Magic Sound:House Of All @ Highbury Garage.

"I finally found the magic sound. It just sounded like a roar - with a solid work ethic" - Magic Sound, House Of All

When Mark E Smith died in January 2018 where were Fall fans to go? Except the pub - obviously. Brix & The Extricated did a great job of mixing classic era Fall tunes in with their own songs but Brix wasn't interested in becoming, solely, a tribute act to her ex-husband and why should she?

House Of All are very much NOT a Fall tribute band but it's hard, impossible, to ignore the fact that there is a lot of Fall in there. The band name, house oF ALL, is a big enough clue then there's the fact that all five members were once in The Fall. Frontman Martin Bramah was actually the original vocalist of The Fall but Mark E Smith proved, perhaps wilfully, so inept on guitar that they swapped roles. After that the band belonged to MES.

Then there's the Hanley brothers (Steve on bass, Paul on drums - a rhythm section that really does deserve to be called an engine room), Pete Greenway on guitar (last night absent and replaced by an unnamed substitute - who we called a youngster despite having a baldy heed complete with Shearer's island), and Si Wolstoncroft, looking very much his age, on drums. Yes, two drummers. Who doesn't love two drummers?

Of course, if Steve Hanley is in the band the band resolves around Steve Hanley. He looks slimmer and more rock star like (sunglasses at night - in one of London's darkest venues) than he used to and he even commands centre stage as he delivers agricultural bassline after agricultural bassline. Hanley plays as if rock is an industry and when there's a problem with the sound of his bass you feel the band suffer for it.

When that problem is fixed it feels like someone's turned the light back on. Maybe he needed those shades after all. Bramah seems to be loving his moment in the spotlight. His vocals, while hardly reminiscent of Al Green or Sam Cooke, are a bit more tuneful than ol' Smudger's were. There's no yelping, no - ah-ing, no muttering but at the same time there is, very much so, a sense of sprechgesang.

Tunes like But Wilful I Am till the same ground The Fall did. Mixing up the likes of The Velvet Underground, The Groundhogs, and Can (whose Uphill the band covered as an encore along with, quite bizarrely, Wet Leg's Ur Mum) with The Fall's distinct working class northern sensibility and arcane lyrical references.

The titles alone - Dominus Ruinea, Minerva Disrobed, Harlequin Duke (which references the return of a certain "bingo master"), give you a pretty clear idea of what kind of territory you're in and a look around the venue - bald heads, plastic pint pots, Modern Lovers t-shirt, Stewart Lee buying a Guinness at the bar (obviously) - makes it abundantly clear that House Of All aren't attracting a lot of punters who weren't already Fall fans.

They seem pretty cool with that. In fact they seem to be having a ball and so was everyone in the crowd. I found myself shaking my leg so much I got a reasonably decent step count for the day. House Of All, by all accounts, have not been welcomed by Mark E Smith's family (or 'estate') but they clearly have been welcomed by Fall fans.

At first I wasn't going to go this gig but then my mate Gary dropped out and gifted me a ticket. I'm glad I did go though. It might have been nice, or maybe annoying, to have MES fucking around with the amps, punching band members, and storming off stage in a pissed rage, but it was equally nice to see a band keeping the flame alive.

With excellent support from David Lance Callahan (Wolfhounds/Moonshake) who chucked in a surprising cover of Bo Diddley's Pills (one of my favourite ever songs) and excellent company in Stu and Pam I had a rather lovely, and - by the end, quite merry, night out in the Highbury Garage (my first visit since seeing Wire there six years ago, again with Stu and Pam) and the best song of that night was, without a doubt, House Of All's Magic Sound. In another world, a very different one, a number one hit.

Fleapit revisited:The Eight Mountains.

"So far away from those tree lined streets, look so neat. Not for us, no fat chance, we're the mountain people" - Mountain People, Super Furry Animals

When young Pietro (Lupo Barbiero) visits the Aosta valley with his parents, Giovanni (Filippo Timi) and Francesca (Elena Lietti), he makes a new friend in local boy Bruno (Alessandro Borghi). Though neither of them know it at the time it will be a friendship that will inform, and change, both of their lives. In husband and wife team Felix van Groeningen and Charlotte Vandermeesch's The Eight Mountains (in Italian, le Otto Montagne) we get to see that friendship develop, fester, and develop again over a period of twenty plus years.

Pietro (played as an adolescent by Andrea Palma and, for most of the screen time as a grown man by Luca Marinelli) and Bruno (Francesco Palombelli/Alessandro Borghi) begin their friendship in a way universally recognisable. They wrestle, swim in lakes, tell each other stories, and they walk for miles in the beautiful and awe inspiring mountains and valleys of Aosta.

They don't just love each other. It feels as if they need each other. Bruno's father is always away at work - or drunk - and Pietro's father, Giovanni, only seems to come alive when he's studying maps of the region or, even better, climbing high into the mountains. The glacier atop one of the mountains is a particular source of obsession for Giovanni and an early scene sees the older man ascending it with the young boys.

A task that seems foolhardy at best and one that will leave any vertigo suffers, and I count myself as at least vertigo adjacent, shuddering. That's the thing with these places of sublime beauty. They're also very very difficult places to live. Nature is beautiful but nature is also deadly. Death is simply part of nature. Something Bruno, a boy and then a man who considers himself a mountain person to the core, is both blissfully and painfully aware of.

As the boys get older, they drift apart. Pietro, or Berio as Bruno calls him in his own dialect, into a series of dead end jobs in bars and kitchens in Turin and Bruno into work with his father before building a relationship with Giovanna and joining him on the mountain walks. Pietro, by this point, has long broken all ties with his father and only keeps in touch with the family via his mother.

When a major family event brings Pietro back to Aosta, he is - at first - surprised to find that life has gone on perfectly well without him. It's the folly of a young man's mind to imagine that if he's not involved in events then events simply aren't happening. The world left behind, in a young man's mind, is a world preserved in aspic, stored in a vitrine case to viewed only by historians. For Pietro, it's a bittersweet realisation. To him, Bruno has become a man - he's married Lara (Elisabetta Mazzullo), had a child, and started a business making cheese - whereas Pietro considers himself to still be a boy.

A boy with no direction. Bruno, the more taciturn of the two, encourages Pietro to follow his dream of one day writing a book and that, for unexplained reasons, takes Pietro to Nepal, another - quite famously - mountainous region. But family ties, and even more so - Bruno, keep bringing Pietro back to Aosta and as we see their relationship rebuild itself we find out the deep feelings and motivations which lie within each man.

It can be a slow film, ponderous even, and it takes time to grow into it but it's worth persevering with because like still, or slow running waters, it runs deep. Like, in fact, glaciers. Glaciers store ice from decades, centuries, ago but eventually that ice finally melts and turns to water. Pietro's relationship with his seemingly cold and work obsessed father is like that, Pietro's relationship with the mountains of Aosta is like that, and, more than anything, Pietro's relationship with Bruno is like that. 

Watching the two men chat, laugh, drink grappa, and restore the old mountain shack that Pietro has inherited you may well find yourself considering some of your own closest friendships and you may even come to thinking about how those friendships are so vital in your life. When we're young we take them for granted, they come easy. As we age, we need to work a little harder at them. That doesn't make them less important. That makes them even more special. 

Bombs Away:Matt Collishaw @ the Bomb Factory.

On Friday I went on an art tour of a few central London galleries (it wasn't the highlight of my day, I later met with Mark and Natalie for delicious dosas in Diwana and then the three of us met up with Stedge - who I'd not seen for years - for a few scoops) and I have to say the first three were rather disappointing.

The Gilbert & George exhibition at the White Cube in Mason's Yard was so bad I actually felt a little angry about it, the Lee Bul show at Thaddaeus Ropac wasn't much better, and Richard Wright's efforts (Gagosian, Davies Street) left me more bewildered than anything else. It was up to former YBA, in the Bomb Factory near Marylebone, to save the day.

Insilico (2023)

Would he be able to? Just. The Bomb Factory is either an inauspicious looking venue, or an auspicious looking one. Depending on what sort of galleries you like. It's got a deeply post-industrial vibe, like somewhere Artangel might use, and that's clearly been cultivated quite heavily.

The floors are scattered with debris, the walls are dirty, and the desk is manned by two too cool for school hipsters. Which is still preferable to the kind of places where a man in a suit opens and closes the door for you. Which I always find awkward.

The first thing you see when you walk in is Insilico. A robot stag slipping and falling, apparently (and you'd not get this by watching it) in response to abusive posts on Twitter. I long ago gave up on Twitter as it seemed to be, primarily, a place for abusive posts. A place where you can guarantee the biggest arseholes will have the biggest followings. With Elon Musk taking over, that's just got worse.

But does Insilico say anything new about the toxicity of social media? Not really - but it looks quite cool. Elsewhere there's a series of spectral animal paintings on raw linen called Palantir. Wolves and stags (again). They look quite cool but not quite sure what point Collishaw is making with these? Some of the animals are predators, some of the animals are prey. Much like the way we've constructed human society with capitalism as our only model.

Palantir (2022)

Palantir (2022)

Palantir (2022)

At least that's what I think. He might just think wolves and stags are ace and if so, that's fair enough. There's birds too, animatronic ones on a much smaller scale than Insilico. 2019's The Machine Zone is inspired by the behavioural experiments of psychologist B.F.Skinner. Experiments in which pigeons were placed in cages and food was given to them automatically. The pigeons developed rituals which they would perform seemingly in the belief that it helped provide them with food.

Skinner felt this told us a lot about human behaviour and when you look at cargo cults you can see humans, too, perform similar rituals. In Western society, we don't have cargo cults as such (or at all) but we still perform rituals in hope of getting results. People chose their lottery numbers based on birthdays, anniversaries etc; while it's obvious to all that that clearly isn't a factor in what numbers come up.

There are, of course, more elegant examples. But what does The Machine Zone add to Skinner's work? Nothing really. But at least it made me think about something interesting which is more than Gilbert & George did.

The Machine Zone (2019)

The Machine Zone (2019)

Insilico (2023)

But Collishaw saved the best for last and saved the day with All Things Fall. Walking back past a now resting Insilico I entered a darkened room with a note outside warning me not to touch the exhibit as it could be dangerous. I was the only person (bar the desk guys) in the gallery. What excitement?

All Things Fall, and my photo can't possibly capture it, was really rather wonderful - in a macabre kind of way. A spinning temple with lights going on and off and small figures massacring even smaller figures. The Massacre of the Innocents as told in the gospels and as painted by artists like Giotto, Poussin, Rubens, Breughel the Elder, Reni, and Tintoretto.

Proper art! Of course, Collishaw's whirligig roundabout thing had the air of a Victorian circus attraction about it but it was, after a day of looking at very uninspiring and emotionally vapid art, just what I needed. It saved the day. I went for a nice long walk in Regent's Park and then met up with my friends. Friendship had, as ever, beaten art that day but Matt Collishaw's All Fall Down was easily the best thing I saw on my little art tour.

All Things Fall (2023)

WTF?:Richard Wright @ the Gagosian.

What the fuck!? It gets weirder, it gets ever more pointless. Richard Wright's exhibition at the Gagosian on Davies Street (which finished last week so you've missed it) really doesn't make much sense at all. It's one small room, which I shared with a nonplussed invigilator, and a few abstract paintings, a few books (including Huxley's Doors of Perception) with abstract squiggles on them, and what appears to be a psychedelic gym locker.

No Title (2023)

 

What could it all mean? There's certainly nothing in the gallery to tell you so instead, on returning from the exhibition, I retreated to the Gagosian's website to see if I could make any sense of the work. These works are intended to "invest architectural spaces with new optical and associative complexity" and "alter the viewer's perception of space".

To be fair, the Op Art style gym locker did actually do that. The other works, though colourful and pleasantly distracting, did not so much. Of course the press release has to go further and it's not long before it starts touching on mythology, religion, literature, and psychoanalysis. Oh - and Russian Constructivism too.

 

No Title (2023)

No Title (2023)

Phew! Was worried they'd missed that out. The Constructivist art of El Lissitzky and Alexander Rodchenko is great and I can see echoes of it in Wright's work but it's hardly on a par. There's not much I can say about it (that's why I'm leaning so heavily on the press release although I do, when it's pretentious enough, enjoy taking the piss out of press releases in these blogs). All I can really do is present it you.

Do you look at it and have thoughts about mythology, religion, literature, and psychoanalysis? You probably don't do you? You probably look at it, like I did, and think "what the fuck is this?". Somebody gets paid for making this stuff.

No Title (2023)

No Title (2023)

A Load Of Bull:Lee Bul @ Thaddeus Ropac.

Is Lee Bul's work a load of bull?

No

Is Lee Bul's work particularly interesting?

Also - no.

The first thing you see when you enter the South Korean artist's current exhibition at Thaddeus Ropac in Mayfair is a quote from the artist herself:- "every conception of utopia, historically, harbours the contradictory seeds of its own disintegration. It speaks of its own impossibility".

That's an easy enough concept to get one's head around - and there's probably some truth in too. But I'm really not sure how that relates to the wishy-washy abstract artworks Bul has made and are hanging on the gallery walls (none of which had titles available).

I know how it's SUPPOSED to relate. Because the gallery has told me. Bul's Perdu series (of which these are part of) are, apparently, representations of the fallacies of utopian visions. "Anthropomorphic forms composed of organic and artificial elements" and "fluid creatures" that "trouble the human fascination with technological engineering as a means to achieve social perfection".

It's even claimed that the art can be "read in the context of the ongoing conflict between North and South Korea". Really? You're fucking kidding me. I read on. It seems the artist has used mother of pearl in the creation of these works and that mother of pearl is produced by some molluscs to heal their own wounds.

Which is certainly the most interesting thing I learned while visiting this exhibition. Lee Bul has made some abstract artworks, some of them are pretty - some of them aren't. They don't represent the fallacies of utopian visions, they don't trouble the human fascination with technological engineering as a means to achieve social perfection, and they certainly can't be read in the context of the ongoing conflict between North and South Korea.

Not unless you are Lee Bul and you have decided, in your own mind, that they can. Which brings us to the heart of the problem with this type of art. A not uncommon problem with contemporary art. It's completely and utterly self-indulgent and seems to have been made for no other reason than to make Bul, and the gallery, money. This is commerce more than it is art and, as commerce tends to, it's soulless.

Fleapit revisited:The Titfield Thunderbolt.

Back in the 1990s, the then Prime Minister John Major came over all wistful and nostalgic when he spoke of the country he was in charge of. He yearned, it seemed, for an idyllic past which was never really there. Or, if it was, was only there for some and only in fleeting moments. It was, he said, "a country of long shadows on county cricket grounds, warm beer, green suburbs, dog lovers, and old maids cycling to holy communion through the morning mist".

It could almost be the country of Charles Crichton's Ealing comedy The Titfield Thunderbolt (written by T.E.B. Clarke and recently shown on BBC2 and still, if you're quick, available on the iPlayer). For the fictional Titfield (in real life, Freshford near Bath) and the countryside that surrounds it are incredibly picturesque.

Right from the start of the film we're in a world of verdant green hills and valleys, dry stone walls, gypsy caravans, jumble sales, businessmen with brollies wearing bowler hats and bow ties, and people who say "by heavens" and sing "for he's a jolly good fellow". It's an England of bygone times but it's not, if you look a little closer, quite as perfect as it first appears.

It's 1952 and the residents of Titfield discover that their branch line, which has been forever run at a loss, is to be closed. The local vicar, and avid railway enthusiast, Sam Weech (George Relph) joines forces with the local squire, Gordon Chesterford (John Gregson) and together they decide to take over the running of the line. The trouble is that will cost them money and lots of it. Which they don't have. 

Chesterford owns land but not, it seems, money. Using the promise of an early opening train bar they secure funding from the wealthy, and boozy (the jocular attitude towards chronic alcoholism in this film hasn't aged well) Walter Valentine (Stanley Holloway) and the Ministry of Transport give them a month's trial to prove they can make the railway work.

That's challenge enough but they also have to deal with Coggett (Reginald Beckwith), a union man who's worried any new railway workers they take on will not be paid sufficiently, and an irascible engine driver in the form of Dan Taylor (Hugh Griffith). A man who shoots rabbits on a Sunday (!) and on the squire's land. It really was a different time.

Even bigger problems come from Alec Pearce (Ewan Roberts) and the excellently named Vernon Crump (Jack MacGowran) who have a vested interest in making sure the branch line closes down. They plan to run a bus along the route instead. But how far will they go to stop Weech and Chesterford? And what other plans do they have?

That's it - and that's quite enough. As an Ealing 'comedy' it's not particularly funny. You may snigger at Weech's belief that the men of Canterbury are not of "sufficient faith" but you certainly won't LOL watching The Titfield Thunderbolt. There will be no ROFLs, GLAGs, and PMSLs.

Instead, it's just rather lovely. There's a jaunty score from Georges Auric (a member of Les Six), the film poster was designed by the brilliant Edward Bawden, and there are great performances from Naunton Wayne as town clerk George Blakeworth and Godfrey Tearle as the Bishop of Welchester, an even bigger ecclesiastical train nerd than Weech.

Oh. and there's Sid, or Sidney, James as steam roller driver Harry Hawkins. The England of The Titfield Thunderbolt may, for the most part, have only ever existed in the minds of John Major and the makers of Ealing comedies but it's still a delightful place to visit. I enjoyed watching the film last night but I enjoyed watching it even more with my mum and dad on Xmas Eve in 2013 while nursing a can of real ale (Moorhouse's Black Cat should you be interested). 

Just a decade after The Titfield Thunderbolt, Dr Beeching ("oh Dr Beeching, what have you done?") axed thousands of small railway stations and thousands of miles of railway lines. More recently privatisation of the railways have made them more expensive, less reliable, and far less enjoyable to travel on. That's why we love to see trains like The Titfield Thunderbolt chugging through the countryside puffing out little cotton wool clouds of smoke and that's why we hope, against the odds, the people like Weech and Chesterford win. Choo choo!

Exquisite Corpse?:Gilbert & George @ the White Cube.

Gilbert & George are conceptual art pioneers, they invented the idea of being 'living sculptures', they brought a punk spirit to the stuffy art world, and they made for great television. In many respects they're legends.

But also .... Gilbert & George have been coasting for a very long time now. They've not made any significantly interesting work for decades. Their art, quite bluntly, has become really fucking boring. A realisation hit me halfway round their current, and free, exhibition at the White Cube in Mason's Yard and that realisation was that Gilbert & George don't really make art. They make money.

 

THE CORPSING PICTURES (capitals the galleries own, titles and years works made included, helpfully, on the art itself) are supposed to be, according to Michael Bracewell - yeah that guy, "the most profoundly personal and confronational pictures they have ever created". Hmmm. 

What a load of bollocks. Apparently we, the viewers, are supposed to be shocked at the word 'corpse', in its gerund form, being included in the show titles. As if they're the only artists in history who have ever alluded to death before. Go to the National Gallery. There's death everywhere. Artists are completely obsessed with death. From the skull in Holbein's Ambassadors and Jacques-Louis David's Death of Marat to Damien Hirst's pickled sharks and Millais' Ophelia.

Bracewell's claim that these works are filled with pathos, poignancy, and "sepulchral eeriness" simply don't ring true. These are pictures of two, presumably, very wealthy artists taking the piss and getting paid for it. 'Will this do?' ask Gilbert & George and the art world, hopelessly under their spell, says it will. They lap it up. Gilbert & George are using up valuable gallery space that would be better given to less celebrated, and presumably poorer, artists.

Let's look at the works on show. They're all pretty much variations on the same theme. With titles like BONE, TIME BONE, SLEEP OVER, T-BONE, AITCH, and BEANO they show the artists, in their natty suits, looking out at us (sometimes blankly, sometimes half-asleep, sometimes as if they've been rudely interrupted or perhaps even goosed) from a world of bones and ropes.

Bones like you might find in a graveyard. Which is where we keep corpses. Do you get it? Of course you do. It's not exactly the most elegant of concepts. As you wander round the two large rooms looking at these enormous images you start to wonder why Gilbert & George are still churning this shit out after so many years.

You soon find an answer. There's a small room off to the side in which some smaller works (BETWEEN, CRUCIFICTION, and SOLES among others) are available to purchase. The cheapest ones available will set you back £1,500. Which isn't THAT much for an artwork but is an awful lot for an artwork that is rubbish. You'd never want to hang it up, you'd never want to look at it, and you'd never want to show it to anyone.

The only two reasons I can think of that anyone would ever buy one of these works is (1) to show off and (2) as an investment. Sadly, I think the second of those reasons is by far the more likely. What a sad state of affairs. That Gilbert & George, who set out to (and once did) shock the art establishment are now so thoroughly part of it that they're willing to shill for the wealthiest elements of that very same establishment.

My advice:- don't invest your money in artworks by Gilbert & George and don't invest your time in visiting this absolutely worthless (in art terms, not financial ones) exhibition. I make no bones about that.

Police On My Back:Black Ops.

"This is some Line of Duty shit" - Dom

 

Black Ops (BBC1/iPlayer, directed by Ben Gregor and written by Gbemisola Ikumelo and Akemnji Ndifornyen) IS some Line of Duty shit - but then, in many other ways, it very much isn't. It's Line of Duty done as a comedy and it most definitely leans harder into the comedy than it does the drama. It's often very amusing and while it's compelling viewing it's not exactly tense or gripping.

It doesn't really have to be. Making a comedy about racism within the Metropolitan Police is certainly timely (although there's never been a time when it wouldn't have been timely) but is it advisable? Only if the jokes work and, thankfully, in Black Ops the vast majority of them do.

It's the story of Dom (writer Ikemulo) and Kay (Hammed Animashaun), two black PCSOs, community support officers, who we first see handing out frisbees on the street with "stay street smart" written on them. Dom and Kay are tasked by DI Clinton Blair (Ariyon Bakare gets to play a man named after two former world leaders) to infiltrate the notorious Brightmarsh gang, a Hackney based operation that seems to be run by Breeze (Jaz Hutchins) and Tevin (Ndifornyen, series co-writer).

Think of them as the Avon Barksdale and Stringer Bell of E8. But definitely don't think of Dom and Kay as being like anyone you'd find on The Wire. Despite advising others to stay street smart they are anything but street themselves. Especially Kay who runs a prayer group, wears onesies with spaceships and penguins on, always carries Wet Wipes, doesn't know what dogging is, and was once a girl guide.

Brown Owl! Dom and Kay have a love/hate relationshop borne of frustration as much as it is of mutual respect and trust but when Tevin drives them out to Walthamstow Marshes, hands them a spade, and orders them to start digging that friendship is put under strain - and Dom and Kay find themselves in much deeper than ever before.

While the drama unfolds, and Superintendent Edwards (Felicity Montagu) appears to lead us in to that 'Line of Duty shit', there are plenty of very amusing moments. Dom gets most of the best lines (Ikumelo DOES write them) but Kay makes for an excellent stooge. I couldn't help smiling when Kay told a heroin addict he'd just sold drugs to to "take care" before explaining to Dom that it was part of the customer service and would ensure repeat business. Dom's response? "He'll back because he's addicted to heroin".

Dom offers another 'punter' a chance to touch her left boob, "the better one", and Dom, again, telling Kay not to "piss in a dead man's house" before helping herself to a beer from that very same dead man's fridge. There's also some silly knockabout stuff like the two of them drinking cans of Stella Artois at work and doing doughnuts in a borrowed panda car with the explicit intention of getting themselves sacked from the force.

There's also a great scene when Kay attends a wild party and gets (equally) upset about drug use, nudity, and the non-use of coasters. Then there's the time Black Ops tackles racism. There are, of course, white police who claim they "don't actually see colour", others who claim to do good impressions of Levi Roots, and then there's slightly sleazy, but very gauche, Officer 'Pricey' Price (Colin Hoult) who seems to have the hots for Dom and invites her "indoor rock climbing" and launches in to "back once again with the renegade master".

There's less subtle stuff too and it's all set against a very realistic and recognisable London backdrop. Yes, there's shots of the Shard, the Gherkin, and the Walkie Talkie but more than that there are the tower blocks and Lebara fronted shopfronts of Hackney, Chingford, and Walthamstow. References to Foot Locker, Cineworld, Deliveroo, Cash Convertors, and holidays in Ayia Napa show us that Dom and Kay are ordinary Londoners and that the world of extortion, internal enquiries, and anti-corruption units they've been thrown into is completely alien to them.

Dom, who has a fractious relationship with her father Dom (Robbie Gee) and stepmother Julie (the underused Jo Martin), opens up at night to her imaginary friend Hooty (another owl, this time one on her bedroom wallpaper) about the world of nervous puking, selling smack, gospel and drill hybrids, and chopping off people's fingers she's been thrown into but even when some of the action sounds, on paper, pretty dark it's always played for laughs.

There are cameos by Zoe Wanamaker and the ever reliable Alan Ford (in an old people's home, demanding 'snout' off Dom) and a wonderful performance from Patrice Naiambana as Kay's pastor, Tommy. A secret party animal who loves his Audi Cabriolet. But it's Ikulemo and Animashaun who shine brightest as Dom and Kay. The dynamic between them is excellent, their friendship is very moving, and, in the end, they get a lot of laughs. But do they solve the case? You'll have to watch it to find that out. I recommend you do.