The Boy Dennen Good

31 10 2009


He may blur the lines between masculinity and feminity when he dances, but Brett Dennen can certainly turn out a decent song.
On stage, the ginger singer-songwriter who looks like the offspring of Carrot Top and Ellen DeGeneres (or Norwegian footballer John Arne Riise), has a knack for churning out soulful, catchy, melodic pop that makes you want to move your hips in a very inappropriate manner.
Which is exactly what the 30-year-old Californian does when he is on stage, gyrating in his skinny jeans, giving anyone in the front row a very clear view of his groinal area.
But most don’t care, because they are lost in his tuneful pop, a sort of Ottis Reading meets John Mayer.
His latest effort, 2008’s Hope for the Hopeless, is an 11-song, head-nodding, collection of love songs, each one flowing into the next with easy-listening beats, memorable lyrics and catchy hooks.
It’s the sort of album you could listen to walking the streets of San Francisco, or hear as the soundtrack to an independent film where the hero strives mercilessly to win back his one true love. Probably set in San Francisco too.
And ‘San Francisco’ is the name of the album’s opening track, a smooth, motown-esqu track that almost grabs you by the hand for a slow dance. Gyrating your hips is the only way you can dance to this track.
The rest of the album gently takes you by the shoulder and leads you to the dance floor. Some tracks are slower than others, like ‘So Far From Me’ a slow-winding track that almost cradles you as it plays.
Others are more upbeat, almost jazzy, like the sing-a-longable ‘World Keeps Turning’. Each song with it brings it’s own message of love won, love lost, or love yearned.
Voted one of Entertainment Weekly’s One to Watch last year and a touring bill with Jason Mraz this year makes the future look good for Brett Dennen.





Like/Dislike

22 10 2009

Here are a few things I like about living in America, and a few I don’t.

Rocks:
Turning Right on red
Jamba Juice!
Being English
Craigs list
HBO
Oreo
Trader Joes
Car pool lanes

Sucks:
American newspapers
American coaching techniques
Drivers
How spread out everywhere is
Stop signs. Now and then sure, but every 50 yards? Seriously?
And All-way stops. Fine on a 4 road junction, but on an 8 road junction? Where one of the roads appears in your blind spot? Sort it out, America.





A New Life

20 10 2009

Well I’ve failed that project just three days in. The poem-a-day project was supposed to be an excuse for not having to write long blogs but seeing as I couldn’t even keep up with one measly poem every 24 hours, I thought I owed you a blog.
I’m entering the last five weeks of my programme here which means England beckons. As does my old life, which I came to America to get away from. Well, take a break is probably a better phrase, and it’s fair to say that’s exactly what I have done. My standard of living here could not be more different from home, and it is not neccessarily a good thing.
Before I was living in a tiny, yet cosy, flat in Tunbridge Wells. My lifestyle was modest and my economic approach meak. But I liked that. I lived well withing my means and didn’t need 1,000 commodities clogging up my small room. I lived a simple but ultimately very fun life. All I needed was my awesome flat mate and friends around me and I was happy. What other people had didn’t worry me.
Fast forward six months to Summer 2009 – Manhattan Beach, Los Angeles. For the last month I have been living with a very wealthy family near the beach. I’m staying in their guest house all on my own, which is a few yards from the main house. The house is large, beautifully decorated and filled with TVs, expensive furniture and modern gadets. Most importantly though, it is also filled with an amazing family, who have taken me in as one of their own, and as a result I’ve settled in quicker than my brother in front of a Die Hard DVD.
But I worry that subsconciously I am getting used to this lifestyle and returning home will be a shock to the system. Here my family take me out to dinner, back home I had to make do with what was left in the cupboards. Here my family but my clothes I need, back home I had to save up and then still go to a second-hand store. It’s brilliant living here, but it’s not my life. It’s theirs. I’m just a part of it for a small amount of time.
That said, my family are building a new house around the corner (even closer to the beach) and I popped round to have a look today. I think it is fair enough to call it a mansion. Even that isn’t generous enough. It’s the sort of house you’d expect Usher to be showing you around on MTV Cribs. It has sea views, three floors, 10 plasma TVs, a bar, a theatre complete with confectionary stand, a lift from floor to floor, a pool, a hot tub, massive bedrooms, a bathroom for each room, and so on. I have never been in such a place and I doubt I ever will (unless I visit them next year). And yet they have designed it so well that despite being such a large space, every corner of every room is as homely as my flat in Tunbridge Wells was. Just slightly bigger. And with imported French bricks for the wine cellar.





Poem 2

14 10 2009

Here’s today’s poem.

“No no no no no no!”
Screams the coach
“Kick it honey!”
Yells dad
Desperate for his little princess
To make up for the soccer career he never had
Tempers flare on the sidelines
An air of general malaise
Never once being encouraging
Never once dishing out praise
A goal
A kick
A block
A run
Kids only concentrating on having fun
Take out the negative edge
Relax, take it smooth
Install some enjoyment
And the kids will only improve





A Poem A Day

12 10 2009

My new project is to write a poem a day, and you will get to read them, in all their rubbish glory. Here’s the first.

The Beach

Walking over tiny sand dunes
Like Gulliver trampling the Sahara
Hypnotised by the waves
Their neverending chime
Frothing at the shore
As they gently intertwine
Sand clings to my feet
Like sprinkles on a cake
Men solemnly try to bronze
Like antiqued wood
Seagulls gather close by
The most sociable creatures on the beach.