From Farm Boys to Boy Band

Daniel Dylan Wray finds the evolution of Kings of Leon plain offensive

I’m not ashamed to admit it, I used to fucking love Kings of Leon, and pretty much everyone I knew did, even if they won’t admit that now. I was seventeen when their debut album came out, and it being the first year I could drive, it was an integral part of that summer and subsequently my adolescence. It felt fresh, raw, edgy and damn right good; granted, this was to the ears of a naïve seventeen year old, but, this accompanied by their mysterious background and downright weirdness (like a horror show Brady Bunch crawling out from their barn and being brought up on rock ’n’ roll, moonshine and little else) meant they had everything that was enticing about a young new band to a young new man. I mean, their album was called ‘Youth & Young Manhood’!

Now fast forward a few years – past albums two and three that, regardless of personal taste, undeniably showed genuine progression, musically – and then, fuck me, what went wrong? As their popularity and bank accounts have grown, so too it would seem has their sense of self-importance and self-worth (highlighted in one single night when Caleb moaned that he was cold to a Reading Festival crowd who weren’t cheering loud enough). This band used to be weird. Genuinely weird! I remember watching the NME awards years ago as they grunted their way through interviews looking either completely unwilling, unable to speak, or just really stoned. They seemed to not care about such things; publicity, it seemed, was a downside to being in a band – a necessary evil that allowed them to do what they loved for a living. Then things went so sour. The wretched ‘Sex on Fire’ was the catalyst, transforming them from parameter, semi-commercial guitar band to fully-fledged radio-friendly unit shifters.

They went from stoic, morbid and frigid performers to being in a video wearing vests and standing in front of flames as they pouted for close-ups.

It seems that with this meteoric rise came the arrival of their ego’s and boy did they come big, throwing any sense of ‘what’s best musically?’ out the window and replacing it with ‘how can we become even bigger?’. Their popularity continues to soar and their musical integrity continues to plummet, perhaps making it not too surprising that the band have been adopted by the Oasis crowd now that the Gallagher’s aren’t talking.

Most damning, though, is the band’s refusal to take a break; to go a year without releasing a record; to step out of the spotlight and practice the old absence makes the heart grow fonder trick, even if time can also make for a better album.

It’s as if they fear being instantly forgotten and no longer being considered current or relevant, or perhaps rich. The band’s new album is out this month, which means they will have been doing the album release/promo/touring shtick for maybe three years straight, and its hard to believe that the motive for that is creativity.

They’ll no doubt be back at all the summer’s festival’s again next year, being decidedly un-weird and dodging what they once were, which incidentally was an interesting, publically evasive and promising young band. The U2 comparisons suddenly become pertinent as a result. Remember the young Martin Hannett produced, post-punk U2? Me neither, but they did once exist, and as wholly believable rumours circulate that the other band members have had to try and intervene with Caleb’s personal music writing sessions now that he’s worked out if he writes the songs on the album by himself he gets all the royalties and money, you have to think that not even Bono is that ruthless.

A little article found in this months Loud and Quiet by Daniel Dylan Wray. A paper I have loved for a while, for many reasons. But this one just forefronted itself ahead of the others. This, a rant, I have had on many occasions, in varying states (quite often in a club, when Sex on Fire has come on in the small hours of the morning) and leads rather nicely into an issue I currently have.

A new found favourite artist has been dropped by his record label, the artist in question is Alan Pownall. The label, Mercury. It is a shame that within the music industry there only seems to be one focus. Money. As it was once sung, ‘money makes the world go round’ and whilst that is true, especially in these ever-tough financial times we appear to be sailing through. It saddens me that the main focus is no longer the music and is in fact just the money. Whether that’s the artists or just the record labels, I’m sure the line between becomes rather blurred in some places.

Alongside this fact, is one that in fact, talent has been over passed for shows for worthless individuals to showcase themselves to a majority who don’t actually have an interest in music, but in fact just regurgitate the crap that the mass-media force feeds them, believing that it is decent. Whilst this happens, there are real artists, with real talent and a passion for playing who are ignored because the people with the power to do something impressive, ignore the power they have to influence and inspire and instead decide that they won’t make enough money out of selling someone who actually has talent and therefore result in selling music with scantily clad individuals gyrating about to promote their ‘musical abilities’.

Of what little influence I have here on this blog, I would like to promote a few AWESOME bands, who have some real talent and have inspired me, there is a much longer list which would include the likes of the Beatles/Stones and Clapton. But here I would like to go for the lesser know awesome individuals who really deserve the airtime.

Jay Jay Pistolet - http://www.last.fm/music/Jay+Jay+Pistolet

The Mummers - http://www.last.fm/music/The+Mummers

Lissie - http://www.last.fm/music/Lissie

Diane Birch - http://www.last.fm/music/Diane+Birch

Delta Maid - http://www.last.fm/music/Delta+Maid

Kassidy - http://www.last.fm/music/Kassidy

Alan Pownall - http://www.last.fm/music/Alan+Pownall

Polly Scattergood - http://www.last.fm/music/Polly+Scattergood

Andy Clockwise - http://www.last.fm/music/Andy+Clockwise

And. Just for the record. The first album I got when I passed my test – Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not. Now there’s a driving album.

Third Times a Charm

First in the line up of a personal gigging marathon I am undertaking this Autumn, last week, the fabulous Scottish band that are Kassidy played at the intimate Borderline in Soho, London. As a new found favourite of mine, this was to be my third time in seeing the boys perform in 3 and a half months… obsessive? Maybe.

However, in my arguably obsessive state, I’ve been lucky to see these boys progress, even in that short space of time, which has to be said, is pretty exciting for the future.

Although slightly later than scheduled… all thoughts of lateness were swiftly forgotten once they struck up the opening to Night in The Box. There was a fabulous energy from the Glaswegian quartet, which was mirrored perfectly by the lively crowd of clear followers. Barrie-James crooned away across beautiful rifts and harmonies that filled the room effortlessly. With a fabulous grit to his voice, you can’t help but be mesmerised and affected in a rather powerful way that is only really felt live.

Although currently there are some pretty powerful forces across the board within the music industry, who specialise in a heavy folk with spectacular harmonies, these boys have a special way of capturing you with their performances and in my view would be hard pushed to be beaten at what they do.

A fine ending to The Traveller, in lyrics stating ‘This is where I wanna be’ I couldn’t agree more, there was nowhere else that evening I would rather have been. Filled with a real sense of passion and feeling, Kassidy show a real gratitude for a crowd who have come to listen and enjoy. These boys are serious masters at their craft. Looking back, to what understandably can only be described as a hesitant performance at the ICA those few months ago, it is extremely exciting to witness these boys coming out and blowing you away with the force of their music.

Performing a range of songs from their Rubbergum EP’s and a few new sounds for good measure, the set appeared to be headed at light speed towards its end.

An inspired end to the gig, which built up until the building, was fit to burst, with Hamish and Barrie-James who extended their musical talents to adding their own beats to the ending of The Betrayal. A trick which ended their superb Reading set in August. Watching three guys, beat their way on a drum kit to a fantastic build up of an ending, is something I defy you not to smile about.

Thankfully after only moments the boys came back to play their two song encore, ending in my personal favourite of Stray Cat. Another ace evening of music from a group of boys I stumbled upon by mere coincidence and now, without them my music collection would be empty without. The progression of this band in the past few months is astounding on its own merit. Lets hope they keep progressing on to the bigger and better things they deserve.

Band Members

Barrie-James O'Neill

Hamish Fingland

Lewis Andrew

Chris Potter

Kieran Logan – Drummer

Thomas McNeice – Bassist

I can't have children. They might grow up to wear Jack Wills clothing.

My awesome mother whilst reading The Times today spotted a fabulous article that she left out on the side for me to read (she does that rather regularly- awesome really) However, this one is a cut above, seriously made me laugh. She knows my bugbear for companies such as this and therefore knew I would enjoy a rant by a fellow bystander who has been left behind in this madness.

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I can't have children. They might grow up to wear Jack Wills clothing.

Sathnam Sanghera - Wednesday September 29th 2010, The Times

A few months ago I wrote an article for The Times magazine about wanting a baby. Male babyhunger was a neglected phenomenon, I complained. Too often men are portrayed as getting saddled with babies, when some experience broodiness as intensely as women. But I'd like to take it all back. I don't want children anymore. For one reason : I couldn't risk fathering offspring which grew up to become consumers of Jack Wills merchandise.

In case, like me a week ago, you have never heard the name before, I should explain that Jack Wills is a rapidly expanding fashion brand that has 1,700 employees, 36 shops in Britain and aims itself at posh students. How posh? Well, the shopping guru Mary Portas has remarked that "wearing Jack Wills is a mark of class, wealth, even education, and you very much have to be in the club", Polly Vernon has written in The Observer that "you know you're posh if you live near a Jack Wills store", while The Sunday Times recently revealed that one of the company's early marketing ploys was to send one of its signature hoodies to the head girl and boy of every public school in the country.

The company also sponsors polo events and yacht-club balls, has designed T-shirts for the Eton rugby tour, employs "a bunch of impossibly beautiful, incredibly polite brand ambassadors called Seasonnaires" to spread its brand message, runs shops that resemble boarding schools, and, frankly, the last time I took so violently against something I was 14 and reading about the death penalty.

The idea of a designer fashion label for students is preposterous enough, given that they already have one in Oxfam. But creating one for public school students is particularly bewildering. After all, they already have a uniform - a school one - and then, out of hours, they have plimsolls, flip-flops, golding baseball caps, brightly coloured polo shirts (collars up), dangly ear-rings, sleeveless puffer jackets, jogging bottoms, bangles and pashminas. The idea of slapping a Jack Wills logo and price tag on to this, the default look of every last Muffy, Hugo and Isabella Anstruther-Gough-Calthorpe, is pointless. And cheeky. And, as a social statement, really quite offensive too.

The posh have been mounting a comeback for some time. You can't move 50 yards in London without spotting something painted in Farrow and Ball's country house paint colours; Barbour jackets are back; our TV screens are graced by the likes of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Kirstie Allsopp and Tomasina Miers; and you may have noticed that our Prime Minister, Chancellor and Cabinet are a bit posh too.

But the cultural manifestations of this poshness have until now been subtle, the politicians in question have arranged for the concealment of pictures of them in top hat and tails, and asking political candidates to shorten double-barrelled surnames. In contrast, Jack Wills, whose logo is nothing less than a pheasant in top hat and tails, represents something new and terrifying: the wilful celebration of inherited wealth and privilege.

In a time of economic distress this is crass enough, but the label exacerbates matters by mocking the working classes while doing so: adopting the hoodie, the symbol of the youth underclass as a signature item; selling an image of the world that is, in the words of The Sunday Times Style Magazine "sort of like Skins, but with nicer houses and pleases and thankyous"; and by nurturing the kind of fans who respond to criticism on Facebook pages with remarks such as: "Ur just jealous because we're not chavs and have good taste."

Indeed, it turns out I 'm not the only one who has taken against the brand. Jack Wills may have 131,679 fans on Facebook, but there are also 60,852 detractors belonging to a group called, "Why are you still in your PJs? Oh sorry, didn't see the Jack Wills logo", and another 22,557 affiliated to a page entitled "Jack Wills brings all the rahs to the yard, and they're like, put it on daddy's card."

The label, which claims it will have a turnover of some £90 million this year, is notoriously secretive and doesn't allow journalists much access. The owners of the company probably realise that if people knew about Jack Wills outside upper-middle-class towns such as Winchester, Aldeburgh and Reigate, it would spark mass civil unrest. There is one thing I can bring myself to admire about the company, apparently it flogs branded Jack Wills condoms. Which at least reduces the chances of its customers reproducing.

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It is at this point that I would like to state my particular problem stems further than just Jack Wills, but in also its brand competitors with dark shops, club music blaring and fake shop assistants.... No names need mentioning.

The Devoured and I And Me

Since I left uni in May, I have been working part-time at London based, fashion design house, J.W Anderson. Originally born as a menswear company from a love of intensely dramatic aesthetics in a world inspired by combining sinister phenomena with a love of mystical characters from history and literature.

More recently, under the leadership of Melissa Stokes, the company has spread its infant wings to the land of womenswear. A natural progression for a men’s line inspired by women’s clothing. Jonathan was quoted in Vogue earlier this year saying ‘Think tomboy/tomgirl rather than unisex’.

My role within the company was widespread and varied. Each day presented something different. Eased gently into a world of production, creating orders of ‘Saints and Assassins’ the first womenswear collection, which is currently stocked in Liberty’s, Harrods, Hunting and Collecting and on Oki-Ni as well as ASOS and LNCC.

(photos of the collection in Liberty's)

As the days progressed into weeks and so on and so forth, the tasks I had accomplished ranged from sewing and embroidering to fabric and haberdashery sourcing and buying to working with the press office, run by A.I.

I was soon entrusted with pattern cutting, grading and toiling, which was wonderful to get back to the technical side that I enjoy so much.

We were then hit with the news that the new collection was to be sponsored by Swarovski Crystal, which was very exciting news – even more so when the crystals began to arrive in their thousands at the studio. I defy any of you to not want to play with oodles of crystal beads when the opportunity presents itself. We were all to become children in a candy store at the sight of the sparkly magic.

Among my list of errands (including banking and posting, believe me, I am the post master…!) I was also sent to the Arcadia Head Quarters, mother-ship of the British High Street, to meet with Head Menswear Designer for Topman Nick Paget. Alongside this, I was sent to the Swarovski Head Office, which was in line with walking into a very sparkly spaceship. If I ever wondered what (insert name of spaceship here) was like. Here was my opportunity to see. (Unfortunately I am not a space geek, epic fail I feel, however exciting nonetheless.)

One Monday morning, a good few months into my internship I was asked to head to Big Sky Studios. There I was to meet Matt and Jonathan who were working with Robbie Spencer (stylist of Dazed and Confused fame) directed by Sharif Hamza. Off I was sent, in a taxi, with £40,000 worth of crystal beads, a sewing machine and the ability to be on the set seamstress. It was a completely awesome day, most definitely one of the highs of my career so far. The efforts of which can be seen here…

(cheeky still from the video shoot)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t2n8tlUCI

4c

On to the next… we then headed to the crazy world of creating the collection for fashion week. Over 30 looks, a mix of womens and mens, the womens to be unveiled earlier at Liberty’s, online and at Somerset House on the Saturday with the video as seen above. The mens to be shown at a catwalk show at Somerset House on Menswear Day.

(photos of the new collection in Liberty's)

A lot of pattern cutting, toiling, adapting and making went into the penultimate weeks before the show. Culminating in a fantastic show, at around 11.30am on Wednesday 22^nd of September. Again, another day that shall remain a highlight of my life so far. Controversially 4 female models were sent down the catwalk during the menswear show, depicting the versatility of the Anderson brand. The clothes sparkled. The models looked fabulous and as always with these things, the show came together in the final moments of a frantic backstage.

http://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/style/catwalk-fashion-shows/SS2011/Mens/london/jw_anderson/full-length-photos?page=1

(GQ Catwalk Photos and Write Up)

http://www.swarovski.tv/Content.Node/fashion/168912.php

(Video of the Catwalk Show)

And so, as quickly as it started it was over. And so, I believe it is now, as they say, on to the next.

The Wrong Trousers

This is, without doubt, my most favourite time of the year.

Although 'this time of year' does in fact, not only come around once, but twice, there is just something, to me anyway, about the arrival of the new Autumn/Winter collections. And this season, this Autumn/Winter is even more exciting than usual. Maybe it's because I enjoy the idea (and process) of layering up in winter, may it is my love of tweed (and an ongoing, everlasting love affair with my leather jacket) or perhaps it is because in truth I actually prefer the cold. Whatever the reason, this new season's collections, magazine layouts and the opportunity to reinvent oneself for the foreseeable future fills me with a feeling of excitement.

There are certainly many trends that have caught my attention and imagination, however, there is one that started my infatuation for this season nicely. Trousers. Fabulous. It's about time the infatuation with leggings deflated. Whether long, wide, cigarette, tuxedo, harem or otherwise. Trousers were up and down the catwalks.

As a self-confessed tomboy, finding a suitable style for autumn should be a relatively easy task, no? No. There are plenty of fabulous options, as always high end are the better, with beautiful fabrics and better fits, however the high street too is awash with some awesome pieces. Which if like me, your sole current purpose for working is to pay for costly unpaid internships. The high street may just be the answer.

Now, I am aware that we are only a small part of the way through September and therefore styles are still set to come in (trust me, I tell my customers this information often enough - I should know! However, the simple fact is, I am inpatient.

So, in a (few) vain attempt(s) to find that perfect pair of trousers to take me through this transitional period , armed with my knowledge on this season, to the high street I have ventured. Unfortunately, to no avail.

Here is where a problem has arisen, when you are as fussy as I am and have the ability (just not the time) to make, finding my perfect pair has been an issue. As someone who's current trouser collection is rather on the thin side, extending my wardrobe, would be preferable and as I keep being reminded, I am no longer a student, therefore need a more grown up, professional wardrobe. So this was where I headed. However, of the styles I have chosen, I have been left rather frustrated. On the peg, awesome. On me, not so. Are they supposed to sit on your hips, or are they high waisted? Should that bit, really be there? And don't even get me started about the poor fit around your, ahem ... lady business... Let's just say, I know for sure, trousers are not supposed to sit like that.

Although there have been some pretty good candidates, none have so far survived being taken back. Although yes, I do have long legs, I really didn't think finding a pair of trousers would be so complicated.

I am slowly loosing the idea of trousers being my answer to my new wardrobe problems. Maybe I should just stick to my marriage with my jeans, after all, if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Vintage at Goodwood

Tonight we’re going to party like its….., well anywhere ranging from the 1940’s to the end of the 80’s.

A long period to cover, and a lot of high expectations to exceed.

This weekend, among the fabulous roaming hills of Goodwood, West Sussex a new festival was born. Vision of Wayne Hemingway (of Red or Dead fame) and Lord March a weekend of anything Vintage, music, clothing, cars, food… as Cole Porter said ‘Anything Goes…’ (no wait, that was the 20’s, dammit!)

However, I digress. The festival consisted of a pop up high street (anyone else see the design link to the High Street in Chichester?! Mock ‘cross’ and all) walking down the high street with British favourites from John Lewis, Body Shop and Doc Martins no less. With a few surprises (Primark, anyone?!) thrown in for good measure.

The outside of the vintage shopping experience was where the magic was happening however, lines of Vintage inspired stores as well as serious Vintage shops held their ground amongst the hungry bargain hunters and a few thunderstorms to boot (well it wouldn’t be the Great British Summertime without a little rain!)

A little further afield, and you found the musical stages and tents, old theme park rides, a roller disco, a vintage food market, including a Waitrose and even a skate park (which puzzled me mostly…) however, it was a fabulous set up with many things to do and see throughout the days.

There was some fabulous costumes, some serious Vintage outfits that had been researched down to the very thread of the garment and a few Vintage high street knock offs…

It is here I have my problem with the (newly) coined fashionable vintage term. Vintage clothing, is a pure love. It should be, I spent months researching into it and 10,000 words writing about it. However, the nasty high street replicas that appear to be popping up in these more recent years, are a slight bug-bear of mine. Including the fact that a few years ago you could find a decent piece of ‘second-hand’ clothing for a pretty decent price, now however, that same piece of ‘second-hand’ clothing has a new label of ‘vintage’ and the price has gone up two-thirds. I’m just wondering if we could bring back the term ‘retro’ and see if that has the same effect. The person who hit onto this ‘vintage’ trend was either pretty smart or opened the fashion world up to something I don’t think many would have predicted.

I shall at this point, step graciously down from my soap box, to comment on the fabulous range of music that was showcased at this festival, no less, The Faces are my firm favourite of the weekend and my appetite has been severely whetted for the ever imminent Reading Festival. However, it is The Feeling who I take my hat off to (well, if I was wearing one at this point, I would be taking it off..) I read somewhere, (quite possibly in the Times) that it is at points like this, when the economy is bad and the general mood of a country is low that a festival like this Vintage one is exactly what a nation needs to lift the mood (and at £55 for a day ticket, I would seriously hope it could!) however, The Feeling did a pretty awesome job of getting a field full of young and old(er) rocking away, however it wasn’t until Tony Christie came on to perform the classic(?!) ‘(Is This The Way To) Amarillo’ that the whole field was smiling, dancing and you could generally see the spirits of those who had been rained on and were cold and were probably pretty shattered, were lifted. (Even I have to admit, this cynical writer, who can’t stand that particular song, after years of bar work and months of Saturday nights, listening to said song, after it being requested many a time…)

To conclude, it was a fabulous event, damped only slightly by the typically British weather until the typically British attitude of old, to carry on regardless shone through. Definitely one I will revisit in the future. However, it will never take the place of the Goodwood Revival, the only True Vintage festival event.

photos taken by yours truly

(ok not the first, that would be seriously clever!)

Keep Calm and Carry On

Quite possibly the best article I have read all year, from this months Elle, by Alice Wignall. Good advice if you can take it, hard to follow, but worthwhile in the end? I guess that would depend on your overall objectives.

Passivity: It works. But would you let him call the shots?

It sounds pathetic and smacks of being a ‘surrendered girlfriend’, but taking a passive stance might be the best relationship trick you ever learn.

It’s a nightmare scenario. Quite literally, in fact, the person you love turning around and saying that, on reflection, they’re not sure they feel the same way you do. It is the kind of stomach-churning spectre that haunts our dark and midnight hours, that will usually vanish in the glare of rational morning light. But, when insomnia strikes and your imagination turns over this vision, how do you believe you’d react? Would you call him a loser, tell him he doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it and leave the first chance you could, taking your dignity with you? Would you cry, beg, try to make him see the error of his ways?

Or would you just do nothing? That’s what Laura Munson did. One day, the man she’d been with for 20 years, her husband and the father of her children, told her that he didn’t love her and was going to leave her. Her reaction? She told him she didn’t buy it, that he should take some time and effectively ignored any further attempts to raise the subject. He went AWOL for a few months, then gradually started to reintegrate with his family’s life. Six months on, their marriage was healed.

Munson, a writer; contributed an essay on her relationship tactic to The New York Times. It was the top-read article for days following publication; the most-searched for feature for two months. It crashed the website’s comment section. She secured a book deal and the result – This is Not the Story You Think it is… A Season of Unlikely Happiness (Amy Einhorn Books) – has got commentators from Oprah to Newsweek to Time magazine asking: is doing nothing the new way to get what you want?

Instinctively, I want to say no. I want to believe in the modern model of empowered womanhood – a hybrid of Destiny’s Child songs, Tyra Banks attitude and Sex and the City – which tells us we’re worth it that we can do anything if we put our minds to it, that we should be worshipped all the livelong day and anything less than that is simply unacceptable.

But then I look at my own life, and I know it’s not that simple. For Laura Munson and I have something in common. In my case, I had been with the man in question for only a year or so, not married, no kids. But still, there was never a good time to hear what he was trying to tell me: that, though things were fine, though I hadn’t done anything wrong, he just didn’t see us together long term.

What did I do? I went out that evening, got drunk with my best friend, went back to m flat, got up the next day, went to work and didn’t mention it again. When faced with the biggest calamity of my romantic life to date – for I was very much in love – I was utterly passive. I did nothing.

This wasn’t a clever game plan. I was scared. Scared that if I raised the subject again, I’d meet the ultimate rejection: ‘We definitely should split up.” I was also scared that by over-reacting – or just plain reacting – by crying or screaming or demanding resolutions, I’d push him into a position from which there was no way back. Because there was something else that Munson and I had in common: like her, I just didn’t buy it. I was aware that he was trying to express confusion or uncertainty, perhaps that same ‘Hold on, am I sure about this?’ attack of vertigo we all get when teetering on the brink of commitment. What if I put him on the spot and, failing to express what he really meant, he told me to go? That would be a disaster, for both of us. Instinct was telling me that whatever it was he wanted, me out of his life wasn’t it.

Of course, I worried this was just wishful thinking. Friends raged at me for being a doormat, for putting up with shabby emotional treatment. Yet, I couldn’t quite bring myself to draw down the final, fatal confrontation. I drifted on and the days ticked over, then the weeks, then months/ when, half a year later, I raised the subject gain, he said, ‘What? Oh, I don’t think that any more.’ And that was it. We stayed together. In the end, being passive was the best way to fight for what I wanted.

The concept of passivity – especially in relationships – reeks of inequality, of Betty Draper levels of suppressed desires, of silent weeping and brave faces. But when things stop working, I’d say passivity is your friend. You might curl your lip, call me weak, but is it weak not to demand resolutions, not to insist on airing every grievance, not to heap fuel on already-smouldering resentments? Passivity is the art of giving thins time, letting them calm down and when you find yourself the wrong target of someone else’s unhappiness or confusion – not getting dragged into the situation. I still don’t know what was up with my boyfriend, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t really anything to do with me. But if I’d turned drama queen on him, within five second it would have been.

I can count scores of friends who have resolved relationship dilemmas by being (accidentally) passive. While figuring out what to do, they find things work themselves out. I wonder if men quite like being left to make up their own minds. Fraught and fretful as our lives are, it’s a modern women’s way to leap on the first sign of failing in our other half and wrestle their issues from them, to resolve them ourselves – by ending the relationship, if we can’t think of anything else. At least, if you’re being passive you cant be patronising. It gives our partners time to think. Not communicating seems to get the message through.

It works other places, too. Take work, for example. Beyond the basic requirements of turning up, doing your best, and going for opportunities when they arise, is taking your foot off the pedal such a bad thing? Is there any need to shout about your ambition, to air every run-in with a colleague and – most crucially – to despair over every failure. I dread to think of the energy I used in my younger years wailing over my unfulfilled potential and the iniquitous rise of less-talented colleagues. Now, I do my best at my job, let the rest of it wash over me, barely think about where I’ll be in five years’ time and trust that it will sort itself out. The minute I started doing that, of course, my career started running more smoothly. Probably because I’m not a sullen, bitchy colleague any more, obsessed with my portion of the pie and who else has been nibbling at it.

There’s a feeling that passivity is a quality best suited to shy little girls hiding behind their mothers’ skirts. But, in fact, isn’t it the more mature approach? Think of the desperate wannabes on Big Brother. With their ‘I speak my mind’ and ‘I don’t put up with disrespect’, they’re the very opposite of passive. And where does it get them? Screaming their insecurities and low self-esteem into each other’s faces, no one can hear anything for all the noise. As Laura Munson said in her interview the Time magazine, ‘We live in such a reactionary society that we think, in order to be powerful, we need to fight. That’s a shame.’

Our self-obsession has reached such heights that our first thought when anything happens is ‘how do I react?’, as if only our reaction matters, as if action is imperative. What’s so wrong with inaction?

It seems barely permissible anymore. In her essay ‘Welcome to Cancerland’, the American writer Barbara Ehrenreich talks about how a breast-cancer sufferer must describe her illness in active terms – she is fighting, battling, surviving. If you say you just want to sit back and let the doctors do what they will, you’re not doing it right, says Ehrenreich. Even a cancer patient can’t be passive, it seems.

But there is power in passivity. Being passive doesn’t mean not stating your preference. It means recognising situation where your input isn’t needed, where it might actually be unhelpful. In relationships, it means not engaging in someone else’s psychodrama, nor giving oxygen to your own. And let’s not forget, at the heart of passivity is a little bit of aggression. What Munson did to her husband – and did I do this to my boyfriend, too? – is say, ‘Sorry, you’re not pinning this one on me’ and leave him to work it out. Passivity leaves people guessing, it deflects the issue back at them, and leaves you out of it.

Is it easy? Of course not. We’re all inured in the 21^st-century cult of self-expression, the belief that nothing in the world deserves to be heard more than the thought that is currently drifting across out frontal cortex. Your feminist instincts will cry out. And is it painful, just to bite your lip and wait? Oh yes. But since when did that romantic notion, ‘ If only he knew how much I cared’, ever prove to be true? I’m not suggesting you sign up for a lifetime of servitude but, for a few months at least, the next time that nothing’s going right – do nothing.