Irie Method's Forum Success

Irie Method on stage at The Forum

Left to right - Daniel McConkey on guitar,
Harry Osbourne vocals, James Rivett on bass
and Owen Fox on drums (not pictured)

There was an electric moment at the Tunbridge Wells Forum last night when Irie Method played the opening bars of their first song of the set, Run.
The already pumped crowd were on their feet and raring to go for Irie thanks to The Djangos, self proclaimed as 'bigger than Jesus', Hey Joni with their stylish 'twinkly-emo' and Tower Hill's indie-pop.
Irie Method were the undisputed stars of the night however. It's not difficult to see why The Forum won the NME's Best Small Venue Award this year: a forest of hands and an ocean of closely packed leaping bodies met Irie's mix of reggae-indie-pop, and Rivett's opening bass line in Auntie Valerie had the masses screaming before Osbourne had even breathed a single lyric. Fox's punchy Caribbean-style drumming evoked the reggae tunes of Bob Marley and McConkey's lilting, Kook's-like guitar created a delicious blend of contemporary and modern. The teasingly-energetic lead singer Osbourne got the audience eating out of his hand and truly owned the stage and The Forum as a whole.
McConkey said of the atmosphere: "we've never been infront of a crowd like that, either alone or as a band,"
"The two other gigs we've done have been a battle of the bands, and a free gig in Alexandra Park at 10am on a saturday morning, so the forum crowd was pretty special" the guitarist continued.
When asked what the future has in store for the band, McConkey said, "I honestly have no idea. We have some bigger things planned though, so watch out, Irie's about"

If one thing can be said for sure, then it's that Irie Method has cemented a die-hard fan base from an already enthusiastic following. Watch this band: they're going places.

The Djangos on Souncloud

Irie Method on Soundcloud

Tower Hill on Soundcloud

Hey, Joni on Bandcamp

Why you should Think Twice about Journalism as a Serious Career

Hey you.

Yeah, you.

Can you write to a basic standard?
Do you enjoy embellishment?
Do you like shouting at people, both figuratively and literally, until you get what you want?
Do you like making people cry?
Would you like to be a journalist?
If you answered yes to any one of those questions, then it's probable you have thought about, at one point or another, pursuing a career in journalism.
If you have, but swiftly dismissed it with a nervous laugh and a 'Oh, you', then you are one of the lucky ones. If you have, and thought of dusty newsrooms, rows of clattering typewriters on wooden desks and a fatso with a cigar clamped between his teeth wearing a sweaty shirt and braces waving his arms in the air shouting "hold the front page!", then congratulations, you are a romantic. Also, you are going to be sorely disappointed. Here's why.


You're not going anywhere fast.

It's your first day out of 'Varsity. You're young, hopeful, and look like Leonardo Di Caprio (bear with me here). Getting a job at a newspaper is as easy as knocking on the door and asking to write a story, right?
Wrong.

Handsome as Leonardo Di Caprio? Dream on.

It's all about the contacts. Unless you happen to be the love child of the honourable Rupert Murdoch (We've all been there!), you can kiss writing your big piece goodbye and say hello to five years of making coffee for that guy with the cigar and reservoirs for arm pits before printing a sentence. It's as easy as climbing a greased ladder with Scar perching at the top

What? I've got hay-fever.

Don't worry though, if you stick with it for long enough, that guy will be making you coffee!
Please God.

Nobody respects journalists any more.

I love the smell of hearsay in the morning.

Let's say you've managed to climb that ladder, and you've got your first story. Great! It's time to pull on your trilby complete with 'Press' ticket, grab your flip-notebook and pen and start getting sources.
Good luck finding anyone to talk to you, though.
Somebody ruined the beautiful, magical world of journalism for everyone by thinking it would be fun to have a look at everyone's voice mail, or had a bet to print a newspaper with so much hateful bigotry per paragraph that it's almost funny but isn't because it's depressing called The Daily Mail. Because of this, the perception of journalists has descended from the truth conveying word-smiths once held as the champions of free speech to desperate, hateful, bottom-feeding liars.

Paper will soon be a thing of the past. 

Ok, so journalists are no longer respected. Big woop. Spending all my time honing my writing skills has cut me off from my social network anyway. At least I'll still get the satisfaction if seeing my name in print, a million times, delivered to the doorstep of every home in the country as the sun rises on another day, right?
Firstly, as admirable as it is that you're still a romantic after all the metaphorical punches I've been delivering to your naive face, it's probably time to get your head out of the clouds.
Secondly, have you heard of the internet?

It's pretty swell.

That 'series of tubes' that brings you cats with poor grammatical skills, videos of people walking in to low ceilings and even your beloved Facebook are also bringing about the end of newspapers as we know it.
The sales of newspapers have been plummeting for some time now, as readers realise that the internet can give them the same information, more of it, instantly, and for free.

"What's this? Trouble in the colonies?"

Newspapers have been losing advertising revenue to the internet through sites the likes of eBay and Craigslist. Many have had to adapt or die; laying off staff and hastily assembling pay walls on their websites, and some of those that were too slow have already bitten the dust, particularly metropolitan and local newspapers.



If you're still here from the few that weren't put off at the beginning of this post, and still raring to get you're teeth into journalism, then you're either very stupid, or got the bare faced balls to turn the whole industry around. Good luck to you, sir.
In the mean time, I'm going to keep writing right here about things I have a very basic knowledge of. Viva la Blog!

Why Propeller Planes are Pleasantly Terrifying

It was with dread we learned that our plane would be sans-jets, opting for the less efficient blender blades that would throw us towards the continent green faced and white knuckled.
Our type of plane is thoughtfully named a Bombardier, leaving the Flybe passenger to use their imagination why.

"Why did we buy this crap-heap"

 You can pull out all the nervous flyer superlative similes for rge Bombardier; steel tube coffin, ticket to hell, ad. nauseum. I've never been a nervous flyer, seeing as I've been pushed, pulled and occasionally trampled into planes since an early age, but meeting a prop for the first time brewed a strange apprehension within me.
As soon as you get over this apprehension however, it's really quite enjoyable. Whilst gazing out of the airport at our all-inclusive fun tube, fellow passengers jovially commented upon its over all safety, casually betting on how likely they were to die if, when, this vibrating cylinder should pull the classic 'screw you guys' and part ways with its wings, unleashing the windmills of death into the atmosphere.
As a sort of rite of passage, photographs were taken by each ticket holder before they boarded as if it were the first picture of a depressingly empty holiday photo album, "and this is Ma and Pa before they were transformed into milkshake by the propellers after the window swapped places with the seat".

All up in yo business.

It was all fun and games of course, apart from when taxiing the sun hit the spinning propellers creating a dizzying strobe effect that made me wish I had packed my glo-sticks after all.
The only time I did feel scared, just a little, was when roaring down the runway. I calmly speculated, with a tinge of regret, whether the last words I would have spoken would be "that's my sandwich you're eating", and whether being flung from a plane like a scrunched up paper ball aimed at a bin from the back of the classroom whilst struggling to open a BLT was a particularly bad ass way to go.

If you enjoy sky high roller coasters, ignore the metal blades whizzing behind your ear and don't mind the nerves in your feet being obliterated by the floor vibrating like a mobile phone on steroids, then I recommend giving propeller planes a go.