this day. The Waterboys just released Life, Death and Dennis Hopper, inspired by the Hollywood icon, and Car Seat Headrest will release The Scholars in early May, told from the perspective of various students at a fictional college. It's an exciting idea. Taking a listener on a sonic journey, immersing them in an experience that is both cinematic and enthralling. Occasionally, it works: Kendrick Lamar's good kid, m.A.A.d city, for example, transports us to one particularly wild day in the Compton of Kendrick's childhood, explores characters with depth and provides narrative payoff to those who listen from start to finish. The result is the greatest album of the 21st century. But make no mistake: this is the exception, not the rule. Almost always, a concept album (no matter how good the concept might be on paper) quickly devolves into a conceited exercise in ego and forced-together puzzle pieces. Whether the artist is trying to tell an overarching story, write songs from different perspectives, or experiment with the form itself, it's nearly impossible to pull off. Some concept albums try to reinvent the wheel, and find themselves buried beneath their ambition, with the gimmick swamping the songs themselves. Commercial Album by the Residents consists of 40 songs, all one minute long. It's a fun idea, but it runs out of juice quickly, becoming tedious and distracting. The Turtles Present the Battle of the Bands sees the Turtles pretend to be 12 bands across 12 songs of wildly different genres, including country, psychedelia, surf rock, pop and R&B – a baffling listening experience. Far worse is the narrative-driven concept album. If, when you look up a recipe online, your favourite part is the long, needlessly complicated story serving no purpose and obscuring the actual food, then concept albums are for you!
