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Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. Sort order. Jan 23, Richard Bunning rated it it was amazing Shelves: apocalyptic , dystopian , epic-vision , future-history , scavenger-lord. This is an epic vision of a post apocalyptic Earth. And there it stopped, because there is a limit to how much rain can fall from the sky. The cloudmaster had to water the other quarters as well, you see. Until now. Terelle drew in a sharp breath.

His voice was grief-filled, as if he spoke of something past and done with, gone forever. In horror she realised that he was afraid. He was a reeve, by all that was holy! One of the men and women who controlled water, and therefore life. If he was scared…. Apprehension rippled up her spine as they came to a halt where the tunnel ended in a stone wall. Bevran said, "Behind this wall is the cistern. Water enters it from the level above. He reached into an alcove near the spout and removed one of the objects stowed there.

These timers are all made by the Cloudmaster's glass-smith, guaranteed accurate. Water gushed out into the tunnel. Then we have to make calculations based on how many persons in each household, how old they are and whether they have water allowances anyway. All that is a decision made by a committee of reeves. She thought about that, then asked, "Who decided how much a day's free allotment was to be in the first place?

The Watergiver? Certainly that was decided a long, long time ago and as far as I know the size of a personal day jar has never altered. Just as the amount of land under irrigation can never be altered, either. She wanted to protest at the injustice done to those who had no free allowance, who were born without an entitlement because of what their parents didn't own or didn't do.

She wanted to ask about those who lost their entitlement because of a change in their status.

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But she didn't. She knew better. Who was she to question a representative of a highlord? She was a snuggery girl, born waterless, the lowest of the low, and lucky to be alive. Instead she watched the water swirl out from the supply cistern and into the darkness of the tunnel. Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Waterhall, Level 1, and Breccia Hall, Level 2 In the half-darkness of the vaulted waterhall, the water was black-surfaced and motionless, a mirror to the lamps lighted by the servants. Of the sixteen oblong cisterns, separated one from the other by stone walkways, twelve were full to the brim and reflected the teardrops of lamp flame.

To Nealrith Almandine-son of Granthon, Cloudmaster of the Quartern-the smell of water was overpowering. It doused any whiff of lamp oil, or any odour of sweat or dust or perfume that might have clung to his body or clothes. He shut his eyes and let its redolence seep into him: pure, cleansing, rejuvenating.

For a moment in time he allowed himself to feel the connection: his body, the content of the cisterns around him. Water to water. Life-his life-calling to the source of all life. He opened his eyes. With effort, he swallowed the bitterness, the sense that he had been the victim of an unjust fate. That was childish, and he was far from being a child. Beside him the reeve waited, face impassive, even as the questioning intonation of the echo whispered through the vaults: "Highlord?

Nealrith hauled his thoughts back to his responsibilities. All the cisterns, as usual. The man moved to obey. The only other occupant of the hall stayed at Nealrith's side, regarding him with a cynical half-twist to his mouth. Nealrith nodded, acknowledging his abstraction. Even as he spoke, he was watching the reeve kneeling at the cistern to fill the vials they had brought. The black glass of the water's surface shattered into half-moons of reflected lamplight and Nealrith felt the movement as a shiver across his skin.

As my old granny used to say, 'A trouble shared is a trouble pared. Unrepentant, Kaneth shrugged and grinned. But the sentiment remains. What's the matter, Rith? And talking about it is not going to solve anything. Let's see how much is in the overflow cisterns. Nealrith looked at him. The lamplight accentuated the deep grooves of a desert-etched face; even Kaneth's good looks were not immune. We appear lined and older than our years, Nealrith thought.

And yet they weren't old, either of them, not really. Other men of thirty-five considered themselves in their prime. But Nealrith and Kaneth were both rainlords, and in these times, that made the difference. Kaneth had the advantage, though; he had a fighter's physique, broad shoulders and muscles that spoke of a more youthful strength and vitality. Nealrith was thinner and less toned.

Too much sitting at a desk dealing with city administration, he thought, and envied his friend. Kaneth's fair hair still glinted straw-gold in the light, while his own was already salted with grey. I don't need to see," he agreed. The admission was surprisingly hard to make, and he heard his voice sag with the same grief that had aged him.

The middle ones are half-full. The lower ones are fine. Did they find anything wrong that would account for the drop in the amount of water arriving here? Nealrith knew his hesitation betrayed him. Worry seethed beneath his outward calm. Worry that was close to panic. Ryka said they rode the whole course, checked the mother cistern, the intakes from the mother wells and every inspection shaft.

There was nothing wrong. No signs of theft. Nothing except that the water flow is reduced from what is normal. Which means less water for the mother cistern. But Iani? He's one of the best we have. Nothing wrong with his water-sense. Last time I saw him, he told me he thought Lyneth was with a nomadic tribe of pedemen who wandered the land, invisible to the rest of us.

Nealrith shook his head sadly. Iani's daughter Lyneth had disappeared in the desert and the rainlord had never been the same since. There was no point in alienating a friend, and Kaneth was that. It was just so hard to bridle his worry. Friend or not, Kaneth had never been one to accept rebuke mildly. He drawled, deliberately provocative, "On the contrary, I am quite sure you do.

Your problem is not one of lack of understanding, but of will. The will to do something about it. They had reached the intake from the mother cistern tunnel. The splash of water through the heavy iron grille should have been comforting; instead it unsettled. Nealrith glanced through the bars. The rounded brick walls funnelled away into the darkness until they disappeared in a tiny pinpoint of light.

That slim ray would have been sunlight entering at the first of the maintenance chimneys. There must be a crack in the cover. The tunnel did not end there, of course; it went all the way to the foothills of the Warthago Range, three days' ride distant, to the mother cistern, which was fed in turn by pipes from the mother wells. Now there's an idea," Kaneth replied, dryly sarcastic.

Nealrith grimaced and softened his tone. It was pointless to turn his anxiety into bad temper. He went back to Kaneth's original point. The main one being that there wasn't enough rain last year. My father hasn't failed in that regard. Nor will he… yet. Nealrith made an exasperated sound and lowered his voice to make sure the reeve could not hear. My father's powers are failing.

You want it even blunter than that? Granthon, Cloudmaster of the Quartern, is gravely ill. Possibly dying. He is not lifting enough water vapour from the sea. Is that what you wanted to hear? And I need to hear what you intend to do about it.


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Kaneth fumbled in his tunic pocket for one of the onyx vials he carried for the purpose. Its essence is not wrong, just the amount. He kept it there for a moment before he added, "About half the flow of this time last year. And every star cycle before that. The city's mother cistern is not filling to capacity. Ryka said it is eight handspans too low.

They had to adjust the siphon. We have to start rationing now. I've spoken to the engineers. The groundwater level needs to be maintained. And the only way to do that is to have sufficient rain. Rith, we can't just go jogging along pretending nothing is wrong! Deepen the shafts. Build more shafts. Tap into the groundwater elsewhere and bring water through a new tunnel. Be stricter about the enforcement of birth control-there are still rich folk who have more than two children because they can afford to buy their dayjars. Anything is better than sitting back and waiting for people to die of thirst.

Better still-" He paused. There was no wastage of water in Breccia. Each man, woman and child received exactly what he or she needed for life. Every fruit tree, every palm grove, every jute and flax plant, every vegetable patch received exactly enough for growth and harvest. Ration water and food production would drop. Eventually people would die. They'd starve, if they hadn't already died of thirst.

You've seen him. My father is old beyond his years, and ill. I am going to the Sun Temple after this, to ask Lord Gold to make a heavier sacrifice to the Sunlord. Perhaps that will help. They looked at each other, two men who had been friends since the day they had first met as children, almost thirty years earlier. Nealrith's heart lurched. They were like sand grains at the top of a slope too steep for stability, waiting for the landslip, the irrevocable damage, the words that couldn't be taken back.

He smothered a desire to change the subject rather than hear something he knew instinctively he would not be able to countenance. None of what you have suggested so far is practical. You can't tap into water that simply isn't there. More wells somewhere else would be accessing the same underground water as the present ones do; you know that. And I am assuming that you are not going to recommend wholesale slaughter of a number of our citizens so that the rest of us have enough to drink.

Your father has more than enough strength to supply us here in the Scarpen Quarter; let the other three find their own water. Nealrith drew in a sharp breath. You can't be serious. The cynical half-smile, the insouciance, were gone. He was utterly sober. It's all we can do. Quite apart from the sheer inhumanity, we would have the Reduners battering at our walls with an army of zealot tribesmen mounted on pedes and tapping out ziggers.

Have you thought of that? A war on our hands at this time? You should, because you may be one of those who fall with a zigger burrowing up your nose. Although I suppose a war would indeed reduce the number of our citizens in need of water. Kaneth shrugged dismissively. Many of them think they should return to a time of random rain anyway. But we should stop sending rain to the White's 'Basters and the Gibber grubbers. After all, what have they ever done for us? We don't need them, Rith. They are weeds, sucking up water and producing nothing we cannot do without in the short term. He caught hold of Nealrith's sleeve.

Your father need only supply half the amount of rain. He can do that much. It will buy us time to find other stormlords to help him, to find another to replace him as Cloudmaster when the time comes. He will live longer if he has fewer stresses on him. The shame and the guilt would kill him. What of those who would die in the White and Gibber quarters? You are advocating the brutal eradication of two peoples, as if they were rats in the waterhall! He had raised his voice and the echoes faded out around them: "waterhall… hall… all. Nealrith lowered his voice to a furious whisper and shook off his friend's hand.

It is you-and your father-who would see us all die a lingering death as our gardens and groves wither and the cisterns empty. Tell me, Nealrith, Highlord of Breccia City, which is a better ending: to have all four quarters die slowly, or have two of them prosper and only two succumb to a waterless death? Yes, I'll admit it, I think of myself. Is there shame in that? I want to live! I am looking to settle down at last-to marry into the Feldspar family, actually.

But that's neither here nor there. Rith, I want you to propose this solution to Granthon. He will listen to you. Someone has to have a practical solution for a very real problem, and the Cloudmaster has got to listen. You're a dreamer, Rith, and your scruples will suffocate us all in sand. We will salvage something from this mess, with you-or in spite of you. There has never been unity. Or prosperity, either, if you were to ask a Gibberman. It may have been Granthon's dream in his younger days, but he never achieved anything like it.

And now we have a problem. And even you have to admit that there are only two possible solutions, at least in the long term. We either find several more stormlords-and we've had a singular lack of success there, you must admit-or we reduce the number of water drinkers. It is as simple as that. It was a choice between the apparently impossible and the totally unconscionable. He turned away so that Kaneth wouldn't see his revulsion, or his grief at the widening breach in a long-time friendship. Breccia, like all Scarpen cities, was a single entity. Even though the narrow streets radiating downwards from Breccia Hall sliced through it, even though the winding lanes circling each level were cracks in its cohesion, every part of the city was linked.

Houses and villas grew into one another, sharing walls, connected by their flat roofs, interlocked beneath the ground by arteries of brick tunnels supplying water. The first and highest level contained only the water hall. On the next was Breccia Hall, and the remaining thirty-eight levels spilled down the escarpment slope in the shape of a fan.

The lowest level at the base, inhabited by day labourers and the waterless, was a tattered flounce to the city. Although hemmed with a wall, parts of this dirty petticoat to Breccia seeped out through the gates in the form of foundries and liveries, kilns and furnaces, knackers' and slaughter yards. Another trimming to the city was more salubrious: the bab groves, the rows of trees interspersed with slots and cisterns and vegetable plots. Beyond them were only the drylands, the Sweepings to the north and the Skirtings to the south.

Level Three, where Nealrith headed after leaving the waterhall, was home to the city's richest inhabitants and the main house of worship, the Sun Temple, with its attached House of the Dead. The hall was the traditional residence of the ruler of the Quartern, and was therefore now home to Granthon Almandine and the rest of the Almandine family. Granthon's father, Garouth, had preceded him in the post. When the old man had died ten years earlier, Granthon had succeeded to his father's position by virtue of his talent, not his birth.

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Unfortunately, Granthon was now not just the Cloudmaster of the Quartern, but the Quartern's only stormlord. Nealrith Almandine knew his father's life had been far from easy. If the histories were correct, in some eras there had been several hundred stormlords scattered through the Quartern. Even during Nealrith's own childhood there had been ten or eleven, but one by one they had died, leaving only Granthon. For five years, the Cloudmaster had shouldered his responsibility without the help of another stormlord, a burden too great for any one man no matter how talented.

Worse still, he'd been forced to acknowledge to the world that Nealrith, his only child, was not a stormlord and never would be. It had been a bitter blow to both father and son. Granthon was kind enough never to mention his disappointment and wise enough never to reproach Nealrith for a lack beyond any man's power to remedy, but he could do nothing about the bleakness in his gaze. Nealrith saw it every time his father looked at him, and suffered that same blow again and again.

When Nealrith entered the stormquest room of Breccia Hall, his father was reclining on a divan, propped up by cushions, while Ethelva hovered uncertainly behind her husband, wanting to fuss over a man who loathed fuss. Nealrith concealed a sigh. His mother was still tall and elegant, but her calm had long since become careworn, and the evidence was there in her prematurely white hair and the worry lines of her face. She was a water-blind woman renowned for her common sense, and Nealrith was not used to seeing her so indecisive, but Granthon's illness had lapped too long at her every thought.

She had become prey to doubt, just as Nealrith had, filled with uncertainties about the future of the family and, indeed, the land itself. Nealrith delivered his assessment of Breccia's water storage and the tale it told: his father had cut back too much on the size of his storms. Granthon said nothing at the news. His stillness was unnatural, as if he had even forgotten to breathe. The Cloudmaster stirred. His gaze dithered around the room, lingering for a moment on the scroll racks and the rolled documents they contained.

The lectern in front of him was spread with the parchment he had been considering when his son had entered the room. That was true, and Nealrith knew it. He took a deep breath and pushed away thoughts of what should have been, of that insidious if only. Kaneth was right, damn him; they had to do something other than talk. His father made a slight movement of his right hand, an opening out, as if he had just taken an unwelcome decision. Two actually, although not even I would think of looking among the 'Basters. Nealrith made a gesture of irritation. From what I've heard, there are very few water sensitives, and there's never been a rainlord or a stormlord from there.

You know the saying, 'Wash a crow with rosewater and it still won't be pink. Worse, they are stupid and ignorant and dirty and dishonest. His mother interrupted. Perhaps they are dirty because they don't have enough water, ignorant because they have never been taught and dishonest because they are so poor. A thirsty man might steal to live. He had the grace to laugh. They are not as bad as I think and I displayed a bias that was both unjustified and unworthy of me; you are probably right about that. But that still doesn't make them water sensitive.

They have never paid more than the barest of lip service to the Sunlord and the Watergiver, which might explain it. We would do better to look in the White Quarter; they at least are a pious people who have some water sensitives. Or so I'm told. Granthon held up a hand. We are not welcome there, and who can blame them? They have been spat upon for generations. Anyway, it takes more than sensitivity to make a rainlord, let alone a stormlord.

We have more chance among the Gibber folk. At least they look up to the Scarpen. I suspect they would gladly give us their water-talented children. I want you to run the tests in every Gibber settle on the plains. Take Iani with you. It will give him something to focus his mind on. Nealrith was appalled. Anyone can conduct the tests for water sensitivity. It doesn't need a rainlord!

Yes, two, in fact. My passion for our land's history has rendered up a reward. A name and a place. I didn't do the actual research work; I passed that to Ryka Feldspar. She has a scholar's mind. She found that one of my predecessors-from a very long time ago-bore a name that sounds as if it came from the Gibber. Gypsum Miner of Wash Drybarrow. And 'wash' is the Gibber word for dry riverbed, what we'd call a gully.

After that, I sent some of my people out to talk to Gibber folk down on Level Forty. However, unlike our reeves, who must have water skills, they usually have none. There are occasional water sensitives among Gibber folk, but they are regarded as potential water thieves. As a consequence, a child exhibiting water sensitivity usually has the tendency beaten out of him. Ethelva gave an unladylike snort.

Rith, I want rainlords testing in the Gibber because I don't want the slightest chance that a water sensitive child, or an adult for that matter, is missed. I want more than standard tests. I want you to hunt for any sign of people there who may be hiding their talent deliberately. Nealrith considered that. We are supposed to have had the same origins.

Granthon nodded. Think, Rith. The three new talents we identified in that time, we found right here at home. Ryka may be the daughter of a rainlord, but her power is weak. And Senya looks to be no better. Lyneth, now-but we all know what happened to Lyneth. He fell silent, and Ethelva squeezed his hand. Even Nealrith was discomforted by the memory.

How could he forget? She had been the hope of the Quartern, Iani's lovely six-year-old daughter. Dark-eyed and dimpled and plump, she had charmed them all with her lively inquisitiveness, her mischievous charm. And she'd been stormlord-talented. Then one day some fifteen years past, on a routine journey with her parents to attend a family wedding in another Scarpen city, she had wandered off into the desert.

Nealrith felt sick about it even now. They had never found her body, and her father had never recovered from the shock. Iani the Sandcrazy-he had blamed himself because he was the rainlord of the group; he should at least have been able to follow the trace of her water. Granthon stirred restlessly. What harm can it do to search the Gibber? This is important. It would be many more years before they would be skilled enough to help me. On the other hand, if you find someone in the Gibber, they could perhaps be older and closer to attaining their full powers.

Nealrith grimaced. Hovels, reeking with vermin. And you should hear what caravanners say about travelling through the Gibber itself. They have to pay outrageous taxes just for passing through, whether they take water or not. If they don't pay up, they risk getting raided. Murdered even. Is that the kind of person we want as a new stormlord? They are not the only ones with a dark underside. There will be many good folk among them, too. Never before has the Quartern been short of stormlords, let alone rainlords. Perhaps we should be looking for the reason.

It was Granthon who answered. My study of history has taught me that much. It will change; it always does. In the past it never mattered much if there was a gap in births, because there were enough older rainlords or stormlords to manage until a new generation came along. It's just that this time we have been unlucky. We lost a lot of young, talented people. Such a tragedy. Iani's Lyneth was just the last," Granthon said. They were just unfortunate accidents and illnesses," Granthon said, but his protest was hesitant, as if he doubted its truth. We nearly lost Taquar Sardonyx then, too.

I thought he might just make a stormlord. He came so close, but never had quite enough pull.

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I wondered if what he suffered in the sandstorm might not have been the reason he lost the edge a stormlord needs. So close, so close, and he took it badly. He shifted position, trying to get comfortable. He added his strength to mine, to see if it helped me. Nealrith tried to quell the jealousy that raged through him at the thought. It should have been me. But then, what would have been the point? They both knew the limitations of Nealrith's rainlord skills.

Ethelva came to rearrange the cushions at Granthon's back as he elaborated. I tried to teach him the knack of gathering a cloud out of the sea. He had nothing to lend me that would make any difference. His father lashed out with a hint of his old energy. And ridiculous. In a word, yes. And that was before I saw them live.

As soon as I saw them live it all fell into place. The New Romantic movement was fresh and energetic. Although the style and ambitions were totally different the momentum that was sweeping through British pop culture was similar to that of Punk. What appealed to me and made me think that they could be successful was the fact that they were a really interesting amalgam of wider cultural interests and really good musicianship. Both he and Andy grounded the band and the mix between them all was a fascinating dynamic. And, as always in Britain, there was a rivalry.

This was between Birmingham and London and between Spandau Ballet and Duran Duran, much of it, of course, trumped up by the music press. Much like Oasis and Blur in later years this competition benefitted both parties. I remember going to the studio and sitting in on the sessions. To give you an example. Not only were we interested in the music we were rushing to get hold of the limited edition cover designed by Peter Saville who John, Nick and I admired. Nick got there before me and bought the one copy that remained. I still hold a grudge. My first impression was that they would all relish the limelight but in different ways at different times.

I know John and especially Nick as there is a conversational cross-over. What has always impressed me is their understanding and depth beyond what the immediate conventions of being in a very successful band. This wide interest then is translated and distilled into what they do for and in the band. Roger is the quintessential foundation that good drummers often are.

Birmingham is the birthplace of heavy metal, with Black Sabbath and Judas Priest coming from the city. He tuned the guitar down and relied on power chords, something guitarist Terry Butler also did — and together they produced the classic sound of metal. With two Grammy awards and record sales of 70 million, they have been ranked the greatest metal band of all time by MTV.

Birmingham band Judas Priest brought in a new wave of heavy metal, laying foundations for even heavier styles — and it was in the Sparkhill suburb of the city that grindcore was born when extreme metal and hardcore punk were merged. Napalm Death formed and defined the genre, and Godflesh followed.

The Moody Blues, formed in , were the first of the Brum Beat bands to become internationally famous. At the time there were more than groups in the city. The first Birmingham band to release a commercial single were Jimmy Powell and The Dimensions, in , and the first to make the top 10 were The Applejacks, in Lynne was named the fourth greatest record producer in music history and in received a star on the Birmingham Walk of Fame. New Romantic legends Duran Duran formed in Birmingham in and have sold more than million records. The group took their name from a character in that film and went to become resident band at the Rum Runner club in Broad Street.

Bhangra emerged from the Balsall Heath area of the city in the s and s and Birmingham is now regarded as the international capital of bhangra music, producing almost 90 per cent of it. These days, Birmingham Bhangra is even exported back to its original homeland in the Punjab.

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There are more than a dozen Bhangra record labels in Birmingham, plus about 50 acts including dance teams, singers, bands and DJs. The first Bhangra artist to cross over into the charts was Birmingham singer Apache Indian, from Handsworth. Thanks to bands such as Peace and Swim Deep, the Digbeth district of the city is gaining national recognition as a brewing point for some of the best new independent music. Other areas around the country now look at Digbeth as an inspiration as they try to put themselves on the map. Birmingham was named among the top UK cities that pushed the new 80s music genre called High Energy or Hi-NRG, which emerged when the dying disco scene was revamped with greater emphasis on electronics rather than real instruments.

These daytime club events at the Powerhouse nightclub drew big name artists and dance fans from across the country. When acid house arrived and began to spin off into various styles, it was Birmingham DJ Neil Rushton who identified, named and brought attention to a new offshoot called techno. He compiled an album called Techno! It was here in Birmingham that the concept first took on life. Frank, Norman and Les Bradley of Birmingham tape engineering company Bradmatic invented the Mellotron, a keyboard that was arguably the original sampler.

Pressing the keys played recordings of real instruments, sound effects and voices that were stored on a piece of audio tape underneath. The device was popularised by The Beatles and became a crucial part of rock music. Birmingham band The Moody Blues made great use of the device, as did Genesis, Yes and many other groups. As synthesisers grew in popularity during the 80s, the Mellotron faded away but a new version came on the market in She was followed by fellow Brummie Jaki Graham — who became the most successful black British female artist of all time — and also Ruby Turner, Jamelia and, most recently, Laura Mvula.

Together the arena and adjoining halls of the National Exhibition Centre attract more than three million visitors a year. Courtesy Birmingham Mail. MTV mania was just taking hold, and the timing was right. Part of their plan was to bring in re-mixer David Kershenbaum for an EP. This already made the EP a collectible! Nirvana for collecting! Collectors will also know that there is a Dutch version with a misprinted sleeve and it is quite hard to track down. Rio Night Version — 6. Planet Earth Night Version — 6. Girls On Film Night Version — 5. My Own Way Carnival Remix — 4. The story goes that the wrong pressing plate was used for this track.

My Own Way Night Version — 6. New Religion Carnival Remix — 5. To herald the arrival of the new 80s icon Mazda Miata, 80s icon Duran Duran proved their staying power in Monterey. September 3rd, John Scott Lewinski. Both the band and the car have been around for more than a quarter century, and both still have the goods. They just played the music the crowd knew and loved with veteran precision. I digress for just a moment — as I often do on the following topic — to address the fact that Duran Duran is not in the increasingly irrelevant Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Whether you might consider Duran Duran co-ed pinup pop or early techno alternative, the band put 14 hits in the Top 10 and sold more than million albums while holding together for 30 years. Sadly, it looks like the Cleveland-based museum fell into the hands of self-aggrandizing eggheads desperate to impress a disinterested world in their own academic masturbation by placing obscure acts lost to history in the Hall before the bands that the fans who support rock and roll would rather see honored.

Courtesy Crave Online. Hudson are involved with the album. ET on Sept. Courtesy Audio Ink Radio. Last autumn a lucky few including BlackBook were gathered for an exclusive screening of the new David Lynch directed concert film Duran Duran: Unstaged. Having run with their seminal Bowie influence, Duran Duran, of course, have been a veritable reinvention machine since.

So, while aesthetically a collaboration with David Lynch may seem a bit of a curiosity, in another way it might have been almost inevitable—as both have built their legends on wildly altering our visual perceptions. This is a whole different ballgown. Lynch creates a surreal overlay that is both exhilarating and sometimes mind-boggling; it is, indeed, like no concert film before it.

Fans can purchase advance tickets at the Screenvision website. Courtesy BlackBook. One of the most natural things for a fan to start collecting is ticket stubs. All you need to do is make the conscious decision to keep the stub and boom! The live experience offers up the chance for a few other choice collectibles. Luckily you can jump online and pad your collection, allowing you to delve into the rich history of Duran Duran, back to the very beginning. Those items are a little harder to acquire than the ticket stub that you got by paying to get you into the gig.

There are commonly 2 types of passes: laminates and stickers. Laminate cards are only provided to the highest levels of staff. Sticker style passes are given out day to day as need arises, such as for press. A set list shows the order of songs for a gig and is handed out to each band member who keeps it somewhere close where it is easy to see. In the early days, Duran Duran set lists were handwritten, but today they are more usually print-outs.

Guitar picks or plectrums for our friends in the UK and Australia and drum sticks have always been superb items to collect. But Duran has only one guitar player and a bassist who prefers fingers, so there are a very limited number of picks to be tossed to the crowd, and usually only one set of drum sticks to be given away. Have you been lucky enough to get a drum stick, pick or set list at a concert you attended? Search Results for Media Previous Page.

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Courtesy Yahoo Music photos courtesy of Associated Press. And thus, a concert! And was it in fact transcendent? In moments, yes. Text and Photos: Derek Supryka. We will be watching! Why the Wilton Music Hall for their show? What can fans expect from this slate of small shows? How did you guys come up with the name? Who was in the band? Images in Vogue on Facebook. We chatted with Nick Rhodes about that wild and fabulous year.

You genuinely embraced technology. What was most striking about that time? What were some of your personal highlights and memories of ? Click to see more photos Visit the website for Careless Memories here. That came to Mulcahy in a vision. The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Pt. The chance meeting in Birmingham. What was your impression of the band members? We are working our way through the many reasons to be proud of Brum.