Indiana Jones and the Temple of Westlife

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door. I had to find the passage back to the place I was before. Walking across a bridge in Belfast, two erstwhile companions at my side (the trusty Doctor Miles Christie, and the legendary Jonny Ray, my tour manager), that cheesy Eagles lyric popped into my head. Maybe it was trigged by the gloomy Irish skyline shrouded in mist, making me feel like a wizard wandering through Middle Earth. Whatever it was, there couldn't be a more appropriate turn of phrase.

The three of us were eagerly skipping, practically racing to the Odyssey Arena/Open-Air Mall/Monstrosity to catch the new Indy flick. Last time I was this excited to see a movie, it was 1999, and me and my crew drove two hours into the heart of Massachusetts with the Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique blaring on repeat. The movie in question was Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace. We stayed awake for 30 hours on the ticket line, and went to 3 screenings that day. To say I've never been so disappointed in my life would be the understatement of the century. How could something so perfect from my youth be so completely destroyed? Needless to say, I approached Indy with an air of caution, after witnessing what George Lucas could do to one of my favorite things ever, not to mention Steven Spielberg!

Coupled with the air of an impending Westlife concert in the heart of Northern Ireland, and it being the night of the Sex In The City premiere, I knew we were in for one helluva ride, not unlike Doctor Jones' wild one through the Temple o' Doom. I hate to do this, but I am compelled to give it to you straight, from one human to another: Indy sucked. I had hope the first 45 minutes, but as soon as an alien skull was introduced as the major artifact in the film, I knew it was a stinker. Not even a Russian Cate Blanchett, or a bumbling, stumbling, mad professor John Hurt could save us. Our trio emerged 2 hours and 15 minutes later with heasd swelled by the memory of Shia Lebeouf's face (how the hell did they let this guy get a hold of summer movies?!).

Walking out to the lobby balcony, we overlooked the ravaging horde of Westlife fans heading for arena exits, a river of bleach blondes carrying glow sticks, three generations worth. The sight was astounding, like something out of a National Geographic TV special. A large group of women were flowing toward a sleek, onyx-colored club called The Box. We debated going in, but decided in the end that a good night's sleep would be the best way to cure our LaBoeuf hangover. I had a Napster session the next day, Jonny had to drive home, and Miles had to be Miles.

Walking back in the rain, I felt a little poetic, even sentimental. Somehow, this was the most perfect, bizarre way to end my May tour. I felt myself at the beginning of a great adventure, one involving saber-toothed tigers, the Lost Ark of the Covenant, maybe even a girl. My future lay at the other end of that drawbridge, my past behind me. There would be no more Indy's, no more Lukes, no more Pee-Wees or MJ to fall from grace. I was my own man. Da-da-duh-da, da-duh-da! Sometimes I wish could get John Williams to score my life. That would be dope.

My Favourite Movies

Head over to my MySpace to vote on which of these would be YOUR favourite!

1.Dr. Strangelove Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Review: Slim Pickens rides the Bomb! Peter Sellers is a Genius! All hail Kubrick!

2.Total Recall
Review: The finest Ahnold movie. I think he needs to have his own genre. There is a surreal quality to his acting - he's completely aware that he's in a movie at all times. See you at the party indeed.

3. The Thing (1982)
Review:This could be one of the most terrifying movies ever. There is something so deeply creepy about flailing tentacles and hundreds of eyes. It's as if John Carpenter and make-up wizard Rob Bottin discovered the primal nightmare. And Kurt Russell is a baddass. Nuff said.

4. Pulp Fiction
Review: The movie that defined my adolescence. How did anyone my age figure out what cool is without Tarantino? Unfortunately, we have to thank him for reviving Travolta's career (I much prefer Danny Zuko to Battefield Earth Monsters). Otherwise, this is one of the finest films ever! Period!

5. Starman
Review: Lost classic of the 80's. Stands as John Carpenter's best flick outside of The Thing. Jeff Bridges is brilliant at looking like a avian weirdo. I love you Jenny Hayden, as well as this movie. Soundtrack makes me feel like I'm 5 years old again.

6. The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Review: In my opinion, Steve Carrell is a has been. This is and will always be, his greatest achievement. The writing is pitch-perfect, and each character is beautiful drawn. I cry when I watch this film. Does that make me weird? Hits a little too close to home.

7. The Cincinnati Kid
Review: McQueen at his best. Ann Margaret is a sex bomb. Karl Malden is as solid as ever. And who doesn't love Eddy G., my man! Check it out, you won't regret it!

8. You Can Count On Me
Review: One of my favorite movies in the last 10 years. So well written, so understated. I really thought Mark Ruffalo was gonna be the next Brando after I watched this. What happened? 13 going on 30 and Just Like Heaven, that's what happened. Still this is a timeless flick.

9. A Clockwork Orange
Review: Am I creepy if watching this film makes me laugh? Something about Alex's journey is so deep, and dark, and funny. It's also one hell of a cool looking film, and the music is brilliant! I still worship Malcom McDowell even though he hasn't come close to this role in anything else he's done...maybe Time after Time and O Lucky Man, but that's about it!

10. True Romance
Does it get better than this? When I was in High School I wanted every I girl I talked to be like Patricia Arquette, and I wanted to sound like Christian Slater. It didn't really work out that way, but at least I got this movie. Best "I Love You' scene ever. No I'm not a wussie, just a true romantic.

A Heavy Brow

Sitting at a hotel bar in Edinburgh, gazing out the window at a castle on a green covered mountain. The best part is I’m not playing music in this hotel bar, stuffed in a corner pumping out tunes. No I’m just sitting here, sipping on a Kronenburg, occasionally glancing at my very cute Scottish bartender. I can’t believe the way people talk here. I find the accent welcoming, soothing. Everyone smiles and seems chilled out, not like New York or London for that matter. I’ve long dreamt of a place where I could live out my days, cool my fiery nerves next to a beautiful dame, breath fresh air in the countryside, but not too country; I am a serious city boy, need my delicatessen fix. In my first 12 hours, Edinburgh is making a strong case. Who knows, maybe I’m ordering drinks from my future bride? I’m here a day early, awaiting another two week stint with the lovely Amy Macdonald, which starts in her native Scotland, winds its way through the UK, and winds up in yet another lush paradise, Ireland. It’s nice to be traveling, especially with all the madness going on in the world. It’s a strange place to be: living out my dream while so many people on Earth are experiencing a nightmare. Right now I’m smack dab in the midst of the first promo blitz, running in and out of radio stations, grinning my grin, spreading the JV gospel. And all the while I have these images burned in the back of my mind of people being pulled from rubble, thousands need deep in refuse and the remnants of their villages. I try to stay positive, but it’s tough proposition. I lie in my hotel room and flip through channels of British newscasters forecasting doom and gloom, with even bleaker headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Another person stabbed in Oxford Circus. Estimated death totals rise again. I have to ask myself what am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be helping? I’m sitting on my bed chewing a club sandwich, sick with paralysis. How can I make the situation better? It’s not like I can hop a flight to Burma and join a 24-hour relief team. They wouldn’t even let me in the country. Why do these disasters happen in the most cut-off, totalitarian countries? It’s heartbreaking to see people in need of help and not getting it. It makes me grateful that the ones I love and care for are happy and healthy. If anyone knows of ways to help, please lemme know, be it donations, writing a song, anything. Right now, I’m dealing with it by throwing myself into every interaction with extra abandon, letting people I’m around know how fortunate I am, that we are to be here and now.

Portrait Of The Artist, Albeit A Commercial One

When we last left our hero, he was a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown, true John Cassevettes style, spouting nonsensical rants about wanting a cat. I’d like to say things have changed, but I would be lying. I’m just a helluva of a lot busier, there’s no time for depressive musings. All business the past couple weeks – video & photo shoot, showcases for Television executives, rehearsing ridiculous Whitesnake cum Barry White (Barry Whitesnake anyone?) covers for a Radio 2 showcase the middle of this month. I can’t complain.

This time last year I was playing in the corner of a Hotel Bar, peddling tunes for tips and wine, scamming salads and tuna steaks, loading up on instant espresso. Actually, reading that last sentence, it doesn’t sound half bad! Maybe I’ll pick up and go back home, resurrect my romantic, bohemian NYC lifestyle……nahhhh!

The prospect of becoming a Rock Star, while more demanding, is much more appealing. Still the frenzied push to plaster my mug across the United Kingdom (and soon elsewhere) gives me pause. During an interview the other day, I was asked how it feels to have a “Big Push” from a “Major Record Label”. I responded in an irreverent yet charming way, dismissing the question, disarming the bomb. But it did light a fire in my brain: am I an Artist? Do I make Art? It may sound ridiculously pretentious, but it’s a good question.

People come to a show, they watch a singer sing, a band rock. They see someone in the unconscious act of performance and lose their own consciousness, become one with the music (I am getting poetic here, apologies). And then a funny thing happens. People say to themselves, “Man, that looks like a lot of fun! What a great thing to be a Rock Star! What a way of life!” And right there they buy it, hook, line and sinker. They embrace the illusion. People are blending the wonderful selflessness that is music with a lifestyle that simply does not exist (note: some acts do live the life, but those are few and far between, and don’t tend to last long. Keith Richards is a legend).

Until signing to a major label, I was one of these people. Now each day my reality is redefined. Rock Stars don’t get up @ 5:30am. Rock Stars don’t have to stick to Cranberry and Soda cause they have 5 gigs in a week plus 10 promo appearances. Rock Stars don’t go to the Mac Store and buy copies of Civilization IV because they crave total mindlessness (okay most Rock Stars don’t do this. I am a nerd). Being a Rock Star is a job like any other, whether it’s playing Piano in a club, to running IT for a large investment-banking firm. Well maybe not like any other job. It IS a lot of fun. And you get a lot of free cabs. And, it’s the only job I was ever cut out for. Though I think I woulda made a good video store clerk. Rent Turkish Delight sometime. It’s one of Paul Verhoven’s first movies, Rutger Hauer as well. Saw it last night, raunchy but good.

MADNESS!

The pixels on my computer screen are dead. There are a million and one things swirling round head, but all I care about is how the pixels on my computer screen are dead. I can count at least 30 in the upper right hand corner. Thankfully, my black Mac is still under warranty. This is where being a staff favorite of iTunes UK has it's advantages.

Some weeks back, right around my last blog entry, I remember telling myself, "Get to New York and you'll be fine." NYC has come and gone, and as David Byrne infamously says, "Same as it ever was."

I'm becoming intimately familiar with terms like product manager and media training. Next Tuesday I play three sets of three songs each to the biggest movers and shakers in UK television. Good morning, good afternoon, and good night. This past Tuesday I abused a London audience, telling them I wasn't "in the mood," serious evidence I'm in need of a girlfriend or a cat. I know a grown man with a cat is a sad affair, but a kitten is good for cuddling, and cuddling is proven to be good for the heart, not unlike red wine. Despite bouts of supreme confidence, propelling me to extraordinary feats of Piano-tastic greatness, I have found, through serious self-examination, that I am not the metahuman, musical mutant with melodic super powers I sometimes think I am. The occasional pat on the back or high five does me good, so next time you see me, give me a hug; I will not protest.

On a more positive note, The Planeteer is nearing completion. At the close of Saturday I will have finished all overdubbing, leaving one more string session, my absolute favorite part of the recording process, and definitely the best part of being on a major label. Live strings may not be better than sex, but they're certainly as good. I'm also in the process of gearing up the band, adding a fourth member to the troupe, Mr. Tom Richards - A young, fresh face who sings, plays keys, guitar, percussion, saxophone, clarinet, and even polishes shoes. May will be the biggest month of my professional life, by far. I'm bouncing all around Europe, will have my face on TV, my voice on Radio, even my secret nude photos on the Internet.

When do I find time to breath? Yoga. More evidence I need a woman. I am doing Bikram Yoga. I am willingly subjecting myself to 100 degree heat (40 for you Europeans) for an hour and a half at a time, attempting to put my head between my legs and kiss my own butt.

SWM seeking a kitten to play with, soft fur and amiable disposition a must.

Pontification

It’s snowing in London. That sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. I thought it only snows in Europe when you’re headed toward a ski resort, but guess I was wrong. Been a minute since I blogged, bet you were thinking I’d settled into a proper English lifestyle, dating some third-rate party girl, gracing page six of News Of The World every couple weeks, and didn’t have much time for online love. You were wrong. It’s still the same old Julian, working, writing, watching movies, waiting for who knows what. The more I live here, the more I am aware of the fickleness that is London. Life here reflects the weather. One minute it’s all doom and gloom, Heavens brooding like an angry kid, and then the Sun blasts through, drowning everything. At times I feel like a cockroach running for the drain when the apartment lights get flicked. People are prone to strange emotional outbursts here, unpredictability characterizes this town. I walk down the street trailing young thugs caught up in iPods, intermittently vouging while rapping, urban whirling dervishes. Eastern European construction workers bump into me constantly. I finally realized they aren’t trying to start trouble, that’s just how they walk, I might as well be a lamppost. Last week I saw a car towing another car with a yellow rope. It’s surreal, medieval and magical all at once. Something about how all the women wear boots makes me scared, like they’re prepared for something I’m not. Next week I’ll be back in New York and that’s a good thing. A weeklong reprieve will put my nostalgia into perspective. Maybe hot dog vendors don’t sing in tune. Maybe cabbies aren’t omniscient oracles. Maybe pretty city girls don’t grow on bars. I feel like Atreyu standing on the edge of a great adventure. Could be cause I’m working on a cover of The Never Ending Story by Limahl. I’m easily influenced.

Un Jour A Paris

I’m back on the Eurostar, my second trip in little more than twenty-four hours (as per my newsletter if you get it – I know the sequence of these things can be confusing, like looking at timeline plot holes in Back To The Future II). On the way down to Paris, I was facing forward, but now I’m flying backwards through the French countryside. My life this past year has been like watching a movie on super speed rewind or fast-forward, can’t tell which direction. I can’t tell if I’ve experienced it all before or if it’s brand new, not unlike Guy Pierce in Memento, The Time Machine, or 60% of characters he plays. There are landmarks – Eiffel Tower means Paris, Big Ben means London, Katz’s Delicatessen means New York, the inside of a car means L.A. and pretty much everywhere else (for those of you keeping track that’s 5 countries, more than 15 states, 4 centers of culture, and something like 8 recording studios). I could have stayed in Paris till Tuesday with my friend Florence Curet, the queen of English-to-French subtitles (she translated Raiders Of The Lost Ark into French for chrissake). But I felt an urgency to get back to London, like I left the hot pot on. This urgency led to a near breakdown on an A&R man’s phone in the Virgin France office. My emotions are like a time bomb – yours would be too if you’d dealt with customs officers as much as I have. Yesterday on the whole was a bit of a nightmare: got booted from the Sebastian Tellier show @ the Pompidou Centre for being American, and was denied a Louis Vitton Fashion Week party. It’s enough to make a baby Rockstar cry. Thank god for Florence. She took me out, got me a belly fully of wine, and treated me this morning to a breakfast complete with Croissants and Eggs cooked in this bizarre French way. The bread is so good in Paris, it tastes like water. I know that sounds strange but think about it. Have to say I’m relived to be headed home. Sleeping in my own bed is one of few luxuries I have (please don’t think dirty thoughts), along with pouring myself into Facebook. I can’t stop, I dunno what’s wrong with me. My mind craves mindlessness. I am determined to review every movie I’ve ever seen on this frickin’ Flixster thing, as if watching all these movies wasn’t bad enough. Warning: under no circumstances are you to go see Jumper with Hayden Christiansen and Samuel L. Jackson! I liken it to operating heavy machinery on anti-psychotics. It’s all fun and games till someone loses their brain, which is very much what I’m after these days.