Albion Love Den's musical interludes

Top 50 of 2011. Cos 10 just can't be enough

2012-01-10T18:45:00.007+10:00

2011 provided more than its fair share of despair, frustration, anxiety, sadness and anger on a scale which I’ve never really faced before. From catastrophic world-events in my old hometown of Brisbane and shocking images from my adopted second home of Japan, to deep sadness at the loss of some near and dear friends, and finally giving the ending a bang by planting a personal mountain of bullshit to overcome. There have been some not insignificant highlights, too - the surprising welcoming of a new niece and my brother’s wedding counting as two peaks - but by the overall buckets of shit this year has heaped down on us, and me, it can not be too surprised if I wish it a big “fuck off” and eagerly anticipate this new one.

The upside of being forced to lay low for long periods of time (explaining why this blog attracted some dust and cobwebs) was that I was able to envelope myself even more in some cool music, so here’s my Top 10 of 2011, with a bonus 40 songs which I reckon are tops:

50 - Grieves, Speakeasy
49 - Yuck, The Wall
48 - Eddie Vedder, Sleeping By Myself
47 - Xavier Rudd and Inzitaba, Yandi
46 - Fucked Up, Queen of Hearts
45 - Scroobius Pip, Introdiction
44 - Mogwai, How To Be A Werewolf
43 - Eagle and The Worm, All I Know
42 - Radiohead, Little By Little
41 - The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, Heaven’s Gunna Happen Now

Yuck and Songs were cool discoveries this year, equal parts sludgy rock and hooky pop. Vedder picking up a uke was always going to be greeted with quizzically cocked ears, and a solo effort by Scroobios Pip somehow afforded him more lyrical balls. Rudd was rediscovered thanks to his impressive Bluesfest effort and the entire Radiohead was nodded at thanks to its teetering rhythm section, as brilliantly outlined with this song.

40 - The Bamboos, Typhoon
39 - Grouplove, Colours
38 - REM, Alligator, Aviator, Autopilot, Animator
37 - Ben Ottewell, Shapes and Shadows
36 - Gorillaz, Hillbilly Man
35 - Mick Harvey, Frankie T and Frankie C
34 - Only The Sea Slugs, Big Sky
33 - We Were Promised Jetpacks, Hard To Remember
32 - Femi Kuti, Dem Bobo
31 - Bill Callahan, America!

I got back to some singer-songwriter roots, after a bit of a break looking at new things. Ben Ottewell (that voice from Gomez) and Bill Callahan sing with a most sublime troubadour spirit, while Mick Harvey’s first post-Bad Seeds album showed some surprisingly picturesque Australian landscapes. The Bamboos have been a late addition - Melbournites of the same soul/funk revivalist movement as Sharon Jones. Booty-shaking.

30 - Yuck, Shook Down
29 - Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu, Bakitju
28 - Feist, How Come You Never Go There
27 - Eagle and The Worm, Good Times
26 - Songs, It Doesn’t Exist
25 - The Herd, Salary Cap
24 - Jeff Lang, Running By The Rock
23 - The Weeknd, High For This
22 - Seeker Lover Keeper, Bridges Burned
21 - We Were Promised Jetpacks, Picture of Health

I should’ve gotten into Feist and Seeker Lover Keeper more than I did, but their put-on, over-affected vocal can tend to grate sometimes. They miss the pained huskiness or extroverted sexuality which I dig so much. That said, a bold move for three very assertive and distinctive vocalists to harmonise together for a whole album (even though Sarah does win hands-down, favourite-child sydrome style).

20 - Xavier Rudd and Inzitaba, Time To Smile
19 - Scroobius Pip, Try Dying
18 - Eagle and The Worm, Futurman
17 - Ball Park Music, Literally Baby
16 - Bon Iver, Perth
15 - Black Joe Lewis and The Honeybears, Black Snake
14 - REM, Oh My Heart
13 - Gotye, Eyes Wide Open
12 - Femi Kuti, Politics In Africa
11 - The Grates, Sweet Dreams

So REM fucked off, but left us with a true gem of heartbreak with a heartbreaking melody. Bastards. It was always going to be Gotye’s year the moment “that” song dropped, but this one is a killer also. I never really took to The Grates earlier on in their careers and found a little too deliberately indie, but now they seemed to have grown and a way more comfortable in their own skin.

10 - Holly Throsby, What I Thought Of You
It was Holly’s year. What, with her third “normal” album (she released a kids album, too) and then her part in the barnstorming Seeker, Lover, Keeper trio it’s hard to whack the shuffle on and not hear her smooth timbre. The cyclical melodic hook is heart-wrenchingly gorgeous.

9 James Blake, There’s A Limit To Your Love
Ethereal and mystical. His second offering (I think), but this one’s much more accessible thanks to actual lyrics being sung. His vocals are spooky.

8 The Black Keys, Lonely Boy
Seriously beat-worthy, which once again stakes they Keys’ claim as being the premier modern blues rock duo. The effect-ladden sloppy slide guitar intro gives way to a key-inflected melody which draws the hooks along. A classic Dad-dance film clip (akin to You Am I’s iconic Berlin Chair clip) is just the icing on the cake.

7 Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings, Ain’t No Buildings In The Projects
I had the pleasure of reviewing Sharon’s live show and an advance copy of this album. Nothing makes me happier than seeing this sassy woman crunchy out some deeply felt revisited funk/soul. I’ve done my bit in spreading the word on this scene, but I’m still amazed by how little people seem to dig it.

6 - PJ Harvey, This Glorious Land
I’ve never been a huge fan of Polly-Jean... truth is, she’s always kinda frightened me. But this album is all about the toilet-bowl which England society has seemingly become to her, and this was pre-riots. The slow dirge with the under laid off-timed “charge” trumpet call is a seething coil. In another song she poses the question “What if I take my problem to United Nations?”. The Mercury Prize was well-deserved.

5 - Ben Salter, I Am Not Ashamed
Always good to see a hometown lad and mate make it big. This album has just hit, seemingly on the tail-end of the solo bandwagon (seriously heaps of them in the past year and a bit... Glenn from Augie March, Gareth from The Drones, Adalita from Magic Dirt, Mick Harvey from Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds). Anyway, I can almost feel the inner-western suburbs of Brisbane on a slow, heavy, bright January afternoon seep through this track. (The clip is from the single The Coward and it makes me instantly homesick).

4 - The Grates, Turn Me On
Finally, The Grates prove they have more than just youth and bounciness on its side. Its first two albums were fine, but they cranked the Lo-Fi ethos just a little too high. This one sees singer Patience Hodgson go from the frizzy-haired annoying girl next door to a contender as a serious rock vixen, in the Wendy James (Transvission Vamp) vein. She undermines that sex-bomb theme a little for anyone listening to her awesome tales on The Minutes podcast, but she’s still gorgeous.

Watch Enmore Theatre and other great gigs on Moshcam.

3 - Adalita, Hot Air
The ex-lead singer of bogantastic 90s rockers Magic Dirt has truly blown me away with this album. I reviewed the launch at one of two sold out shows at the Northcote Social Club and found it the hardest gigs the get a reading on and have some perspective about. The Tiger and I stood transfixed, yet floating and completely moved by the coiled emotion of just Adalita’s no-nonsense presence and guitarist JP Shilo’s contorted frame.

2 - Ball Park Music, It’s Nice To Be Alive
Brisbane indie group which I’ve had the pleasure of watching grow and blossom over the past couple of years. They’re part of a record label in Bris (Mucho Bravado) which is steadily building a name for itself as a new force in the city. Seriously catchy, smart and cutesy pop with a solid base. These guys will be huge.

1 - Gotye, Somebody That I Used To Know
My number 1 and Hottest 100 Number 1 for sure, lest there be some sort of massive Silverchair-esque backlash between now and when voting closes. Nothing I can say will compare with The Vine’s detailed analysis.

Whaddyou reckon?

This, precisely, is what's wrong with Australian music

2011-07-10T19:24:00.001+10:00

There are very many things to rage against in the meaningful meaninglessness of this poll, but the Number 1 album pretty much sums it up. At the risk of sounding old and angry, I'm going to suggest that this album was the very precise moment that the Australian rock-based music scene got a tad full of itself and dived straight for the middle ground.

Despite small glimpses of genuine gold since Fanning put his ovary-friendly intentions overtly on display with this insipid and weak brew of songs, it's all been pretty much downhill since then.

Bar-fkn-humbug. And Doc - the kids can have their fkn station back. It appears to be broken, anyway.

Countdown #1 | Hottest 100 Australian Albums Of All Time | triple j

Business as usual, then?

2011-06-28T17:46:00.003+10:00

So, to re-cap an entire afternoon's worth of productivity sapped away by Twitter:

@DocYobbo thinks we're all far too over the hill to even be discussing such things as radio polls;

@beeso thinks we've all got our heads in the sand thinking that guitar music has a future, despite overwhelming influence that a dude on a turntable standing behind some dude delivering nasally poems is, by and large, "untrammeled shite";

@Medway has been voted unopposed to the Treasurer position of the Blokes Punching Way Above Their Weight club (with myself as self-admitted president and @JohnBirmingham firmly ensconced in the Patron role);

I seem to be the only one valiantly flying the flag for honorable, left-minded, honest inner-urban hipsterism into the third decade. I even have the bicycle, dastardly disheveled beard and copies of Monocle to prove it.

And, finally, the pricks over at @triplej are a pack'a cunts for getting us once again on this pointless round-a-bout discussion.

Oh, and for the record, my short list of Top 100 Australian Albums Of All Time (the top ten I voted for in italics) were:

You Am I - Hi Fi Way
AC/DC - Back in Black
Alex Lloyd - Black the Sun
Archie Roach - Charcoal Lane
Augie March - Sunset Studies
Church, The - Priest = Aura
Church, The - Starfish
Custard - Wahooti Fandango
Cordrazine - From Here To Wherever
David McCormack - Little Murders
Dirty Three - Ocean Songs
Gareth Liddiard - Strange Tourist
george - Polyserena
Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu - Gurrumul
Gin Club, The - Deathwish
Go-Betweens, The - Spring Hill Fair
Hummingbirds, The - loveBUZZ
INXS - Kick
Jeff Lang - Half Seas Over
Midnight Oil - Diesel and Dust
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Murder Ballads
Paul Kelly & The Messengers - So Much Water, So Close To Home
Paul Kelly - Ways & Means
Pollyanna - Longplayer
Powderfinger - Double Allergic
Powderfinger - Vulture Street
Regurgitator - Tu-Plang
Sarah Blasko - As Day Follows Night
Something for Kate - Beautiful Sharks
Weddings Parties Anything - Donkey Serenade

Vale the best sax offender around

2011-06-19T12:53:00.000+10:00

Sax is overdue for a revival in modern music. The soul-revivalists like Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings and Black Joe Lewis are doing their darnedest, but by Jesus a saw solo like this absolutely needs to be re-introduced. Vale, Big Mr Clemons.

YouTube - Clarence Clemons "Jungleland" solo (Milwaukee 3/17/08)

My Pals, yeah.

2011-06-17T23:00:00.000+10:00

Some shit's just magic to witness, isn't it? Luckily the prophecy wasn't true - the Tote's still alive and well (even though I've yet to be fully immersed in its sticky-floored greatness)

YouTube - Last song at the Tote: My Pal - The Drones w/ Joel from God

Man crushes can really creep on you, can’t they?

2011-03-18T23:56:00.002+10:00

Musically I tend to fall for the enigmatic frontman, generally one who can turn a hefty phrase plus also know there way around a fretboard or two. It’s not hard to see why - music, for me, is fundamentally modern poetry performed on stage without the wanky posing (for most parts). I’m a lover of the written word, so give me a beautifully crafted story over a clumsy chord progression any day and I’m essentially yours.

But sometimes, just sometimes, one of the accompanying musicians will grab my fancy. Usually its a rhythm section maestro (I mean, who doesn’t love someone who knows there way around a clever back-beat), but every so often it’s a flashy axe-man who tickles the bones. Recently it’s been The Drones’ guitarist Dan Luscombe - a man sometimes overlooked due to the sheer weight of personality displayed by his no-holds-barred band leader Gareth Liddiard.

I’ve always wielded a huge respect for the no-nonsense vibe Luscombe was able to bring to Liddiard’s stories (and, to be fair, Liddiard’s very own solid guitar work). There’s nothing new about what he’s doing, really: an easy equation of simple, clean guitar lines played on decent instruments and done so with absolute confidence. To be able to forge a distinctive guitar sound in this day and age is no easy feat, but to do it by bringing the whole equation back to absolute basics is impressive.

Tonight, I paid for a ticket to see ex-Augie March lead singer Glenn Richards ply the boards at the Northcote Social Club, but found myself increasingly attracted to the left-side of stage and the often-silhouetted figure of Luscombe creeping in. He straddled his side of the stage well with his axe of the moment (generally a clean Strat or a Tele put through a couple of effects) and barely moved. His guitar body stayed welded to his right hip, with the neck thrust to the left and slightly forward, like a loaded weapon. The nonchalant breezy air of his playing gave way to moments of complete tension as his shoulders hunched in and the strain of the upper reaches of the fretboard worked its way right through his neck muscles. Those moments built an enormous tension, which broke satisfying as his body floats back towards the drum riser. Man, that’s intense. It had been a while since I was musically smitten, but boy this lad with his shark-fin hair-do, barrel chest barely contained by his open-collared shirt and a don’t-give-a-shit swagger really does do things. Check him out.

Musical flashbacks: aren’t they great?

2011-03-15T22:00:00.003+10:00

Since I self-satisfyingly maxed out my old iPod and was forced to replace it with a bigger model, I’ve gone through the obsessive-like mission to relisten to every song I own. And I’m loving every second of it. You see, Apple won’t let you transfer your music from one device to the other all that easily (a relic of the days when the paradigm for developing digital music was seen through the misguided prism of controlling the very consumer’s behaviour through digital rights management... not so #winning a plan, eh?), so I was forced to see solutions outside of their sanctimonious little Genius-bar bubble. The other tech slaughter-house Google threw up a number of options to download to fit my desired purpose: moving my library as it was in my old “Ben+Satomi iPod” (so named as it was purchased under the misapprehension that we newly-married couple would graciously and ever-so-sweetly divide the musical device’s custody between us... which lasted until Christmas when I forked out to buy the Tiger her very own green nano so she’d leave mine the hell alone) onto the shiny new precious “Big One” in one piece and without naming hassles or having to download entire libraries manually to switch them across.

I settled on the lowest range program (translation: tight-arse free) which promised to do the bare bones, without the bells and whistles. And it did just that - within an hour or so, all my tunes were copied across the Big One and I was no longer looking at a maxed out capacity bar. Which was fine, except the Crazy Clark’s No Frills Homebrand Black n Gold Savings brand program did away with pesky little things like playlists and, crucially playcounts. Hmm.

The latter of those two ancillary extras did my fucking head in initially. Like any self-respecting music-nerd who grew up secretly listening to Barry Bissell’s Top 40 on the wireless on a Thursday night, or got up extra early on both a Saturday and Sunday morning to watch the Rage Top 50 countdown (thinking, in my innocent youth, that cassingle sales on the Saturday would be reflected in the next day’s charts. Yeah, I was a very curious kid, not too bright though), you’d know that I was a little obsessive with this playcount malarky. Heck, even to this day my website homepage is set to my last.fm profile and I’m seriously very excited about bearing down on the hundred thousand listen mark in the next couple of months.

The lack of playcount data was weighing heavily until I devised a new Smart Playlist called Unplayed. Genius! (No, not in that kind of Trademarked marketing mumbo-jumbo that all those skivvy-types seem to use). It was simple - I’d make it a daily ritual to trawl through 50 songs from my back-catalogue of music and see what pops up. It’s a religious ADD-type activity now, usually accompanying my breakfast and then every music-listening opportunity throughout the day until I reach the 50 mark. I’m quite disciplined about it and make sure no other songs or albums or podcasts get turned on until that 50 is reached... I’ve even been known to stay up just that little bit later to cram them all in. Usually it’s background music and my ears will prick up once in a while to nod sagely as some musical memory worms its way into my brain, or wistfully stare into the middle distance with a vague half-smile and a knowing eye-brow raise. Or just throw a random devil horn around the empty house. I’m that kinda guy.

Tonight, however, was a little different. Whilst bashing last night’s dinner dishes into some sort of wife-pleasing state, a couple of songs from Ryan Adams’ Demolition album banged out right next to each other. And I got an instant reminiscing hard-on for the moment when this album found its way into my world. It’s nothing special, there was no cataclysmic moment - it was just an aimless, relatively poor Saturday morning in Brisbane-town when a cool $20 note was burning a hole in my tatty shorts pocket, and the upstairs of the old Rockinghorse Records was faintly beckoning me from the Love Den’s enveloping beanbag. There was nothing on the New Release shelves really calling my name, and I was in a mood to punt. The unspooled tape on the cover grabbed me, and I was familiar enough with the prolific songwriter’s name to grab it from the could-a been’s shelf in a “fuck it, what the hell” moment. Got it home, sparked and up tuned into the truly alt-country vibe which seemed to mix well with the aimlessness of my life at the time. It swiftly becoming an oft-reached for tome and it was perfect as a Saturday night accompaniment - enough bubbling enthusiasm to get you fired up early, mixed with enough maudlin reflection to bring you down after yet another fruitless excursion into the mass of the Valley.

Sure, call me a big ole’ softie, but while there are some testicle grab-worthy moments of crunchy rawk within this effort, it’s the soft touches which still grab me, take this:

Or, from a Youtube-less tune, the lyrics: “Cry on demand / How’d you learn to? Cry on demand / Teach me if you want to, you know you don’t have to / I’ll just close my eyes / And think of you” Naaawwww...

Escaping the sinking ship

2011-01-12T19:59:00.005+10:00

I've been in Melbourne six months now, and was commenting just the other day to a very recent escapee of Brisbane how much I did not miss the tropical city. It's true - I'm absolutely head over heals in lust with this new place, which has always been my spiritual home. It's captivated my every day and I've discovered a new energy within me which seemed to flicker just slightly in the last couple of years in Brisbane.

I rarely felt at home in Brisbane, even though it - specifically the Albion Love Den - provided me with more of a stable home that I'd ever experienced in my lifetime. There was always something a little daggy about BrisVegas which never really allowed me to adopt it as an identified 'home city' (the term BrisVegas and it's ironic connotations give an insight into that quintessential 'daginess'). No matter, Brisbane was just as much a city of internal refugees early on in my time there - thanks to the catchment of the state's two major universities - and then later on as my maturing friends extended to interstate and international migrants in search of a better and cheaper lifestyle.

And so went the conversation on Friday night (before the cocktails and scotches took hold), as I enthused to Jinna about the life on offer here compared to there. I had felt no pangs of regret at moving, there were no second guesses about if it was the right choice, and there was certainly not a drop of any sort of homesickness. Until yesterday.

There's nothing like nature coming and parking its bus on your doorstep to make a community come together, and watching the shit storm in the past couple of days has me longing for the place. Sure, seeing the old haunts in danger is concerning, but seeing the spirit of the place has hit home what it was I left behind. Agreed, the place is as boring as bat-shit sometimes, and those fkn poisonous dog-days during summer are enough to make a man spend an afternoon setting up a kiddies wading pool in a baking concrete courtyard just for a few moments of sweet cool relief (only to have it get torn apart from a stray fkn fox terrier). Anyway, I guess what I'm missing is the "we're all in this together" mentality which is shining through beautifully right now. Oh, and the absolute ease in which life's rich tapestry is approached and absorbed, perfectly encapsulated by a mate's pic:

Yeah, I miss it.

Top 10 Albums of 2010

2010-12-15T20:24:00.003+10:00

It’s Top 10 time. It’s been a sweet little year music-wise, with Brisbane’s gorgeous pop-driven sunlit sound dominating the ear-holes early on, but some new sounds thanks to my new surrounds have started to creep in. As expected, live music and reviews have dominated my charts as I’ve boned up on artists so I can write at least half-way intelligible critiques. The reviews have also opened my ears to stuff I probably wouldn’t expose myself to ordinarily (Gareth Liddiard and Edwyn Collins, for example). So, here’s what I reckoned was good sounds in 2010. What say you?

10. The White Stripes, Under Great White Norther Lights.

There’s nothing like a great live album, is there? The Stripes never quite grabbed my fancy on a recorded setting - something to do with my natural aversion to overbearing fan-boys which tend to cloud the issue dramatically - but in a live sense, this duo is seriously powerful. This was a duel CD/doco release following the group on a Canadian tour, and it highlights a band keen on presenting its music as honestly as possible: crunchy, loose and with enough rough edges to make it endearing.

9. The Vasco Era, Lucille.

Aw, love a cool concept album. This group’s second offering is solid, with a dominating narrative following the break up of a couple by the names of Sam and Lucille. Importantly, the music has infinitely more depth than it’s first album and relies less on gritty guitars and front-man Sid O’Neil’s screech. Some people have found this appalling (this great review here, for example), but I love a band willing to break the mould so early.

8. Edwyn Collins, Losing Sleep.

One of those reviews which somehow made its way to my top rotation list. The former Orange Juice leader came back from the brink of death to record this star-studded affair and it’s a corker. The themes deal with those awful truths of aging and relevance, which seems weird coming from an artist as accomplished as Collins, but its done so with compassion and tenderness, rather than fear and loathing. Oh, and it’s chock full of some of the most irresistible pop hooks of 2010.

7. Gareth Liddiard, Strange Tourist.

Another review album which wormed its way in under the radar. I really didn’t think I’d get into this initially and actually wanted to dislike it (part of that anti-fanboy thing... I’ve really gotta work on that cynical resistance to some music), but what’s not to like about a laconic story-teller who can weave a yarn about a French tight-rope walker at one end of an album, and book-end it with a 16-minute verbose biography of David Hicks which turns itself into a spittle-flecked diabtribe about modern living?

6. Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings, I Learned The Hard Way

Soul/funk revival in all its refinery. Don a fedora and a white wife-beater and get your mofo groove on, bitches. This is the real deal.

5. Cordrazine, Always Coming Down

Time to take it down a notch or three. After going to ground thanks to freaking out at the reaction to the band’s first album back in 1998, Hamish Cowan finally got the band back together to record its follow up. The decade-long absence has not wearied them one bit, with the dreamy ethereal soundscape just as lush and inviting as ever. And honestly, who couldn’t be soothed by Cowan’s detached falsetto?

4. Glenn Richards, Glimjack

So Glenn broke up Augie March and formed another identical band featuring a couple of dudes from The Drones, his brother and some other bloke. Who the hell cares? This is an Augie March album in the vein of pre-One Crowded Hour. It’s only criticism could be that it’s very conscious of not producing another OCH, which seems to have become a talisman for Richards and co. Still, good to see their live show is less irritating.

3. Gorillaz, Plastic Beach.

Ho.ly shit. There is so much packed into this supergroup’s new album that it’s almost too much to comprehend. The Clash’s Paul Simonon and Mick Jones teaming up with Blur’s Damon Albarn should be enough to smack you in the gob with its awesomeness, but with cameos from artists such as Snoop Dogg, Lou Reed and Mos Def this has turned into a spectacle of spectacular proportions. The music is thumping and huge and is genuinely exciting in its delivery. I cannot wait to see where this is eventually heading.

2. Two Door Cinema Club, Tourist History.

How can a trio of pasty Northern Irish lads with foppish fringes, tight jeans and angular guitars sounds so fucking French? There’s an irreverent lightness in touch and an almost arrogant approach to the hook that it sneaks up on you and bites you fair on the arse before you can implement the cynical old dude gene and discount it as pure kiddie pop. Sure it’s that, but it’s also strong and with a driven undercurrent. This is head and shoulders above the throw-away hipster guff out there.

1. The Gin Club, Deathwish.

I wrote this group off a couple of years back as nothing more than a curious piss-around for a couple of serious musos looking to blow off steam before getting back to their other work and a healthy rotation of part-timers getting their pound of stage-flesh before returning to their day jobs... yeah, so how wrong was I? Where 2008s Junk tended to be a large wielding mess, Deathwish provides a tight direction and a consistent vibe. One of resigned optimism and reflective contemplation which, while navel-gazing in all its refinery, never loses itself up its own arse. The dichotomy woven amongst these tracks is intriguing: it’s understated, but grand; it’s simple but dense; it’s accomplished, but also allows enough breadth for a first-time singer-songwriter (Ben Salter’s brother-in-law and farmer Gordon Stunzner) to shine through. Most importantly, it’s built of a straight-forward, no-nonsense song craft of which classics are made.

The Palace adds pizazz to your rock pig moments

2010-11-20T00:45:00.002+10:00

Name: The Palace Theatre
Size: Mid to large. About 1900 packed in.
Who Plays There: Mid to large cultish type bands. Artists keen on presenting an "experience". I reviewed Weddings, Parties, Anything there.

Well, ain’t this ferkin lush? Melbourne’s The Palace Theatre is one of those curious live music venues which almost makes it a bit too good to host sweaty rock gigs - that “Ooh, Ahh” factor when you walk in. It’s an old-school theatre which had all its guts removed long ago and, after a bit of an identity crisis in the 80s where it masqueraded as a plush disco venue complete with dancing podiums and large mirrorballs, it’s now a fully-fledged, opulent live music venue.

Getting there in the first place provided its first hassle, in that I was convinced The Palace was in St Kilda, next to the grand ole Palais Theatre and Luna Park in that beloved triangle, defended by all the nimby yuppies (on the misguided pretence that the development would ruin the soul of St Kilda... without seeing the irony that they themselves were doing more damage than a development ever could. But that’s an anti-gentrification rant for another blog, I’m sure). A quick check revealed my suspicions that a 2007 arson attack on the St Kilda forever put paid to that quandary and confusion, and I found the right venue in the CBD, up the top end of Bourke Street - the ‘theatre’ district. Funny place to build a rock venue.

The name, however, does give it away. It was a theatre, built back in mid 19th century and surviving its many incarnations largely intact. As you wander in from the street, the opulence smacks you in the face with its wide foyer and sweeping double staircase bearing down on you. You can only look, however, as the Art Deco entrance is roped off, apart from the narrow path they allow you to take down one side to have your ticket checked at the booth. Strange.

Most skirt around the staircase and head through the swinging doors to the sides, which leads into the huge, sweeping floor. I had no idea how big this venue was (1800-odd capacity, to be vaguely exact), but it immediately hits you as you wander into beer-hall style floor area. The wooden floorboards slowly graduate a half-step down every few metres, give multiple vantage points even on ground level. As you venture past the huge sound desk and on to the floor proper, you can look back over your shoulder for an awesome sight: 3 levels of people staring back down at you from the stalls above. For a theatre, it’s nothing special - for a rock gig there’s this weird Colosseum feel to all as bods rock and sway over the balustrade, throwing the horns and tossing the hair back and forwards. It’s an awesome sight. Up in the stalls, every level is like the floor in that there are multiple half-steps, with deep in-laid lounges and booths at the back.

There are indulgent-looking bars skirted by deep red lights every level, which is a blessing in that you’re not corralled into a central bar area and spend forever getting libated. Getting around the place is a breeze through internal stairs in the guts of the venue, or via each level’s interconnected foyers. For the punter, this means there’s a bevvy of spots to camp out to watch and listen. As with most multi-level venues, however, the sound quality varies wildly depending on where you are - the sweet spot near the sound desk is almost impossible to claim and maintain through the evening. Taking up prime positions on the stall balustrades gives a great view of both the band and the heaving mass on the floor, but also means your earlobes are almost level with the mounted PA... bleeding ears ain’t my bag. All of this can lead to a restless night for the obsessive punter keen on squeezing the best out of the venue.

That said, The Palace is one of those unique “special moments” places, guaranteed to stick in your mind long after the event. Like Brisbane’s The Tivoli before it become The Zoo v2.0, The Palace booker is discerning and looks to fringe and cult bands to raise the roof. We caught Weddings Parties Anything’s pre-AFL Grand Final gig (supported by an on-fire Gin Club), and later this month a two night set by soul-revival queen Sharon Jones and The Dap Kings is sure to entice. It all leads to a unique “ohh, ahh” moments which are always a pleasant way to frame a gig memory.

My Top 50 Albums

2010-11-06T22:39:00.003+10:00

A few weeks ago, a trio of grizzled old rock journos launched a book about the Top 100 Oz albums of all time (just in time for Christmas, kids!) which, naturally, sparked a bit of an argument over there at Twitter (“can’t come to bed yet, honey, someone’s wrong on the internet”). That ended up with Messrs Dr Yobbo and Beeso raise the stakes of their musical friction by posting their own lists... and those bastards know that I love compiling top 50 lists, so here’s mine.

50. Doug Anthony All Stars, Icon
49. James Blood Ulmer, Bad Blood In The City, The Piety Sessions
48. Gorillaz, Gorillaz
47. Dan le Sac vs Scroobius Pip, Angles
46. The Gin Club, Deathwish
45. Jurassic 5, Power In Numbers
44. Angelique Kidjo, Oremi
43. Harry Manx, Wise and Otherwise
42. Custard, Loverama
41. The Swell Season, Strict Joy

This 10 was mostly newer stuff which has crept into the earholes in the past 5 or so years and gets returned to most often. I have various playlists on my iPod to accompany my day, the most used one of these is a list called New Stuff, where songs added in the past 3 months are rotated up to 3 times before being automatically removed. It’s where I ‘taste’ most new music, those which pique my interest, I play their album from start to finish at least once. Ulmer, Gorillaz, Dan le Sac and The Gin Club crept into this list via those means. Kidjo, Manx and The Swell Season are part of my ‘maturing’ tastes. Custard, J5 and DAAS are just good fkn fun.

40. Skunkhour, Chin Chin
39. Butterfingers, Breakfast at Fatboys
38. The Mess Hall, Devil’s Elbow
37. The Cat Empire, The Cat Empire
36. Asian Dub Foundation, Punkara
35. Placebo, Black Market Music
34. Something For Kate, Beautiful Sharks
33. Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, Murder Ballads
32. Shihad, The General Electric
31. Michael Jackson, Bad

Truth be known, I love to shake my booty. Sure, I look like a dick when I do, but so does a crowd of thousands around me when I do crack out da moooves. Save SFK and Cave, this 10 is just great moving albums. A friend of mine bought a vinyl of Bad to school when it was released and I remember being awed by it: I was a bit confused about the ways of the music industry at that age and believed that Jackson himself had physically put this package together and distributed it. I’ve been lucky that I’ve been able to retain that wide-eyed joy of experiencing new music well into my adult life and still get a buzz by it.

30. Jeff Lang, Half Seas Over
29. Gomez, In Our Gun
28. Salmonella Dub, Inside The Dub Plates
27. Cordrazine, From Here To Wherever
26. The Go Betweens, Friends of Rachel Worth
25. Bruce Springsteen, Devils and Dust
24. Toothfaeries, Where?
23. The John Butler Trio, Three
22. Faith No More, Album of The Year
21. Ben Harper, Fight For Your Mind

Holy crap, there’s nothing more intoxicating that a dude with a story to tell and an ability to work their way around a fretboard, is there? I’ve always been a sucker for good story, a melodic hook and a little bit of noodling on a guitar. Take Faith No More and S Dub out of this group, and you’ve essentially got a gang of solid singer songwriters.

20. Paul Kelly, Nothing But A Dream
19. AC/DC, The Razor’s Edge
18. Hungary Kids of Hungary, Escapades
17. Midnight Oil, Diesel and Dust
16. Guns N Roses, Use Your Illusion I
15. Metallica, ... And Justice For All
14. You Am I, Hi Fi Way
13. Sarah Blasko, As Day Follows Night
12. Michael Franti and Spearhead, Everyone Deserves Music
11. Red Hot Chili Peppers, Blood Sugar Sex Magik

Wow, this was a lot harder than I thought. Not only to whittle down an initial list nearing the 150 mark, but also to define what it was I was trying to rank. Sure, the rules were fairly clear cut (no live albums, no compilations or EPs and you must actually own the album listed), but what I considered to be worthy of my all-time top 50. I cut and re-introduced many, before realising that I’m still being heavily influenced as much by new music at the age of 30-odd as I was when I was in my teens (when the likes of The Razor’s Edge, Gunners, Diesel and Dust and RHCP gave me woodies). Sarah Blasko’s new effort (released last year) is as near as perfection in the quirky, heart-on-sleeve angular pop as I’ve heard. Likewise, Hungry Kids of Hungary are at the pinnacle of their game and represent a gorgeous groundswell of striped sunlight sound coming out of Brisbane right now. While the album’s only been out for a couple of weeks, the tunes are very familiar thanks to a bevvy of singles, EPs and gigs over the past couple of years. In all seriousness, there’s a great little scene happening in Bris right now - rivalling, if not exceeding, all offered during the heady mid-90s guitar-pop with which many still associate with the Valley scene - and it was a true joy to have dabbled on the edges of it (and, no, Melbourne hasn’t shown itself to have the same qualities as yet.. I’m giving it time).

10. The Beatles, Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
9. Bob Dylan, Highway 61 Revisited
8. REM, Monster
7. Radiohead, OK Computer
6. The Frames, For The Birds
5. The Church, Gold Afternoon Fix
4. Smashing Pumpkins, Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness
3. Augie March, Strange Bird
2. Nirvana, Nevermind
1. Pearl Jam, Vitalogy

But when it all comes down to it, epic era-defining rock is where it’s at for this heart of mine. Give me a soaring chorus, a middle eight out of left-field, a face-melting solo or two and charged lyric, and I’ll show you one very happy music fan. And while I’m proud to say that my top 50 reflects a deepening mood and a penchant for discovery, I’m also quite happy to wear my influences on my sleeve and stick by them.

All roads lead to the East

2010-10-19T06:56:00.002+10:00

Name: The East Brunswick Club
Size: Small, probably about 300 pax
Who plays there: It's one of many small venues on the Melbourne local circuit. It's sister venue is the larger Corner Hotel in Richmond (which does all the ticketing), and it seems this is the smaller option for the bookers. We've seen Hungry Kids of Hungary, Jeff Lang and Cordrazine there.

Ahhh, this is better: sticky floors, paint peeling off the walls, a dank den of bad air circulation and a swirling odour of stale beer, urinal cakes and desperation. This is what a rock venues are all about; and we’ve found it in our adopted ‘local’ in the East Brunswick Club.

By stroke of luck or by design, the ‘East’ or ‘EBC’ was our venue of choice for a few weekends in a row, and it’s actually a pretty cool place. It’s an old brick corner bar which, over time, has sprawled over into a rear courtyard and the building next door. The main bar room has been converted into a pub dining room and small beerhall, with widescreen teevs providing entertainment for the sports buffs. This room does a decent atmos when a Wallabies game is on, and the dining option is quite acceptable pub fair with a twist, even though the ubiquitous parma does tend to dominate.

At the back of the main bar room you can head out to the scraggly courtyard or, probably more enticingly on cold evenings, off up the dark little corridor, into the tiny reception area-cum-box-office and through the doorway into the building next door, which has been colonised into the band room. Immediately clear is the fact that this is a small room - you wander into the back of the dark space and you are confronted by an unnecessarily large sound desk, complete with a stack of equalisers and machines which go ‘ping’. Looking past that, you have a small flat floor area, a long hole in the wall to the left which serves as the bar, and a relatively high stage area. On both sides at the rear of the room are two small risers - one housing the merch area, the other just an open viewing space. Both risers are vantage points, but end just shy of the mixing desk, meaning that the optimum listening space (just behind the sound-desk) is interrupted by the hundreds of people movements as they squeeze through this small opening to get to either the bar or the front of the room. All small rooms have their quirks, I guess.

The place is warm and cosy, both in its sound and environs. There’s a lovely absence of polished concrete, brushed metal and glass furnishings, and the audience of equally devoid of the fucktards generally attracted to such unimaginative decor. It’s at the top part of Lygon Street, but far enough away from the gangland reprisal attacks for which the Carlton part of this strip has become known that it may just as well be on another planet. The area is on the cusp of some form of gentrification - a couple of unit blocks are already in construction - but the old guard are hanging on. EBC is a local pub to an extent, so the inner-urban semi-profs mix with the inner-urban militia-hippy to provide an interesting people-watching mix. For the blokes, it manifests itself in a happy conglomerate of beards styles - from full, bushy, ‘fuck the man’ style jobbies to the tastefully full, but equally trimmed office-approved types (like mine). The ladies are tastefully beardless.

The pub is a little way from any other night-time establishment, meaning the between-set wanderings are a little sparse in highlights. Come 10-ish when the Fox Sports options are limited and the dinner visitors have cleared off, the place is just a regular local bar with a cool little band room. It has that slight air of “trying hard to be cool, but really not caring if it is or not”, akin to the multitudes of RSL clubs and community halls in the northern rivers of NSW who are now run by ex-Sydney band bookers who opted for a sea-change but couldn’t quite give up on the rock n roll lifestyle. This adds to the vibe that this is a little gem worth preserving and a ‘secret’ worth keeping.

Is The Espy all show and no go?

2010-09-18T10:17:00.004+10:00

Music reviews have been a little sparse since moving to Melbourne, and it's taking a little longer to crack into the scene than I thought. Oh well, it'll happen. In the meantime, I'm still going to gigs and checking stuff out, so I thought I'd write about my take on some of Melbourne's venues.

Name: The Gershwin Room at the The Esplanade Hotel (the Espy), St Kilda.
Size: The Gershwin Room capacity is 650
Who plays there? Anyone from up and coming locals, to well known interstaters and some internationals with cult followings. I saw The Mess Hall play there.

Melbourne’s all about its hidden little gems. It’s so in love with itself over them that it even devised an entire ad campaign based around it (aka - the most annoying ad campaign in the world feature a giant ball of wool. Umm, WTF? You can’t tell me ad creatives aren’t sittin around smoking weed all day and starting every pitch with “Hey, you know what’d be cool, man?”). And sure, it’s certainly got it’s hidden little gems tucked away everywhere. I mean some days, it’s hard to walk down the fucken street without tripping over some new swanky bar or art space or showing room. Which I guess defeats the purpose of hidden gems, but hey - who am I to deny some marketing guru’s ball-of-wool-driven wet dreams?

And so if the CBD is the demure, alluring and sophisticated maven sipping her over-priced cocktails in some gorgeous little bar off whatsit’s-name-alley, then St Kilda is surely her slutty little friend raucously sucking down vodka jelly shots, tongue kissing her BFF for a dare and endlessly taking pouty pose portraits to upload to Facebook. Sitting on the bay, St Kilda is not about dark alleyways or hidden gems - it’s about getting it’s tits out and displaying its assets for all and sundry to stare at, even if it may not be the best rack in room. From the gaudy Acland Street cake-porn windows, to the huge toothy grin of Luna Park and the art deco twin spires of the Palais Theatre, St Kilda is about fun and frivolity.

Late on a cold winter’s Saturday night, however, St Kilda becomes a divided suburb, with Acland Street’s coffee and cake-centred clientele filling out one bookend, while a couple of blocks away lies a bevvy of bars, venues and take-away joints on Fitzroy Street. Smack bang in the middle sits The Esplanade Hotel, a big white monstrosity of an old-school sprawling pub which, as its names suggest, overlooks esplanade of St Kilda beach. Locals call it The Espy and it’s one of these venues which somehow attained mythical status as a key element of the musical scene in a city which, rightly so, also places the musical scene as a key element of its personality. But is it really all it’s cracked up to be?

A Saturday night brings all the dregs to the bar, and even by the relatively early hour of 9pm the small beer garden out front is chock full of fully siiiick mates and their moles. The central staircase leads through the tunnel of smokers before a double door leads into the pub proper. The main room is large and dark, with paint peeling off the pressed tin ceilings and the open fire place on the side providing warmth. A large bar takes up the wall on the right, and a free band usually shacks up in the space next to the door which leads to the pool room at the back. This is the free-for-all room, where people meeting for a quick pint are mingled with tight groups out for a large one and yet other groups keen for a cheap pub meal at a relatively cool place. When there’s a paying gig on, whatever kind of audience the band attracts also gets thrown into the milieu.

The main band action takes place in a room curiously titled the Gershwin Room. To get there, one must first negotiate the front gate bouncers, the fully siiiick mates and their moles in the beer garden, the huddled smokers around the front door, the growing masses in the main room, then veer off to the back left and look for a doorway through which you can see a larger-than-life close up poster of Adalita’s upper thighs and the body of her distinctive SG. After entering the doorway and leering at Oz’s first lady of rawk’s legs, you wander down the long corridor which leads to another set of double doors and into the Gershwin Room proper. Phew.

The room is a long rectangular piece of work, probably about four times as long as it is wide (I’m sure there’s a scientific name for that sort of shape, but fuck scients. What’s it ever done for us, apart from discovering alcohol and other psychotropic drugs?). It’s divided into three roughly equal parts. At the back of the room is the entrance and a slightly raised platform to the left with comfy couches and low tables. This is the defined chill-out/chatting area. The middle third is taken up by the bar on the left hand side and the sound desk on the right. The front is a small open floor area before a low, but quite large, stage area. There are interesting tid-bits everywhere - ornate plaster work on the cornices, two odd chandeliers made from deer horns, and stained glass windows on the far wall.

The thing is, though, a band room is nothing if it doesn’t allow for good sight and sound. And this is where The Espy, and the Gershwin Room in particular, is fucked. The sheer length of the room means that you’ve got no hope of physically seeing the band unless you’re 6 foot tall, or you are in the mood to be squashed up the front. Up the back, it’s pretty fucking dismal: the sound is muffled at the higher registers and boomy at the bottom end and, of course, you can see nought but the tops of the heads of the performers. But here’s the catch - considering it’s a rock gig, you’re prolly gunna want to be up the front at some point to get amongst the action... but the centre third is a bottle neck, with the bar on one side and the sound desk on the other funnelling you though a very small and cramped space. And then you’re stuck snuggled under the armpit of some Amazonian while still having no better view than if you stuck it out up the back. But does it sound ok up there? Fucked if I know... at that stage of the night, I’m busy trying not to asphyxiate and the band has become little more than an annoying distraction to the mess of humanity I find myself wedged within. A bit sad, really.

The Gershwin Room at The Esplanade gets a big “could try harder” in the music stakes, with a “yet to show it’s potential” in the memory-making category.

Settling into the new heartland

2010-09-03T23:44:00.004+10:00

And so with some sadness, the transformation is complete and the Albion Love Den has been wiped from all but the history books. It's spirit will remain, but now conveniently located in Coburg.

Up until the 71 items were delivered and the boxes were unpacked at our new digs, the whole move still seemed a little surreal. At first it was like an extended holiday, with our temporary North Melbourne abode seemingly like one of the best do-it-yourself B and Bs around. I revelled in walking into the city heart a few nights a week to go the gym; the Tiger became the Queen Vic Market queen; we loved being the surrogate big brother and big sister to 2 absolutely adorable German Shephards.

It wasn't to remain, however, with our short time masquerading as trendy inner-urbanites coming to an end and we had to settle for being trendy-fringe outer-urbanites. Comparing the two realities, it’d be easy to be dismissive of where we’ve decided to settle. The truth is, however, I’ve absolutely fallen head-over-heels in love with this part of town.

The suburb’s got a character a lot like Albion, really. She’s a bit downtrodden, in need of a fresh lick of paint and a bit of tender loving care, and yet it offers up some sweet gems which warm your cockles and makes a place great. In Albion, it was not just the cosy nook I’d created in the Den, but also the little beauties like the cheap eats at Thaiways, Saturday morning boiled bagels from Brewbakers, and late night munchy-runs up the hill to the shops. Here, we’re a stone’s throw from all the amenities (including 2 Coles stores facing the very same carpark... weird), the great Italian coffee shops, fruit and veg markets and a bonza butcher. Nestled amongst it all are the usual array of bits and bobs shops you find in lower socio-economic and migrant-heavy ‘burbs, and the ubiquitous conglomerate of kebab shops.

There’s an unpretentiousness about it - you can almost see the exact line where over-eager local councillors just simply gave up trying to make the place more “family friendly” - and there’s a delightful feel of gentrification being valiantly resisted for just a little while longer. A lot like Albion, really... before the polished concrete and stainless steel brigade barged there way in with their bulging cheque-books. I wonder how long this little gem can outlast the threatening hoards?

What I Got, You Gotta Get It.

2010-07-30T22:54:00.002+10:00

It’s funny what sticks in your head while watching a band sometimes. Most of the time, if the music’s right, you’re floating a little bit off the floor as the waves of emotion sweep you up and along. Other times, it’s more earthly and realistic - like the dull ache in your lower back, or wanting to drill a hole in the back of the head of the six-foot-tall knuckle dragger in front of you.

On occasion, however, the band itself provides a shake-of-the-head, what-were-they-thinking type moments which you just know is fast-tracked on to the cringe file in a few years time. Tonight while enjoying news.com’s live coverage of The Temper Trap from Splendour In The Grass, I was struck by bassist Jonathon Aherne’s awkward playing style. At first it was entertaining and quite a thrill, but it soon became irritating as his arms-akimbo schtick and hail-flailing antics proved themselves to be nothing more than window dressing. Blech, check it out.

I got to thinking about how a band’s presence leads a lot to how they’re interpreted. Augie March, for example, are a band who compliments their intricate style with their gentlemanly couture, and it wouldn’t be Metallica without some form of hair-fling (that said, their current collective receding hairline has got to detrimental to a good head-bang). It got me wondering which musician’s behavious lends most to helping to solidify what’s going on with the music. Keeping with the bass player theme, and I think you’d be hard pressed to go past RHCP’s Flea in terms of someone who not only plays what he feels, but let’s that be abundantly known through his expressive movement.

So whatdya reckon? Whose on-stage antics bug the shit out of you? And whose gets your juices flowing the most?

Our beautiful matriarch

2010-07-19T22:33:00.001+10:00

The word matriarch is such a fitting misnomer for me when talking about my family. The Greek word speaks of a fiery, silver-haired maven who commands all those before her into quivering servitude. It suggests a matron used to getting her own way and making that fact known to all around.

For the Surridge family, our matriarch was the polar opposite of the poetic imagery, but her impact was just as forceful. Audrey (aka Mum, Grandma and Great-Grandma), while silver-haired and occasionally imposing with her unshakable simple, homely faith and open-hearted kindness, was a beacon of gentle calm. In the face of some very considerable adversity, Mum (as I confusingly came to call her early in life) fought hard to maintain a stable shelter. For most in my family who didn’t venture far from the nest, this may have been overlooked and possibly taken for granted, but for those of us who’ve been imbued with the perpetual itchy-feet, the vision of that modest, gorgeous home on the main highway in Albury was a beautiful touch-stone and battery recharger.

Matriarch the word, however, does fit when considering what it was that Audrey was able to achieve in her life. A simple farm girl, she nabbed the handsomely chiseled town-boy and set about making a family and a home. Through some of the world’s greatest societal upheavals, Audrey and Roy brought five head-strong, very determined children into the world. With fierce determination, they fought through the catastrophic murder-suicide of my Uncle and picked up the pieces of their family left behind to provide a temporary home for their three boys. She sailed through the continual upsets and disappointments from challenging family members and continued to welcome all with open arms. And with steely determination, she fought through the loss of her life partner and maintained a proud home through thick and thin.

Our matriarch passed away tonight and it’s left quite a hole. As far as I know, it’s last of the grandparent generation for my family and it’s shifted everyone up a notch in the family tree. For me, Mum’s passing has brought back how important the family unit can be, regardless of its foibles. And it’s given me a great appreciation for what Audrey was able to provide - it sounds simple, but it’s infinitely far from it.

Rhythm of life

2010-07-10T17:15:00.003+10:00

Was it a rut? Some people thought my living at the Love Den was a sure sign of ruttage, as I set about doing as little as possible and just staying put for as long as I could. And I guess it was a self-imposed rut in that sense, but with a clearly defined theory: I needed to know what it felt like to sit in a comfy chair and watch the world turn for a bit.

You see, as the step-child of a soldier and the son of a rather gypsy-ish woman, my only memories in childhood revolved around the rigmarole of finding new friends, fitting into schools, working out the pecking order... and getting the shit kicked out of me from time to time for not getting that pecking order right. Basically all the joys of being, as the term goes, an Army brat. Even after being removed from that lifestyle, the itchy-footed wanderings still regularly overtook the family, until my early twenties when I realised I’d lived in almost as many houses as years I’d lived. Soon after that realisation, I had a full-body urge just to sit the fuck down somewhere nice and catch my breath for a bit. Albion Love Den was the place, and took more than a decade for me to feel it necessary to move on.

The moving around may not have been all beer and skittles and happy roaming families, but it also wasn’t a depressing tale of being the constant awkward new kid and getting lost on the way to the shops, either. One of the benefits, in hindsight, was the ability to re-invent yourself without the burden of a collective memory - the other was the almost immediate injection to the rhythm of your day-to-day life.

Living in the one spot, I found, my natural daily routine tended to seek the path of less resistance. Like muscles against a force, or birds on the wing, my travels were more about efficiency and finding the easiest, simplest way to get shit done. It became more about maximising the time doing the things I loved and less about exploration and seeking new things. Not that I was fully embracing the suburban hermit dream, but I did find the work-gym-home triangle, with the occasional Valley gig a bit of a yawn-fest towards the end. And as a result, the cycle naturally slowed until a near-crippling boredom of Brisbane started to set in.

A change of scenery, however, naturally injected a wad of extra digits to my energy levels. Everything is new and exciting and wonderful and enchanting and full of life. The new surroundings thrust subtle nuances at my senses which excite and turn me on, and I can think of nothing more enjoyable than cruising around her artery-like streets for hours on end: achieving nothing, but soaking it all in and trying to gauge the mood of it all to eck out my own niche amongst it.

Even the mundane tasks of day to day life have gotten a nitrous-oxide injection, with Melbourne noticeably a quicker and more urgent city than Brisbane. Getting to work in Bris used to be a leisurely hour or so on public transport: train, then a short wait in the city, then a bus chugging through the inner-eastern suburbs. In hindsight, it seems positively sluggish compared to my daily commute these days: within an hour of waking, I’m saddled up on the white mountain bike and am hurtling myself through the misty, dark streets of North Melbourne, heading for the train station. I dodge trams and weave in and out of the traffic and delivery vans, before a 20-minute public transport commute to the northern suburbs. The trains themselves are jet-powered compared to QR’s silver bullets, with shorter dwell times at stations and absolutely no mercy should you be running even 5 seconds late.

The weekly shopping trip to Toombul Coles has been replaced by regular visits to the Queen Vic Market, just around the corner. It’s cheaper and much better quality, with the atmosphere enlivened by the vendor’s cries of “$2 bag, $2 bag” and the jostling with Italian grandmas to get the juiciest, plumpest mandarins. The gym trips, now down to just two visits a week thanks to the daily cycle commute, see me strapped to the iPod and lightly jogging or quick-stepping from home down to Melbourne Central. There’s something purely indulgent about calling the inner-city gym as my local, even if it’s just temporary until we find a place of our own.

It’s true, I’m completely keyed up with this new phase of life and I’m so energised by the power of this place. Sure, things are a little tough at the moment (money-wise, house-wise, etc), but the energy and tempo of Melbourne is doing things to me which I’m really excited about. Yes, I’m smitten by this sexy bitch of a city.

Leaving the Love Den

2010-06-16T21:25:00.002+10:00

Leaving the Love Den was always going to be painful. What, after 11 years in its warmly glowing warming glow, I could confidently say I knew it's each and every crack and creak. I knew those creaks in a way in which I'd never known a house before - my tenure at the Love Den was the longest I'd ever lived in any one place my entire life. Those cracks were my constant from way back when I finished uni; through my stint as a working journo; through a fairly monumental career change where I gave up on the life I'd strived for since I was a teen; through heartbreaks (both caused and felt) and through countless episodes of the most defining shit-talking, drinking and smoking fests. The pain of leaving those creaks and cracks was most acute, however, when confronted with cleaning them for the first time in 11 years.

First cab off the rank was getting rid of the mountains of shit which had spontaneously appeared within her fours walls over the years. Chief amongst these was the ancient fridge which was initially included in the lease for the "partly furnished" deal. This thing was an absolute monstrosity of 1970s electrical engineering. The interior spawned a life of its own, with its internal freezer only being usable for about 3 days after the frustration-driven manual defrost cycle (with the use of numerous tools through years, including hammers, kitchen appliances and hair-dryers). The white exterior had long been pock-marked and stained, and then ceremoniously covered in an array of stickers, magnets and other Useless Junk.

I remember the Wiseacre sticker taking pride of place on the bottom third of the front door, despite no-one ever admitting to liking them enough to defile my fridge with their name. In to the mini skip she went, along with my ancient double bed (which could spawn a whole other blog of its own memories, if you know what I mean. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more, say no more. A bit of the ole 'workbench' action, eh? A bit o' rumpy pumpy on the Love Lorry, yeah? A bit of ee-eeee, aw-awww on the Caravan of Luuurve, see?... Yeah, I'm talking about wanking), a fine selection of chip-board 'furniture', a couple of old bike frames (one of which had to be broken away from the house with an angle grinder thanks to me losing the key many years ago), the back-breaking cloth-covered dining chairs and the 2-seater couch donated from Jinna all those years ago, but had long since lost its arse. Like many of us, I suppose.

With the shit gone, the next task was the 'music room'. For those who never set foot within her, the Love Den boasted an open scrapbook of musical memories in the form of a wide, short hallway linking the front of the house with the lounge area at the back, whose walls were adorned with band posters, gig tickets, postcards, wrist-straps and torn out pages from magazines and street press. It was a tradition to end a great night out seeing a band by Blu-Taking the evidence on the walls and you could trace the various inhabitants through the years in a clock-wise direction around the room. There was so much history on those walls, even pre-dating my time there, that it's hard to pin-point the stand-out memories from the hundreds, possibly even thousands, contained. There was, however, one poster representing a gig which I sadly missed, twice, but at the time consoled myself with the "I'll catch them next tour" thinking - only to have them disband soon afterwards. I'd interviewed Irish band The Frames right when they were trying to crack into the Australian market and was naturally taken by their smooth, emotional guitar-driven anthemic style. They toured Australia for the first time soon after I'd interviewed them, but I'd decided to take a little break at that point and headed to Melbourne for a week... right when they were playing at The Zoo. Nevermind, was my thinking, they'll come back. And they did about a year and a half later, when I was going through a relatively rough patch and was unemployed. Being in a constant state of poverty, I'd decided to stop reading the music press so I didn't get tortured by the shit I was be missing out on. I had no idea they were touring, until I was out in the Queen Street Mall one afternoon, wandering around with my new girlfriend trying to think of cheap things to do. We walked into HMV and I instantly spied a poster bearing The Frames' name - and it stated they were playing a free gig on the top Mall stage at 1pm that day! Halle-fucken-lujah, I cheered to myself as I checked the time... "Oh, you're fucking joking? It's 2.2opm?!?!". I'd fucking missed them, again. The pinched poster was a fair consolation prize, I figured.

Yeah, this room, more than the Love Den itself, personified my growth through the years and was a very tangible link to what I've devoted my adult life to - being an unabashed, die-hard, true-blue believer in great music. Taking this down and deciding what to cast aside and what to take with us was easily the toughest thing I had to do when kissing this old girl goodbye. The wheels of progress we chugging away, however, and so with all our stuff packed and shipped out, the shit dumped, the load-bearing Blu-Tak and picture nails removed, it was time to don the sugar-soap and try in vain to scrub away every note of our existence from those faded VJ walls and polished wooden floors.

Where the fuck did this stain come from?

I never knew my feet were that dirty. I mean, being constantly bare-footed and proud of it, it's pretty obvious they'd be grubby, but the stains on the wall underneath my computer desk were fucking ridiculous! Without a footrest, I'd unconsciously rest my feet on the pale-blue wall while frittering away the hours at my keyboard, which led to a mess of brown and black feet stains spanning a 1m wide radius. Of course, it wasn't all just mindless frittering at the computer screen - there were those 8-months or so when Satomi was back in Japan just after we got engaged, and our only tangible link to each other were our nightly webcam chat sessions and the occasional 'on-line date'. Ahh memories... are no match for sugar soap and a scourer.

Who was the dirty fucker who did this?

Oh that's right, it was me - throwing a tea-bag up under the small wall overhanging the stove in a bizarre attempt at one-upmanship after Steve-O had hoisted a slice of peanut butter toast across the lounge at me one wintery eve. This little game of house-hold brandy would kick in every now and then (generally in response to poverty-induced extreme boredom), with one of us setting up a fortress of sorts on the old lounge or papasan and hurling relatively soft household items at the other. Generally off our trees, this game could go on for ages and would only end when my subliminally implanted idea for munchies (well, not so much subliminal, more obvious... along the lines of "Go get me some ice-cream, bitch") would take hold in his mind and he'd be off up the hill for some sugary goodness.

Nicotine ain't just bad for your lungs, kids

It was a proud smoke-friendly household, the old Love Den. From the moment I took up residence, my pack-a-day habit moved in too. There were brief moments of outside smoking only, generally around the time new flatmates moved in and not wanting to freak them out. That resolve would last until either the first good movie was on telly which I didn't want to miss a second of to get a hit of cancer, or said new flatmate decided it was high time to take up an evening of green and amber fuelled shit-talking around the kitchen table with me. The result was off-white walls which slowly but surely took on an orange-brown hue, noticed clearly when pictures or posters were taken off the wall only to have their outlines marked on the VJs. Sugar soap and a number scourers tried, but failed, to remove evidence of this excess... and let's hope a couple of years of smoke-free clean living since has done a better job on my lungs.

Oven cleaner is not just for ovens

There was a time when I fancied myself as a bit of a budget-special cook, just a slight nudge up the scale from hopeless experimenter (I'm looking at you here, Jensy). Monday nights were always a specialty, with Secret Life Of Us usually accompanied by a house-guest and some interesting, if pedestrian, take on a pasta-based staple. Or there were the days when the Emma and Joey show would roll around just for the sake of it, bringing with them their own organic goods to whip up some of the most fantastic sustenance I'd ever eaten (preceded by some of their own organic 'produce' which probably heightened my love for their dinners, if you catch my drift). All of this excess coupled with the day-to-day grime of living under a flight path, a block away from a train line and on a main-road combined with an almost pathological hatred for unnecessary cleanliness (my thinking was that if it wasn't attracting vermin, then it was probably clean enough), meant this part of the house was a sticky putrid mess. Sugar soap and scourers weren't cutting it, so Mr Muscle oven cleaner did wonders in bidding goodbye to this evidence.

Who the fuck scratched this fucken floor?

The papasan took pride of place in the various incarnations of the Love Den lounge. It's a big double-sized mofo who grumbles and protests the minute you fall into it, but never fails to engulf you in it's charms. For the first few minutes, you attempt to get yourself comfortable, but realise it's nearly impossible to do so gracefully and so you adopt a lying position akin to a palsied cat passed out in a litter tray. It felt luxurious and wrong initially, then alluringly snuggly, but it soon turned to back-achingly annoying and thoughts of escape started to creep in at about the half-hour mark. But, it entraped you with its deceptively hard exit procedure requiring gymnatic-like poise and feline-like reflexes - but which invariably shifted the entire mechanism a few centimetres back against the wall, and in the process scarred the beautiful polished wooden floorboards. It was this papasan which was the prime position in the household brandy wars, it was also the place where Jen, Brendan and I would sit wilfully every evening when we were underemployed to conduct live over-dubs on episodes of Neighbours, turning them into the most sickeningly depraved porno movies you could imagine. Let's just say Bouncer the dog was a shining star in these alternative realities, which didn't just cross the line of good taste, but gave it a fully-fledged frontal wedgie as it zoomed past at warp speed.

And that was that - 2 days of flurrying activity wiped away the physical evidence of more than a decade of my life, and chunks of many others, from this rented property's walls. When I moved to Brisbane from North Queensland all those years ago, I was craving some stability and made a promise to myself to set down some roots and try to experience what it meant to feel connected to a place. I did that, and then some, and in addition to that, I had somehow created a place which many also had a strong connection. Which is, I guess, is the crux of that stability - it's not about not changing, it's not about stagnating; it's about providing a warm resting place for you and yours and ensuring it does all it can to enrich your world. To me, it's this, from my good mate Brendan in response to a recent late-night emotional email rant:

the Den was always there.. it provided reassurance and stability during some tough times.. equally, it was a place where I have rarely laughed harder and felt more joy.. those walls are caked with memories (you don't want to know what I've caked the papasan in...) but most of all it was the people within those walls that have been among the true foundations in my life and that's infinitely more important than any single piece of real estate

Step, 2, 3... Die, 2, 3

2010-05-01T17:36:00.003+10:00

There are many things I have seen come and go in my time as the chief custodian of the Albion Love Den: countless flatmates and friends; innumerable intoxicated evenings; about 15 failed restaurants on the strip; a procession of pithy billboard beacons shining into my bedroom; my youth and vitality; and the last patches of non-grey hair on my head. The latest in the string of departures has, however, caused me great joy for my remaining time here - the demise of the much-reviled Roofayels Dance Club.

For the past decade (and a bit), my bedroom windows have been just over the road from the unchanging drone of ballroom dancing instructions, as Roofayels went about discovering if anyone in Brisbane actually could really dance (apparently not). Delivered in a perfectly monotone nasal Aussie drawl, the dance calls came with a backing track of Ricky Martin, the Venga Boys and Baha Men... oh fucken joy amongst joys. Monday nights were the worst - their 'come one, come all' beginners classes which culminated in an ear-splitting group dance-off right on bedtime and so served as my unwanted lullaby ("Step, 2, 3... together, 2, 3... back, 2, 3..." she bangs, she bangs. Oooh baby, when she moves, she moves).

Over the years, we'd tried everything to rid our earholes of this pollution - like pumping out Sepultura and Metallica with the volume cranked to 11, or vaguely threatening them with a noise complaint following a particularly awful summer night where they decided a teenage girl sleepover was a good idea - sure, that wasn't necessarily a bad idea... just allowing them full access to the PA and encouraging their scientific experiments on what effects reverb and microphone feedback has on S Club 7 medleys was probably not the club manager's shining moment. Heck, I even had one flatmate who took it upon himself to freak out each and every female club member by standing in the window of his darkened room every night, watching them shimmy and shake to their heart's content (he didn't grasp the concept that the back-lighting from the rest of the house actually accentuated his rather imposing silhouette to them... yeah, he wasn't the brightest of sparks).

So seeing them pack up their PA, rusting industrial fans and 1970s era plastic school chairs was not met with too much sadness this morning, as you could probably imagine. Sure, it's the end of an era and yet another sign of the "wheels of progress" (attached to either large wrecking balls or tunnel boring machines) motoring through Brisbane's northside. The building they're in - the second story of an old picture theatre which makes up the bulk of the Albion strip - is being turned into a boutique hotel upstairs and "upmarket" shops and salons downstairs. You know, for all those prissy pretty young maidens and faux-hawk heroes who are eager to spend a night soaking up the exciting ambiance of the Albion restaurant strip, but who cannot bring themselves to booking a night in the tres uncool Albion Manor or Hampton Court (I think it's something to do with there not being enough polished concrete and stainless steel. They love that shit).

Fuck it, what do I care? I'm leaving in a month, so whatever happens to this neck of the woods is of little concern to me. This small change just means that I may be a little less homicidal on Tuesday mornings towards Ricky Martin or whoever the fuck let those motherfucking dogs out.

Is Splendour A Farce?

2010-04-17T16:38:00.004+10:00

So Splendour In The Grass was announced this week, and what an absolute stir it's caused. Easily, it can be said, with this one mega-announcement, it has stuck its head above the parapet of mainstream festivals and has stamped its mark as Oz's answer to the mega music festivals of the world. It has, to mind, a wonderful mix of massive mainstream acts, top-line local performers and enough of a smattering of "who the fuck?" moments to tease the interests. There's one massive 'but': it's the privilege of parting with upwards of $450 to enter the party.

As I commented over at farcebook on one of the many convos happening regarding this very fact:

"It is quite expensive - pound for pound, Glasto is cheaper per day... but most artists on their bill are touring around Europe at the time, so they just skip over to the festival as part of their travel."

"Bringing all of the headliners half-way across the world is a fucking expensive task. Added to that, due to the glut of mainstream fests in Oz (and the world) ATM, exclusivity of at least 2-3 of the international headliners is key. This means that, per show, the headliners are getting more per ticket = higher ticket price."

"Sure, it's bloody expensive - but I think the killer will also be the 3 days of essential entrapment into the festival food and bev cartels. Woodford Folk Festival is the only multi-day fest I've ever been to which doubles as a sort of fresh-food mart - you can get almost anything there either cheaply pre-made, or fresh so you can make it in your camp yourself. I don't think Splendour will take on that philosophy, and it certainly won't allow the Peat's Ridge- style BYO alcohol. So 3 days worth of Langos Hungarian Deep Fried Bread and $12 cans of mid-strength piss will be a deal breaker for me."

As much as I would love to be a part of this 10 year celebration (and with fond memories of this brand's tentative first toe in the water to a restricted 7,500 punters), and as much as I feel this is a make or break in terms of business models for Oz festivals for years to come, I just don't think it's got enough to entice my currency from my pocket.

Dinners are getting fancy at The Den

2010-04-08T06:48:00.005+10:00

I always knew the Tiger had impressive culinary skills. Even way back when we were just flatmates, she would whip up cool and interesting meals when it was her turn to cook.

At first I thought I was just impressed because of the different culinary cultures, but over time I've come to appreciate that she's a dedicated and passionate lover of food who is willing to turn her hand at almost anything... and most times she has succeeded with flying colours. Baking has been a particular focus lately (and a danger to my diet regime!), and she thinks nothing of doing up a quick batch of mochi with red bean paste and strawberries - even though it's a multi-stage process over a couple of days with finicky ingredients.

After last week's posh nosh, though, she's got a renewed vigour for the evening meal. Of particular interest was the bloody beautiful rocket, poached pear and Parmesan salad at Aqua Linea. It was simple and unobtrusive, but the combination of flavours and the simplicity of it stole the night, and so she's now on a mission to both replicate it and build upon it. Her first attempt using the same concepts was present the night before last:

There's miso and a small bowl of rice, with the main plate filled with a grilled piece of yellowtail (Japanese buri) with a simple honey-soy-miso paste, and a salad of spinach, string bean and red grapefruit. It was bloody delicious and impressive to look at. I married well, no?

Celebrating 2 years above the Aqua Linea

2010-04-05T12:23:00.005+10:00

It was our two year anniversary last Tuesday and continuing on the grand tradition (started, coincidentally, 1 year ago), we decided to pull out all the stops and go fancy for a bit of nosh.

Last year's bash at Bishamon would be hard to beat, but with a little extra money in the bank thanks to an early anniversary present from the in-laws, we decided to step it up a notch and go as far out as possible before we stepped into the black hole of stupidly-priced nonsensical twattery (aka anything on Eagle Street, particularly anything starring a TV chef). Teneriffe's Aqua Linea fitted the bill nicely.

From the gin and tonic aperitif right through to the chocolate "gravel" of the dessert, it was a polished, yet restrained affair. A bottle of 2008 Cloudy Bay Sav Blanc (cheekily marked up way beyond its means) was swiftly delivered, along with a couple of slices of dense, creamy pumpkin bread with olive oil to line the stomach. As usual, pork belly screamed at me from entree list, while the Tiger opted for the rather enticing prawn and leek ravioli. The belly was, however, a touch on the dry side with the soy-braise hardly present - but the peanut dressing pulled it through; and you can't really go too wrong with what is essentially a thick hunk of bacon. The texture of the rav seemed quite light and watery - reminiscent of steamed dumplings rather than traditional pastry. The filling was dense and the creamy sauce plentiful; we were both touching the happy side after that effort.

We both eyed the duck for mains, but the Tiger capitulated and opted for the Black Angus fillet instead. The tea-smoked duck was beautifully presented: a thinly sliced fillet, rare in the middle, on a bed of sugar snap peas and a scallion roesti. A fig compote rested against the end of the fillet, and assorted greens danced around the remainder of the white square. The steak, meanwhile, was a study of ordinariness - the round fillet on top of a runny potato mash (a-hem, sorry... pommes mousseline), surrounded by the vegies. Basically, a sexed-up version of meat n 3-veg... how pretentiously unpretentious.

But fuck it, it tasted orright, dinnit? The duck had the unmistakable earthiness of the tea embedded within the flavour, but the roesti (bascially a potato cake) was the clear winner - crunchy and crackly on the edges, but soaked with the duck juices in the centre. The only criticism, and this is almost too absurd to utter considering the amount it cost, was that there was just a touch too much on the plate. Meandering through each element meant the duck lost is sheen and became a little too congealed and fatty towards the end, while the roesti finished in a messy mulch. The wonderful side dish - rocket with cinnamon poached pear, Parmesan and lemon oil - is now in the process of being dissected and incorporated into the Tiger's growing culinary arsenal.

The Tiger decided to end the night with a decadent flourish - the bittersweet chocolate torte - while I finished the vino. Unfortunately, the torte didn't live up to expectations, but hey - you can tell desserts were purely an afterthought at this sort of establishment. And so with the bottle drained, and a couple of green notes passed to settle the bill, we strolled romantically along the riverfront, happy with our pleasant celebration of our nuptials and excited that our next one will be spent in our new city.

Fast food ads amuse me

2010-04-04T22:03:00.004+10:00

No, seriously. We've been having a blissful Love Den-based 4-day weekend which has, invariably, included a few hours plonked in from of the idiot box. I don't tend to consume much teev during the week, so it's been interesting to reconnect.

One thing which has caught my fancy has been the tone and text of fast food ads. About a year ago, I personally made a conscious effort to remove fast food from my diet (as part of the overall Get Fit Ya Fat Bastard Before You Become a Typical Old Fat Bastard plan... also involved swapping the pack-a-day fags for gym membership and a new bike). Watching fast food ads has provided me with much mirth, as they no longer hold the mouth-drool factor which clouded their efficacy previously.

Working for a major supplier of fresh food ingredients to most of these companies, it's been interesting to watch from the inside the transformation of their predominantly lard-arse fair, through the pseudo-healthy options, to out-and-out Heart Foundation tick territory. And now they seem to be back full circle: and for KFC at least, they seem pretty effin proud of the double-time march back into meal options dripping in saturated fats, caked in salt and dipped in sugar. (I can't find the actual advert, but here's a little bit on the whole campaign to rid the world of Tower Burger-less angst. No, seriously. There was even a petition... I'm. Not. Makin. This. Up.)

Going in another direction entirely, both Maccas and HJs are trying to re-invent themselves as "sophisticated". First it was the bullshit me-first campaigns (and the entire promise in general) of the bullshit Angus burgers. But this little gem has me all giggly... the key line - "ahh, garlic mayo. Mmmm" - pretty much brands its target market as gruff buffoons with little to no cuisine education.

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The Connolly Team on da move

2010-03-09T20:48:00.007+10:00

I love it when a plan comes together - John "Hannibal" Smith

Like Mr Smith, I too get a bit of a woody when plans come together. Especially the potentially life-changing plans that are currently on the Connolly family's doorstep, its knock getting louder and louder by the day, demanding attention. Screw this obtuseness - the Albion Love Den is about to get a wrecking ball thrust through her, and we're taking this opportunity to get the fuck out of this flea-bitten cesspit of humidity and confused boredom and are moving to my spiritual home - Melbourne.

To recap, briefly, on the Love Den situation - about 2 and a bit years ago, my legendary landlord Ray decided enough was enough and upped-stumps, selling this gorgeous girl on to an investment company. He gave me hollow assurances that the company was interested purely in the place as it was, possibly giving it a lick of paint and some other sprucing, but keeping it otherwise as is. It was as clear as testicles on a canine, however, that was not to be the case - with development after development being announced, planned or rumoured for Albion, it was clear that any investor worth their salt would realise they could make a motza just out of the value of this well-placed block. It was on-sold a couple of times (with us being subjected to invasion after invasion for 'insurance appraisals', 'fire inspections', 'valuations' that it almost felt like we were on permanent display), before a development application was finally lodged. Eight months later, and the plan was approved last Friday. It's a matter of days before the real estate agent nails the big pink fuck orf notice on the front door and we do a midnight flit.

Initially, the impending eviction was quite stressful. I've been here for nigh on 11 years; it's the longest I've ever lived in any one place in my entire life. I grew up here. I defined myself here. (Yes, I've cried here. Laughed here. Gotten stoned here. Fucked here. Spewed here...). Looking for places to move to in Brisbane just seemed defeating and sad. And bloody expensive. And so a plan was hatched, after an innocent comment from my Dad over Christmas, to look into moving states.

Coincidentally, at the same time as the housing situation was becoming uncertain, so too was the career. The company I'd been working with for a few years was sold to our competitor and uncertainty was in the air regarding the future of a lot of people's roles. As this new company was based in Melbourne, I decided to take the bull by the horns and stake my claim not only to taking on a now much more expanded national role, but also my claim to having the company move me to head office. And they accepted that plan and we're now approximately 8 weeks away from uprooting to a whole new city.

It's all very exciting and daunting and confusing. While I've moved around heaps in my life, it was always under the watchful parental eye or easy share-house hops with just my bed and a couple of boxes. Now I have a whole house full of stuff, a wife to think about, and absolutely no idea on how to start a new life in a new, almost foreign city. Wish us luck. More importantly, however, tolerate our tale of woe as we negotiate the wonders of moving house as this little plan not only comes together, but becomes a great big annoying reality.

still Spinning In Daffodils

2010-02-05T21:39:00.001+10:00

I was totally going to review this gig on the blog. I had some choice phrases picked out with some highlights and pithy observations. But then I found this clip, and any pointless words I could have spouted seemed stupid.

Rock dinosaurs unite - this is what it's all about. The Josh Homme swagger, the animalistic, sexual Dave Grohl pounding and John Paul fuckin Jones strapped up with a 9-string, lit up throbbing bass guitar. About half way through they lock into that magical rhythm and then spin back and riff off it... anyone who's spent any amount of time playing music with mates will know that feeling. That euphoric and almost orgasmic moment when you tune your ears into what your band mates are playing and are comfortable and confident enough to bounce off it and make something work. It's a bonding, almost sexual time (and, unfortunately in my experience, all too fleeting... much like my sex life).

What's not shown here is the 2-3 minute spooling intro before Grohl smashed that crash symbal to cue his bandmates in. Also missing is the ending, where JP fuckin J (he evidently has 4 names now, thanks to Hommes' intros) swapped that monstrosity of a bass for the electric piano and chased that melody all around the keys in a whimsical fashion, befuddling the crowd.

This was pretty fucking spesh. Moment in time type spesh.

Get some grub up ya

2010-01-10T16:53:00.003+10:00

Late 2009 sparked a bit of a culinary experimentation mode for the Love Den inhabitants, thanks to a birthday present of one of the most amazing cookbooks I've owned - SBS' Food Safari. The show is pretty cool, but the book is a great romp through the ethnic colours and flavours that Australia's multicultural base has granted us. I almost immediately got hooked on the wholesome and exotic sounds which the melting pot of African cuisine presented, and so kick off the journey with a homely meal of Mahindi Ya Naz (corn in coconut sauce), which, the book explains, is typical on the Swahili Coast. It suggested combining this with suqaar, a Somalian meat and tomato stir-fry and mahamri (or Swahili buns) - sweetened, deep fried breads.

First up, I whacked all the ingredients for the buns into a bowl and set aside to raise for a bit. The main flavour here is the sweet cardamom, which tempers the slightly sticky and doughy bread. When ready, the dough is shaped and

lightly deep fried to achieve a very slight crust and golden texture. (The Tiger gave the remains of the mahamri-dough a Japanese flavour by
inserting small balls of red bean paste before deep frying - which was
interesting.)

The corn was next on the chopping block, simmered gently for 10-15 minutes in tomato puree mix with coconut milk powder (which is surprisingly hard to source).
To be honest, I found the mix rather wasteful, as 90% of the flavoursome elements remained behind in the saucepan come eating time, but whatever. It was an interesting way to prepare a rather bland and unimaginative veg.

The suqaar was a fairly straight-forward and no-nonsense stir fry of red meat (we chose lamb) with some capsicum and finished with tomato puree. When served up you could tell this was not haute cuisine, but neither did it even pretend to be. You could see thousands of African mums whipping out this old gold standard as quickly as any Moonee Ponds mum would reach for the safety blanket of rissoles and mash on a tired Tuesday eve.

The experimentation has continued since then, with The Tiger admittedly taking over the culinary goddess duties. We'll blog the highlights from time to time.

In search for the new Love Nook

2010-01-06T22:29:00.002+10:00

And so begins 2010, which shall be dubbed The Year The Love Den Died (or possibly just Relocated, but I'm feeling rather dramatic this eve). It's been a relatively shitty start to the new decade, with the usual string of complaints relating to workload; the current toxic office environment; not having enough time or money for the things I love; even finding some of those things I love rather underwhelming... all bubbling to the surface and putting me in a dark way. Only to be greeted with the news today that the developers had lodged their Final Response to council amending their plans for the development which is to replace this beautiful old wooden girl. The amendments don't, however, extend to leaving this place the fuck alone to exist in its Love Den-y goodness, alas.

There still seems to be a few flaws in the developer's arguments, mainly centering around the scale of the proposed 3-story building and its impact on the attached Heritage Listed bakery and shop, as well as the visual impact on the pre-1940s street scape. But being rather negative and cynical about, I feel this current council is decidedly lacking in the romance required of them to deny such a development based on the above two factors, so I'm sure it's a given that the rubber stamp will be rapidly and enthusiastically brought down on this application. Before long, no doubt, the very place where I'm sitting will be no more and there'll be at least 11 more cashed-up bogans to boast about their owning "a delightful 2-bedder in the restaurant district of the inner-northern suburbs" (to whit, my response of "Oh really, you mean that glorified 75sq m shit-box with the fetching views of the cement trucks hurtling down Sandgate Road" will probably result in a bloodied nose. Mine. Again).

Here begins the happy task of house-hunting for the first time in nearly 11 years. The last time I did this, I had a crappy double bed, a bookcase, a stereo and a couple of suitcases of personal effects and CDs. I now have, in addition to the now even-crappier double bed, a 2-bedroom unit full to bursting point with rapidly depreciating furniture, decrepit soft furnishings, a champions' collection of CDs and books, as well as the accumulated detritus from 11 years of being in the one place and share-housing. Yep, this is going to be as shit as it sounds.

The Tiger and I have begun the relatively monumental task of trying to learn and organise what it takes to find a cool new place worthy of a Love Den tag, get approved to move in, get everything over there, clean this place up, etc, etc. Oh fuck. We have, however, found a non-faff related use for the much-maligned Google Wave to keep all our ideas and house-hunting endeavours in the one place, which is actually quite nifty.

All of this organisational joy, however, will not save us from the coming hell of dealing with the plastic real estate agents and property managers as they sneer and jeer at this couple who is "still renting in 2010, why don't you just buy your own place?" Grrrr... FUCK YOU, wench. Hmm... yeah, I got issues.

Wish us luck. Most importantly, provide us a solid alibi if you read in the news of a trail of beaten and battered plasticed, make-up plastered, fake-tanned real estate agents and property managers through the northern suburbs of Brisbane.

(And, yes, there'll be some sort of party planned to kiss this slice of heaven goodbye)

What have I really been listening to?

2010-01-02T23:15:00.004+10:00

In the spirit of the times, I've still been devouring "best of's" for the past few weeks and it's gotten me more High Fidelity-esque over my own habits than ever. Thanks to my obsessive-compulsive tracking of my individual song listens through my last.fm account, I can present the albums I listened to the most in 2009. The results were a little startling at first, but then it sunk in that my usual fascination with live shows kicked up a notch this year thanks to a recent foray back into reviewing. Even more interesting is that while compiling this list, each album has attached itself to a mind's-eye type memory which it invokes every time I hear something from it:

10 Michael Jackson - Hello World: The Motown Solo Collection (112 plays): Yep, I contributed to the absolutely ridiculous amounts of MJ being played around the world following his death. Reading just a fraction of the mountain of obit words written in his honour, I realised I'd totally blanked a major part of his career - that of a totally arse-shakin black man gettin his mo-town orn. This triple album is pretty decent and covers some precious moments in this man's career. Pity it became what it did. (The mind's eye recollection is of doing housework and mundane shit around the house)

9 Neil Finn and Friends - Live Neil Finn Auckland 2008 (114 plays): A few years back, Neil Finn invited a few righteous dudes to EnZed for some jamming which culminated in the album and DVD Seven World's Collide being released. It was pretty monumental - the likes of Ed O'Brien and Phil Selway from Radiohead, Johnny Marr from The Smiths (then The Healers, now The Cribs... the dude likes "The" bands), Eddie Vedder and pre-solo Liam Finn rocking out with Betchadupa, all getting together to jam on each other's songs and play 7 nights straight at theatre in Auckland. Fast forward a few years and a similar thing happens, with a slightly different group of musos getting together a Neil's studio to write and record an album of completely new stuff. It's Neil with Ed and Phil again, as well as Johnny Marr, but also with the likes of Bic Runga, KT Tunstall, and even muthafucking Wilco! The album's since been released, but they also played a gig and I downloaded the unofficial bootleg and swallowed it whole. Numerous times. (Mind's eye: travelling on a Brisbane City bus down Wynumm Road at East Brisbane/Norma Park, over Canning Bridge and that delicious view of the city at dusk).

8 Mumford & Sons - Sigh No More (115 plays): These dudes went stratospheric almost immediately on arrival. And while I can almost taste the inevitable coolness backlash, I'm still devouring them while I can. Contemplating a ridiculously-priced festival ticket just to see them this month, too - thanks to the "no side-shows in Brisbane" bullshit embargo. (Mind's eye: striped sunlight reflecting off the Love Den's polished wooden floors in the late afternoon).

7 Ben Harper and Relentless7 - White Lies for Dark Times (119 plays): As mentioned previously, this accompanied me through the Japanese country-side. Like certain wafting smells of a slow-cooked roast can throw up vivid images of home-cooked meals, a couple of bars from any song on this album instantly takes me to hurtling through the mountains of Nippon on a shinkansen.

6 British Sea Power - The Decline of British Sea Power (120 plays): This album and band should really have been in my Best of 2009 list, if only their '09 offering was anything like this breath of angsty noise from 2003. An moodier, crankier and crustier version of Joy Division (if you can imagine it) these dudes have been my best-kept secret for a couple of years now. They're in that category of bands who I think should be more popular, but I would hate it if they became the super-mega-star-wankers of so many of their ilk (Editors, Bloc Party, etc).

5 Jeff Martin - Live in Dublin (121 plays): This was a review-prep album. The recorded gig and the one in person confirmed pretty much every one's fears of the former Tea Party frontman - he's disappeared so far up his own arsehole that it's depressing to be a witness to it. That said, his intimate knowledge of the sweet spots and juicy tunings of a 12-string guitar will always be pretty hard to resist.

4 Gomez - Out West (Live) (131 plays): This was mainly for review purposes. They were coming to town, they're a big band and I wanted to bone up so I at least came across half-knowledgeable. The version of Tijuana Lady on this double album is face-melting.

3 AC/DC - AC/DC Live (139 plays): Acca Dacca! They announced their tour early in 2009, so in the hype of getting tickets and psyching myself (and my increasingly worried wife) up, I sourced as much of their back catalogue for studying. The live album also crept into my "best workout albums" list, as it is the right length and tempo for a bloody decent hit at the gym. And the final song - "For Those About To Rock (We Salute You)" complete with perfectly-timed pyrotechnics... it doesn't get much fkn better than that now, does it? (Mind's eye: Fitness First at Fortitude Valley. This album actually invokes the smell of the gym - which is at once sickly sweet from disinfectant mixed with cheap air-freshener and even cheaper body-sprays, and that acrid musty smell of a thousand wet, unwashed towels).

2 Pearl Jam - Live in Brisbane, 2009 (159 plays): This kind of goes without much explanation. Much to some people's amusement, I still hold a candle up for my beloved Jam. Introducing my wife to them this year (and finally joined by my brother, who never got the chance to see them on past tours) was a pretty special moment. They've continued the tradition of presenting official bootlegs of each and every gig they play and so, within a couple of weeks, this was on the Pod and the moments were being relived in my mind's eye numerous times. (Mind's eye - the view of the stage from about 10 metres away)

1 The Swell Season - Live in Melbourne 2009 (161 plays): They're a beautiful little group, centred around The Frame's frontman Glenn Hansard and his one-time love interest, co-star and fellow Oscar-winner Marketa Irglova. They triumped through the movie Once and took off where The Frames left off in my musical love affair with this Irish dude. In fact, The Swell Season while once just a vehicle for the duet of Glenn and Marketa, now boasts the almost complete line-up of The Frames anyway. They toured here recently, and I downloaded both their Melbourne and Brisbane gigs later on - both were electric, but Melbourne clearly won the day in the most loved stakes. (Mind's eye: Glenn walking to the front of stage to start the gig, belting out Say It To Me Now with guitar and vocal completely unplugged and yet still filling the room. Goosebumps, still).

Get ya Finger out

2009-12-11T23:02:00.003+10:00

Powderfinger has the ability to polarise the music-listening public, that's for sure. Some think they are the greatest stayers in Oz rock history, and they have a point. Others gleefully point out that they've "always found them boring" which, while classic Tall Poppy syndrome and rather dismissive of the huge impact of this band, also holds a ring of truth to it.

I have, at various times, passionately argued both sides of the equation: Double Allergic was a defining album for Australian mainstream rock; Internationalist and Odyssey Number 5 were aberrations of style over substance; Vulture Street was a welcomed return to form in the shape of leather jackets and a bit of 'tude; Bernie's solo effort was a watershed piece and a stylistic cornerstone for acoustic soloists; Dream Days and the new album, Golden Rule, showed brief moments of inspiration, but were generally yawn-worthy. Like many other rock-pigs of my ilk and age, I've seen the Fingaaah in a multitude of settings from crusty pub gigs (Backroom at the Great Northern was a genuine musical journey, as was the Rec Club at JCU in the Ville) through to the raucous stadiums (first Splendour ranks as one of the best). While I wasn't exactly champing at the bit to see them at the Q150 finale concert, it was to be the Tiger's first foray in all things Finger-related, and FKN CUSTARD WERE REFORMING FOR 1 NIGHT ONLY! Yeah it coulda been pretty spesh, come to think of it.

Custarrrrrro blasted through a 50 minute back-catalogue set and brought back so many memories of early uni and early Brisbane gigs, parties and events that it was almost like watching a sepia-tinged movie of my life in my mind's eye. It was everything you would have wanted and have no doubt missed from the genius which is Custard on a good night - even Dave's continual big-upping of each and every guitar "solo" by excitedly re-introducing the guitarist ("Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Matthew Robert Strong!") was endearing and sweet. The dudes were loving it, it seemed and it was one of those great moments in Brisbane music history. But then came the Finger.

This night was all about Powderfinger and a big WTF? regarding where it's head has gone (apart from "up it's own arsehole", as has been suggested). I missed the past couple of tours due to general tiredness of the formula that had become the Finger curse. The last time I saw them was probably at a Big Day Out, and I think I was a billion times more interested in the grease-sodden "hamburger" I'd chosen for sustenance than the supposed rock show from Straya's biggest band going on before me. Not a worry, I reasoned most bands have their cycles and I just resigned myself to waiting for theirs to come back around.

It was in this vein that I was sort of keen to catch them to see if they'd hit their straps again... but all the worst fears were confirmed within just 3 songs. It's hard to pinpoint exactly what went wrong: was it the general monotone sound, devoid of peaks, squalls, snarls and general signs of life? Partly. Was it the band's insistence on focusing almost exclusively on its "smash hit" numbers at the expense of some its songs of genuine skill and poise? Sure. Was it their almost pathological need to turn every number into a building epic complete with false finishes and ubiquitous drum-crashing finales? Definitely. Was it the massive and perfectly timed lighting rig which seemed mostly trained on the audience and partly in existence just so people could go "fuck, look how many lights they have, wouldya"? Yep. It was all of those things, but it was also more.

It was the very clear vibe from the band that this was not who they really were, or even wanted to be. The Finger members have worked very hard on their personal PR and have managed to paint this gorgeous picture of themselves as the Mr Everyman. The bloke next door. The good guy coming first, for a change. And that's cool, because I have no doubt that's who they are in real life. But then they get on stage, and they build this pretense of rock stardom, of a mysticism, aura and style which just doesn't sit right. And being the blokey-blokes they are, they are painfully self-aware of this fakery, fearing the inevitable piss-take from their band mates should one be deemed too much of a "dickhead". Which is cool in a way - keeps them grounded, yadda yadda yadda. But this internal code and self-censoring doesn't allow for fully expressed creativity and, thus, the band were stiff as boards, barring Bernard's awkward one-hand-on-hip, one-hand-in-the-air posing. The between-song banter varied between non-existent, through hollow measures of thanks and enquiries along the lines of "how you all doin'?", to bizarre screamed call and responses which came out of nowhere and added nothing to the proceedings. The final insult came with a truly embarrassing round of Happy Birthday to "Queensland" (it was the state's birthday celebration, but this was presented more as a chore, rather than as a fun or poignant moment). This led into the train-wreck of a run home of massive numbers which were given a generous pedestrian treatment - almost to the point of self-parody. The only saving grace was the encore of Bless My Soul, which deserved its epic-ness (for the upteenth time) and a cover of the Go Betweens' Streets of Your Town, with all the bands on the bill joining them on-stage.

This was, quite clearly, a band all too aware of where it sits within the musical landscape. And, like it's audience, it appears doesn't quite know if it wants to still get into it, or just to finally let it rest.

Top 10 Albums 2009

2009-12-03T22:31:00.002+10:00

Am I so egotistical to think that anyone cares what was my personal Top 10 new music for 2009? Well yes, I am. And whaddyagunnadoaboutit? The thought germinated after reading a few of the "best of the decade" lists, like this great one from eMusic, and also reflecting on how my tastes may have changed after getting back into music as slightly more than just a hobby this year.

So, here's my pick of 2009:

We Were Promised Jetpacks These Four Walls

I have to admit the seriously great name drew me in. I now do some of my online music transactions through the above-mentioned eMusic, on a monthly flat-fee subscription basis. I get 30 downloads every month for about $14 AU (fluctuating slightly with the US exchange rate). The site is tops and provides a vast number of sorting and collating tools which can help the decision making process. I go in there every month with one, maybe two, albums in mind. Other times, I just pick a mood or style or era or feel, filter it and see what comes up - which happened here and they lobbed this Scottish post-punk, indie foursome into my Pod. It's just the right mix of crunch, hook, anger and Scotts which is keeping the fire in the ears alight.

William Elliott Whitmore Animals In The Dark

I often spend hours just dicking around on the computer at home, keeping myself entertained and amused and out of trouble. From time to time I crank up the Last.fm radio player and dial in a genre to suit my mood. Earlier this year Americana took my fancy and a few songs streamed past before this earthy, guttural, gravelly vocal got me searching. I dialled up a few more Whitmore tunes, but dismissed him for weeks fearing it was just another white-middle-class-crooning-man-with-an-acoustic-and-a-tale-to-tell; which is often nice to get into, but more often than not falls flat pretty rapidly due to their general dislike of pushing musical boundaries or trying anything outside of the beaten path (like Jack Johnson, John Butler, even Ben Harper for a bit). He finally got sufficient grasp of my short-n-curlies to wangle his way into my Pod and heart with his deep-south stories and captivating delivery.

Them Crooked Vultures Them Crooked Vultures

I'm gunna lose so much cred here and suggest that I don't like Queens Of The Stone Age much. I like the Foo Fighters even less. Led Zeppelin have always been a touchstone, but I could hardly call them personal inspirations due to the generational differences. So why do I like this supergroup so much? Because it sounds like a couple of crusty rock demons (whom I can identify with) sitting in a jamming room and going: "Man, wouldn't it be fucking cool if we could jam with John Paul fucking Jones?". I like to fancy I can sense Josh and Dave's musical boners on full extension throughout some of these songs, and can almost hear the boyish whoops and hollers as the cymbals slowly fade on some of their rockier numbers. This is pure "fuck yeah!" rock and it gets the blood pumping.

Sarah Blasko As Day Follows Night

Sarah's always been on top of my list of cherished Aus acts. Her artistry has been a pleasure to watch develop from the poppy plaintive pseudo-electronica of her debut EP to this, her genuine heart-break opus which delves deep lyrically and musically. She's put her metaphorical balls on the line here with some pithy, vastly foreign sounds which hark from gypsy eclecticism and viking beats, accompanying some of the most intimate lyrics I've heard for some time. It helps that Blasko seems to have such a self-assured artistic vision, as this could just as easily be a massive train-wreck in given a half-assed treatment.

Pearl Jam Backspacer

Ok, so it's no surprise that the 9th studio effort from my skin brothers would be on this list. It almost wasn't, though. It came out while we were in Japan and flitting around Tokyo with little chance to really get into it. When I got home, one of the first things I did was whack this on the stereo and give it a whirl. And I was disappointed - massively. It just seemed more MOR than I was willing to accept. That was until the Tiger went out and I was able to truly crank the speakers and hear the crunch. It was then that I realised this effort had a massive bottom end and an energy which I haven't heard from them for a while. This was confirmed by the frantic, frenetic live show in Brisbane a couple of weeks back where the Tiger and I were able to feel the full force from the moshpit. If I wasn't sold on this album before, I am now. And I fear I've unleashed a fellow PJ maniac in the Tiger. Can't be a bad thing.

Mumford and Sons Sigh No More

I fell in love with these guys probably more for the way in which I discovered them - they literally stopped me in my tracks while I was faffing around the house one Saturday morning and old faithful Rage was keeping me company. Little Lion Man builds to this great emotive climax of acoustic guitars, stomp boxes, double basses and banjos which I have no hope of resisting. Nu-folk is generally greeted with a rather energetic yawn in this quarters, but something tells me this unit has changed the genre rule book with this effort.

Future Of The Left Travels With Myself And Another

A mate wouldn't shut the hell up about this band, so I tried them out. My mate Mick tends to stay pretty close to the screamier end of the rock spectrum and while I seriously value his opinion, I do realise we have slightly different tastes and so I generally tread with some caution. This one is straight from Mick's noise collection, and is made up of the remnants of Welsh trio McLusky. It's a decent mix of noise, screamery, post-punk-post-Britpop piss-taking which is backed by some great melodic hooks. I'm going to listen to Mick a bit more next year.

The Duckworth Lewis Method The Duckworth Lewis Method

I have no idea where this non-super super-group came into my consciousness. I think I saw them in a Rolling Stone magazine and found the image of 2 hairy musos shouldering Duncan Fearnley cricket bats just interesting enough to read on. It's a duo of 2 Irish underground pop heroes who found themselves so inspired by the up-coming Ashes series that they just had to record a cricket-themed record. It's gimmicky, it's funny in parts, but it's also a serious study in pop mastery.

The Black Crowes Before The Frost... Until The Freeze

There was a small article in a Rolling Stone about how this huge double album was made and it intrigued me. Just a year after their triumphant return, the hairy gods retreated to a barn in New York state and recorded a double album live in front of a studio audience. The feel is electric and energetic with the southern rock champions finding an irresistible groove and a certain dignity of age.

Ben Harper and Relentless7 White Lies For Dark Times

I turned away from Ben for a while as he plumbed the rich vein of ovary-friendly roots-pop. I even dismissed this effort early on as just another way for him to seem like he was reinventing without actually changing. That was until he accompanied me through Japan in his new outfit. It's an evocative collection which still has a strong mind's eye connection to a pretty darned special time in my life and, hence, it goes up on the top 10 list of the year.

And so that's what, where and why for my 2009 Top 10. I'd like to here your top albums for this year and also where you find out about them. I'm always keen to hear of new musical discovery options.

3 years ago

2009-11-18T21:56:00.006+10:00

I forgot it. I fucking forgot it this morning. Well to be fair, we both forgot this morning that it was our "technical" 3-year anniversary. As per the usual mid-week morning routine, my gorgeous wife packed me my lunch and sent me on my way to another day down the salt mines...

Then sent me a text as I was bus-bound reminding me of the event. 3 years ago this very day (or - to be honest - around this day, as we weren't quite sure when this all began), our relationship changed from cool flatmate to head over heels in luuurve. (For those interested in that story, go here to read the blog we started to partly explain our relationship to Immigration).

I could use this opportunity to get all mushy and soppy and wax lyrical on the ways in which this amazing being has enriched my life, but I don't think I need to. For those who knew me before, you'll have hopefully seen the change. For those who've only known me since - I'm sure you wouldn't recognise the Ben of old. She is a force within my soul and the fire in my belly.

To The Tiger - Anata ga daisuki desu

Another Brick In The Wall

2009-10-23T22:33:00.002+10:00

The writing's now on the wall for the ole Love Den - quite literally. As of yesterday, the developers have slapped 2 whopping great big white signs of death on the sides of the shop and the old curtain factory building advising of the development proposal.

A quick check online showed an interesting to-and-fro between the council planners and the developer over the past couple of months. Back in late August, Council initially said nup to the original plans on 20 grounds, and suggested more information and changes were to be made in order for the development to be considered. Chief among the concerns were the overall size and amenity of the proposal, with Council being dead against any extension of the commercial property along from the shop up Sandgate Road. Most of the other concerns were rather technical specs regarding gradings, height and car-parking logistics - although interestingly, the Council has indicated the plain looking Kassod tree on the footpath out the front needs to remain, which I thought was rather cute. What was missing, however, was any mention of any of the Heritage aspects of the proposal and whether Council had any issue with it. The omission can only suggest they don't.

The developers responded earlier this week to all 20 points, with slight amendments in the plans to accommodate the requests, and various expert reports refuting the need for others. All in all, it appeared fairly stock standard for this sort of proposal (I have seen a few), with nothing too controversial which could stop the progress. Without hesitation, the developers have slapped the public notices on the buildings and asked for the public to have their say. I don't suspect there will be much public opposition apart from the neighbours - which will be disregarded as nothing other than nimby-ism - so it's just back to the waiting game, with the knowledge that the fateful last day is closer. A factor on our side is that the owners transferred us to a periodic lease just before we went on holidays - which means they need to give us 8 weeks notice to turf us out, but we only need to give them 2 weeks notice (a veritable midnight flit!).

So, it's back to enjoying the Den while it lasts. This weekend, it's Valley Fiesta and the time when the Love Den's proximity to the action pays for itself in my mind. Tonight we checked out Lion Island, who I reviewed abysmally last week (but had a better showing tonight with a crunchier PA), before tomorrow's smorgasbord of Kev Carmody, We All Want To, The Mess Hall and Bob Log III. Sunday's gunna be a bit quieter with just Andrew Morris tickling my fancy, but I'll be saving my energy for that night's gig at West End - Gomez! And I'm reviewing it... I'm really getting back into this free ticket junkety gig thing. I could get really, really used to this again.

(For) All Of The (Expat) Dreamers

2009-10-06T21:01:00.002+10:00

Apart from the "biggest ego in town" motifs, this is a pretty great BrisVegas travelog, accompanied by a pretty rocken song.

立山(晴)　Mt.Tate(Tateyama),fine

2009-10-03T00:41:00.002+10:00

A very cool vid showing the climb up Tateyama last week. Mt Tate (aka Tateyama) is one of the 3 holy mountains in Japan. This dude did in September last year, so same sorts of seasonal veiws. Can't wait to do Hakuyama and Fujiyama in the coming years.

Vale Urban Mountain Loafers

2009-09-28T23:10:00.002+10:00

It was bound to happen - just days after reading the Doc's obituary for his orange sun goggles, my much loved Urban Mountain Loafers carked it.

The poor buggers have been my clod-hoppers for about 8 years, through thick and thin and in addition to being the shoe of choice for around town, have also been fine travelling companions. They've survived countless music festivals, including being honourable replacements for more appropriate gum boots at the legendary Mudford Folk Festival. They have shod me through thick and thin, across 2 countries (well, parts thereof) and despite many efforts at destroying them through inappropriate use (although this did not, curiously extend to actually climbing any mountains with them, as the Tiger strictly forbid me from taking them on our hike up 3000 metre Tateyama recently. I shall never forgive her for not allowing the Mountain Loafers to realise their true calling in life before they died). Nothing could stop them, it seemed, until their final moments trudging through the sleepy streets of Takoaka (transporting a very hungover body from a mate's tiny apartment, after a very drunken evening where I lost my karaoke virginity). A faint clip-clop sound was drilling into my head-holes with every step, annoying the absolute bejesus out of me. A couple of miffed glances behind me to find the source of this irritating sound were unsuccessful...

until I looked down and found the sole of the right loafer had finally given way and was flapping helplessly away from the shoe itself. Truth be told, this was not the first occasion this had happened, but I just wasn't ready to bid them farewell just then and so hastily glued them back together. This time, however, it was pretty clear they were unsalvageable, especially after I attempted to rip away the offending flappy bit only to come away with the entire soul (leaving them soleless... not soulless).

I picked them up at a post-Christmas Myer sale in Brisbane in 2009, prior to one of my numerous jaunts to Brendan's Byron hideaway. It took just a week of trudging around the beaches, through the hinterland and around parts of the Border Ranges National Park and in and around beer-soaked Byron venues for me to absolutely fall in love with the black buggers. My at times irrational love affair even outlasted my immature dalliance with my 8-hole Docs through high school and beyond; a love affair which left me with permanent calluses on my toes and numerous run-ins with ingrown toenails (although I still kept them in my closet until very recently, even though I officially retired them years ago). And so with still a few more walking days ahead of me in Japan - we're leaving the homestead tomorrow for a few days site-seeing around Yokohama and Tokyo before flying home on Thursday - I was in need of some suitable treads. I've never been a fan of lace-up shoes, and was rather reticent of clod-hoppers which required socks (I'm still in that phase of wanting to show off my Pearl Jam tat on my left ankle, which would be obscured by socks), and thongs have never really been my style. With that in mind, we set about finding if rural Japan had anything fitting that narrow brief. Our second store threw these up at us:

I'm still not sure about the boldness of the colour, but they're comfy as shit and are pretty easy to match with most clothing I wear. So, Vale old Mountain Loafers and welcome the Red Riding Hoofs... may you serve my tootsies well.

Family gatherings, Nagai-style

2009-09-24T13:28:00.003+10:00

The pinnacle of our trip to Japan - apart from visiting ill Obachan (Grandma) - was the chance for the family to host an important family gathering with us in attendance. It was a Buddhist ritual of which I'm only partially aware of the intricacies, but it essentially paid respect to one's ancestors and happened only every few years. So as Tuesday rolled around the house was prepared with the rice paper wall/doors removed in the 'formal' part of the house to make a giant room focused on the freshly polished shrine in the corner. After Otosan 'officially' welcomed Satomi and I 'home' in front of the 30-odd suited family members, the formal proceedings began... which, in my world, meant just over an hour of sitting on my knees on cushions on the tatami mat floor, listening to 2 monks chant endlessly, interspersed with occasional bell ringing.
While fascinating and spiritual in one sense, it was also quite draining and the clock in my peripheral vision just made things worse in terms of time seeming to drag. My patience held out, thankfully, and the mass was soon piling into buses and cars for the short trip to a local hotel for the second part of the day - the formal sit down dinner.

Ordinarily, I was told, this dinner would be prepared at home and served by the women in the family. It was immediately clear on entering the dining room why this was not even attempted at the Nagai household - what waited for us was a 13-course Japanese feast, with huge amounts of flowing Asahi and sake. Sure, 13 courses of Japanese food isn't that taxing on the gullet due to the small serving sizes, but still there was no logistical possibility of this being attempted in the small Nagai kitchen. No-one seemed to mind, however, as food and drink we quaffed by the excitable gents and demure ladies hell bent on making this a memorable day. The food, to my palette, was similar to the other formal dinners I've had in Japan - a mix of strange (baby squid served in a squid ink sauce), exciting (sesame tufo) and quaint (braised steak served with three tiny pieces of vegetables) and best tackled by throwing caution to the wind and repressing the gag reflex as much as possible. The drinking aspect of the day is a communal affair, with the pouring of beer and sake for another being an important social lubricant. It prompts a reciprocal gesture and, of course, a bit of light banter and chatter, all building to a great sense of sharing and getting to know each other. Satomi and I took nearly an hour to work the room, with the gathered Nagai family members and neighbours all interested in Satomi's new hometown (near the Goldu Coasto for those familiar with Oz, and north of Sy-den-ey for those less conversant with the big brown land), my age (which all believed was hard to judge) and the ubiquitous plea for us to bear children.
Seriously, I've never been nagged so much about having kids as much as I have in the past 2 weeks! Not only at this gathering, but our regular visits to Obachan in hospital rarely has less than 10 mentions of having at least one great grand-child for her to dote on.

Anyway, with the meal drawing to a close, we poured back into the hotel's courtesy bus and embarked on the rowdy drunken trip back to the farmhouse for the critical 3rd part of the evening - the male bonding session of drink, deep fried foods and lots and lots of laughter and spirit. As the women-folk repaired to the living quarters, the men gathered in the shrine room and settled in for the evening, sans jackets and ties. With partial translations from Satomi, and quite a lot of drunken gesturing and drink spilling, the night carried on in jovial fashion.
The Nagai (and Nagai neighbours) seemed truly appreciative and accepting of the first foreigner in their precious inner sanctum of Japanese masculinity, and were even planning a 12-man Nagai tour of Australia, with yours truly as the official guide. Something tells me I'll be needing a brand new liver by the end of it.

After a few hours of soaked frivolity, various wives started materialising to haul their sweaty messes of what once were their husbands back to their homes to sleep off their poor states. Which left just the immediate Nagai family (including Ojisan - Uncle - who drove up from Nagoya for the event) to digest the day and what it meant. Otosan seemed genuinely thrilled with how everything turned out, particularly how Satomi and I were accepted and welcomed into the flock. I was truly humbled by Otosan's including me in this very special event, and conveyed it as being proud to call myself an honourary Nagai. And so with that, we retired and slept off the excess; but even today, I still feel I amazingly blessed that I was able to not only bear witness to such an intimate part of another culture's spiritual process, but also to be such an accepted and included member of this proud and rich family. The overall theme of this visit has seen me feel more at 'home' and comfortable than the first visit (which in reality was a blur of excitement and social fuck ups) and truly amazed by where my life has taken me to allow me to call a tiny rice farming village in provincial Japan as 'home'.

And now, with just a week until we fly back, it's a case of cramming in as much as we can in a short time. Tomorrow we head up to Tateyama (at 3,000m it's the highest mountain I've ever seen), and then will spend Saturday evening at a dinner party in a friend's really small apartment in Takaoka, before taking the bullet train to Tokyo on Tuesday. Tuesday night will be spent at another friend's place in Yokohama, while Wednesday, that night and most of Thursday itself will be spent enjoying all Tokyo city has to offer, before the night flight back that evening.

On gohan

2009-09-20T12:46:00.002+10:00

It's been all systems go around the homestead for the past few days as a break in the wet, dreary weather has sparked a flurry of rice harvesting. Which has been a boon for me, as I've been able to see and experience first hand the joys of harvesting this important Japanese staple dish. Harvest time is quite an important part of the calendar in this part of the world, and not many conversations are complete without some mention or discussion on this year's crop and yield. I seized the opportunity to quiz Otosan and Okasan (Satomi's Dad and Mum) about the intricacies of life on the land, Japan style.

For those who aren't familiar rice fields, in Japan at least, are typically rectangular fields about 150m long and 40-50m wide and are sunken down from the surrounding land so as to provide a basin-type effect to assist with water retention. In this part of the world, the fields are omnipresent - kilometre after kilometre of this rare flat expanse of land is covered with these fields. There are even some very small fields for cultivating rice in some of the larger urban areas around here. The road system follows the rice fields, resulting a patch-work of almost dead straight roads criss-crossing this area. Between the roadways and the fields lies the complicated water system - an array of gutters and drains which constantly flow with water, fed from the nearby dams and transported using gravity. Various locks can be switched to direct the flow in different ways, with plugs being opened to flood the fields ready for planting. The level of public infrastructure is impressive in its complexity, but in comparison is probably as logistically difficult to organise as is providing power, town water and sewerage systems to the farther flung Australian farms. And it's not provided cheaply, the burden borne by the farmers themselves through various taxes and levies.

The term rice farming is probably a bit of a misnomer, as rice is just one element of the mixed bag of crops these farms tend to produce. Selling all their produce through the single desk trading association (known as JA), farmers are often given quotas to fill, and nothing above that quota will be accepted. Since there are no real free markets to sell excess rice, the farmer has little choice but to abide, and hence has to diversify to ensure income. Coupled with the fact that the fields are heavily worked (it's coming to almost 8 generations of continual cultivation just on this farm), it's pretty common to see crops such as taro and daikon radish interspersed with rice crops. Out of the Nagai's 8 fields, only 5 grew rice, with one growing taro and 2 growing sunflowers. The sunflowers, interestingly, are not for cultivation, but a grown to ensure the field is now overrun by weeds if left to its own devices for a season. Luckily, JA compensates the farmer is they are left with non-income bearing fields as a result of the quota system. That said, farming in this part of the world is barely above the levels of subsistence, with Okasan (and, on occasion, Otosan) required to take out part time jobs to keep up with the cost of living. Which is sad, but unfortunately not unique to Japanese farming communities, as far as I know.

So, on to the harvest itself. Since arriving, the weather's been a little bit shit - rainy, overcast and a bit yuck. And not all that conducive to harvesting, as the dryness of the grain is quite important (to stop spoilage, I would suggest). A break in the weather the other day, however, saw us don the gum boots and gloves and take to the field with a couple of small sickles. Luckily the manual harvesting is just for the corners of the fields, which the motorised harvesters find hard to reach. Thank Christ for that! This is quite deceptively hard work, requiring some decent techniques to ensure you don't lop off a finger or toe, as well as some hard-core lower back workout with the constant up and down motion of cutting the bunch, then bundling them for drying.

It takes about 4-5 hours for the motorised harvester to clear a field of its goodness. It's a fairly straight forward contraption, with the machine lopping the plants off at the base, shaking the grains loose from the tops, and threshing the stalks before scattering them back over the field as a natural mulch. Four rows are tackled in a run, with the majority of the time taken up by emptying the harvesting machine's fill of rice into the truck, then emptying the truck's payload into the sorting machine back in the shed at the homestead. It's a 2-person job, with 2 fields able to be tackled in a fairly long and tiresome day. The removal of the rice from the field is just one step, however, with the grains going into a huge cleaning and sorting machine which shakes the shit out of them to remove the outer husks, as well as sorting them into grading. A small batch is removed from the beginning of the harvest, is whitened at a vending machine at the local shopping centre, and then cooked up for the family as celebration of the new harvest. Apparently it's a lot nicer than 'old' rice, and while there are noticeable differences from the stale versions we buy at the supermarkets, it's not remarkably different to this uncultured pallet. (I go along with it, though, as the buggers are just so damned proud of what they do!). And with the harvest seemingly coming to an end, the Nagai household erupted with celebration last night - which in this part of Nippon means a sashimi and oden dinner, which was delicious. With just the taro just to harvest, the farms rests for a little before the winter crops get sowed and it all starts again.

Nippon rules

2009-09-12T09:37:00.003+10:00

So we made it to Japan after a trouble-free, but not altogether comfortable flight and commute. Travelling JAL was certainly a step up from my only other international flight experience - Jetstar - but no so much that it made the budget carrier look bad (and if Jetstar continues to offer their ridiculously cheap fares, I'll no doubt be a frequent flyer of theirs).

Curiously the odour was again the first thing which hit me as the biggest cultural difference. Japan smells old, and musky - like a dampness which set in about 20 years ago and never really had a chance to dry. The entire country seems to smell like a stuffy, cigarette smoke-drenched room (which I know only too well, thanks to my past), and the the interior of the public buildings have that depressed, 1980s hopelessness about them which is at once annoying and endearing.

We skirted through customs and immigration largely undisturbed, and set about the mission of getting from Narita to Shinjuku via the Narita Express train. The disturbance, however, came a little bit late: prior to boarding the train, Satomi needed a quick toilet break, leaving me to mind the mini mountain of luggage. Being the curious gent that I am, I set about walking in loose circles around the concourse area of the station. As 2 armed police officers wandered towards me, they also caught my attention. Unfortunately, this seemed to raise their suspicions, giving them enough reason to halt my progress and demand to see my passport. (Demand is probably too strong, as even in delivering their front-line aggression, Japanese are painfully polite about it). Returning from the toilet, this little scene obviously caused my wife no end of glee, as tried to stifle her humour enough to properly converse with the gun-toting keepers of the peace and explain my hapless self to them. It seemed to work and we were on our way soon enough.

Even with the glorious title of "Express" which suggests swiftness and efficiency - which I have no doubt it had plenty of both - the train still took the better part of 2 hours to reach our destination. Up and down a multitude of escalators and we finally found the south exit of Shinjuku station and were thrust upon the seething mess of Tokyo city streets at night. Satomi's old friend Yoko-chan was kind enough to meet us and guided us through the fascinating throngs (which is everything you could expect from your impressions of a metropolis like this - bright, busy and bustling), and led us to a charming little pub-come-restuarant which entertained us for a few hours with its cheap drinks, good food and great company.

We decided to catch the extremely cheap night bus from Tokyo to Takaoka - where we could get picked up by the Nagai's - and so set about finding the bus station. Bus station is, by the way, only a label, as all it consisted of was a flimsy card table on the side of the road surrounded by apron-clad lasses screaming out directions and information on which bus is coming next. The side of the street and steps leading to the near-by buildings were choked with others just like us - suitcase carrying travellers eager to get away. And eager in more than just the usual travelling zombie way - but eager to escape the putrid, open-sewer smell that would waft through from some underground construction work nearby.

The bus was a bloody disaster, and every bit cheap-assed. As it was a night bus, all passengers slept throughout the journey - meaning that all of the curtains were drawn and leaving the interior a dark, unfamiliar and somewhat dank cavern. The seats pitched back beautifully, but were amazingly uncomfortable - even just sitting upright brought about sharp pains in the lower back. The temperature and climate control within the cavern was infuriatingly inconsistent and the smell of 30-odd sweaty, farting, snoring unwashed bodies inside was almost gag-worthy. My pristine new watch became my enemy, as every time I was jolted back into consciousness by someone moving, the bus lurching, or just the overall feeling of extreme uncomfortability, its gleefully glowing hands told me I'd only been out for about 10 minutes. This meant that the 7-hour trip was spent being hopelessly awake and unable to do anything about it. Which is not so much a bad thing - I've had similar experiences bus travelling before, but as this was a dedicated "night bus", it was almost unwritten law that you could not turn on a light or open the curtains to watch the scenery whiz by. I've discovered then, that while I sometimes crave the moments of vacant staring into space and letting my mind wander, being forced to stare into an unfamiliar, dark and smelly space, being jolted and assaulted by ergonomically tortuous seats, is probably not the most healthy way to do it.

And so we arrived at Takaoka station tired and miserable. This passed pretty quickly, though, when Okasan arrived and whisked us away through the country-side and straight to the hospital to pay our respects to Obasan - the very reason for our trip. The poor old dear looked frail and poorly, but was still full of spirit and curiosity. The three ladies spent the hour or so nattering away naturally and happily, but this was interrupted every so often by Obasan's back pain and ailing ways - the only outward indication she was ill. We parted fairly soon, but will be back visiting daily for the next three weeks. We're heading off this evening to meet with a friend of Satomi-chan's, but have kept any other plans to a basic minimum so we can maximise our time with Obasan.

New gig

2009-09-02T20:59:00.003+10:00

So Faster Louder liked my work and have welcomed me on board. Yay for slowly getting back into the groove of writing for a real purpose. Yay even more for door-lists!

Here's my first effort - bluesy-rootsy chick Dallas Frasca. Got another one this Friday, but then will have to put things on the back-burner prematurely, as The Tiger and I need to head to Japan for 3 weeks for urgent family reasons.

This comes on the back of a rather pleasant week touring the country-side - Sydney for a quick lunch, Albury for my sister's 21st, roadtrip around old haunts in country Victoria with my big bro, Melbourne for a few days, crazy road trip with Jen to Castlemaine to see Augie March, then home. Phew.

We had only just gotten back into the work mode after that quick trip when we were summonsed to Japan following some poor news regarding Satomi's grandma. The matriarch is none too well, so we've decided to bring out planned February trip forward a few months. We jet out next Thursday, and despite the circumstances, I'm quite excited. I'll get to finally spend a couple of days in Tokyo (one of my all-time must visit cities), plus I'll get to help out harvesting the family's rice crop.

Tributes of discovery

2009-08-06T22:05:00.006+10:00

At the moment I'm loving the starkly different personalities of the tributes/collaborations I've decided to delve in to. I'm loving even more, however, how they come to the same conclusion in the end - the lovely 'derivativeness' of music is not really something to be shunned, no matter how much the post-grunge era has made us cringe at the thought. Be it a full-blown orgy of musical talent (like Neil Finn's various 7 Worlds Collide projects), a posthumous blub fest of emotion (GW McLennan's tribute Write Your Adventures Down: A Tribute To The Go-Betweens), a rock out with your cock out unashamed re-embrace of the mullet (Standing on the Outside: Songs of Cold Chisel), or a black-arm-band view of a musical journey (Paul Kelly's steering of the Kev Carmody love-in Cannot Buy My Soul), the all aim to serve a purpose - explaining the musical journey in more depth.

Neil Finn's astronomical and ballsy idea of inviting a selection of some of contemporary music's superpowers to jam in a small country in the South Pacific and then top it off with a 7-night stint in Auckland started off this collaborative thought process for me. Unashamedly, I stumbled upon this by my obsession with Pearl Jam, whose lead singer Ed Vedder was one of the glittering ensemble of this first iteration of the idea. While Ed took me there, I was mature enough (I hoped) to absorb the other musical beings on display, and since established a strong bond with Johnny Marr and The Healers, as well as a growing appreciation for Liam Finn and a soothing soft spot for Lisa Germano. I've since learned this was redone just recently, and the second series may lead to an album of original songs. The concert, which can be downloaded here, has also opened my ears to the likes of Sebastian Steinberg's projects, a reborn evangelism for Bic Runga and a raised eyebrow regarding my apparent misinterpretation of KT Tunstall.

The collaborative vein on display above led me to eagerly anticipate the Valley Fiesta's hastily thrown together hotch-potch of a tribute for Grant McLennan shortly after he died a few years back. The original incarnation was a bitter disappointment, however, with 2 rather large (and rather unjustified) musical egos battling it out for the "he meant more to me" trophy of self-pity and uncomfortable public displays of sorrow. A couple of months later, Triple J was more prosaic in its approach and nailed together a fairly accurate cast of contemporaries whom you could honestly hear Grant's legacy. I was unable to make the concert on the night thanks to SatomiTiger's birthday celebrations (we were only in our 2nd week of courting, so it was a sacrifice which was I was justified in making), but have since devoured the recorded offering and the delicious interpretations of Grant's body of work by some of my current favourite artists. Sarah Blasko and Darren Hanlon's take on Hold Your Horses was what this was all about.

Move forward a little bit, and it's interesting to see that the musical snobbery of the Oz scene has forgotten the collective joke which was Cold Chisel. No longer the butt of anyone's jokes, current musos were seeing through the facade and reaching into the music which underpinned many a lazy Sunday arvo in the real Australia. Curiousity saw me pick this up, as well as a devotion to Augie March (which took on album track Janelle), but Troy Casser-Daley's owning Bow River has kept me enthralled - its naturalness taking me to the point of a new respect for both Chisel and this previously dismissed country star.

This then brings us to last Saturday's Cannot Buy My Soul: Songs of Kev Carmody gig at the Brisbane Riverstage. I'm happy to admit I followed Paul Kelly into this maelstrom of 1970s black-white musical politics, I took a whole lot more from it than just blind fan-worship. It was heady stuff and the gig itself, while not particularly comfortable (as articulated by NiteShok's spot on review in Mess+Noise), did raise a few eyebrows. Kev hammered home his points of where we've come in race relations, and while it did at times become slight evangelical, the music provided three massive stand-out moments: Steve Kilbey's dramatic delivery of Images of London, Troy Cassar-Daley (and his lovely ladies on backing vocals) with On The Wire and, as I'm sure many will attest to: The Drones' owning the entire amphitheater with River of Tears. Now, an admission is needed here - I've missed the boat on The Drones. For whatever reason, I never found them on my radar until very recently, but I plan on making up for that starting with this powerhouse of bottled up and flung out aggression which was Kev's tale of black deaths in custody. This shit was seriously real, and in the true spirit of tribute gigs, a great discovery of amazing Australian musical spirit.

You can pretty much feel the paint peeling from the walls, can't you? So, anyone got any thoughts on other collaborations or tributes I should check out?

New Pearl Jam... new tour to come, too.

2009-08-02T10:43:00.002+10:00

I know I'm biased, but this song sounds pretty spesh to me. They just announced a run of outdoor Oz/NZ gigs coming this November, too. It's looking to be a pretty massive musical year is ole 09.

We All Want To

2009-07-25T17:32:00.003+10:00

This is another review I've sent to Faster Louder as a taste of my work. Not sure what's going to become of this, but it could be an interesting side-note back into writing for a bit.

If a rose by any other name is still a rose, according to the saying, is Screamfeeder by any other name still Screamfeeder? Well, yes - but as Brisbane band We All Want To's first EP Back To The Car is evident, this may not be an altogether good thing.

First a bit of back-story. Screamfeeder was one of these darling little indie bands which popped up in the booming post-grunge era Brisbane. They shared stages with the likes of Powderfinger, Custard and Regurgitator during those band's formative (and some still claim, best) years. Their music was always lauded as an intelligent post-grunge dirge which won them a solid following, but never mainstream success.

Fast forward 10 or so years, and the band never really faded away. Vocalist-guitarist Tim Steward and bassist Kellie Lloyd have always been main-stays of the Brisbane indie crowd, with solo shows and the odd "reunion" gig. In fact, just this year they did a quick run of gigs highlighting their career peak album Kitten Licks. Tim maintained the solo path, eventually settling on a 5-piece collective to back his live efforts. This band has now been christened with the devilishly vague moniker of We All Want To and the 4-track EP is a taste of what's to come.

On its own, the songs hold up superbly. Title track Back To The Car is delicious pop irony, telling various latter-years coming of age yarns. Second song I've Been Listening To You For Too Long continues the achingly gorgeous hook-based songwriting, with new female foil Skye providing the perfect antidote to the spiralling vocals. A reprieve from Tim's nasally flat delivery is given as one of the other male members takes on vox with Two Way. This song also marks the only significant departure from the tell-tale soft-loud-soft guitar-driven late 90s feel of the rest of the teaser disc, as keys and an alternating rhythm drive a maudlin feel. This Ship Has Sailed pushes back to 1996, with escalating driving drums and bass allowing the melody to creep up under the radar to a peaked finale.

There's hardly anything to fault with this short insight into a longer effort promised later this year. While the dirge has definitely been turned below 11 and the songs have a much fuller sound than the previous incarnations, it fails, however, at being significantly different from the lead man's inescapable past. And that may lead to accusations of lack of originality and creativity by some.

Augie March - Hi Fi Bar Brisbane

2009-07-19T22:31:00.005+10:00

I posted this review to Faster Louder as a taste of my work. Hopefully they'll like it and I'll get a few reviews out of it

Augie March have built a solid reputation for unpredictable gigs over the past 10 or so years. Depending on the collective will of the band, the room and the punters, gigs can swing between self-indulgent pap teetering on the edge of disaster (led by frontman Glenn Richard's overt perfectionism) to achingly gorgeous moments of holding a room in complete silence and awe. Tonight's gig at Brisbane's new(ish) house of music, The Hi Fi Bar, swung more towards the latter as the band set about wrapping up its story to this point with the aptly titled Watch Me Set My Strange Sun You Bloody Choir tour (a mashup of album and previous tour titles).

First up, however, The Drone's main men Gareth Liddiard and Dan Luscombe get a chance to warm up the PA in this yet-to-be-finished room amidst the usual pre-gig chattering. The two men bounce off each other with great harmonies and superb licks, and manage to bottle the almost infamous on-stage intensity of The Drones. Liddiard was even spied sporting a smile or two as they ripped through the list of songs showcasing the raw bones of what makes The Drones tick, with the low intimate feel almost making it feel like you were eavesdropping on their weekly jam sessions.

Warm applause acknowledged their existence as the curtain drew on the support act and preparations were made for the main. The room was nowhere near capacity as the curtain drew back after a short wait and the band sauntered on for what was being touted as their last full-scale Brisbane gig for some time. Early signs pointed towards another horrendous gig, however, as Glenn grimaced at some unheard and unseen misdemeanour from drummer David Williams in the first few bars of There's Something At The Bottom Of The Black Pool. It wasn't to be, however, as the band kicked in well during the difficult middle section of this gem from their second album Strange Bird and set the tone for the evening: a fan-pleasing romp through their impressive back-catalogue. Only 4 of the 16 songs in the set list were, in fact, from their newest albums (2006 breakthrough Moo, You Bloody Choir and this year's Watch Me Disappear). This may have been due to a fan-led song poll on their website leading up to this tour, but the up-beat mood of the band indicated the trip down memory lane was also their intention with this swan-song tour. Early highlights were peppy The Offer (from Sunset Studies) juxtaposed with the mournful and bass-driven Dogsday from the new album, showing not only the journey this band has managed, but also a glimpse of where their sound could go should they choose to continue.

A deserving champion towards the middle of the set, and the traditional quieter moments, was the superb crystal sound of The Hi Fi Bar itself. While the walls and decor may still be some way from being completed, the all-important sound system was given its moment in the sun with such an intimate sound from the Augies. A solid 4-song middle section drew heavily on their sombre and noodling moments, with each nuance from guitarist Adam Donovan and keyboardist Keirnen Box clearly transmitted to all areas of the venue. It may not sound like much, but for Brisbane punters having to endure walls of feedback and muddy mixes at their well established music institutions, the impact of this simple technical milestone should not be sneezed at. The recent establishment of the venue was commented upon by Glenn as a sign of the city's bravery and love of music, a speech which segued perfectly into the obligatory One Crowded Hour - conspicuously played not begrudgingly this time around - and the rare Just Passing Through to finish out the set. A 3-song encore had the band unleash the jamming beasts, as they worked through classics Hole In Your Roof and finished with the building and driving momentum of Clockwork to round out the characteristically unpredictable gig.

I'm sitting in a void

2009-07-08T22:15:00.002+10:00

According to the documents lodged with Brisbane City Council today, I'm currently sitting in a void within the building which is to replace the Albion Love Den.

That's right, the development application is seeking to demolish this gorgeous old girl and build in its stead a 3-storey unit complex consisting of 11 very small 2-bedroom units (only 75sq m each!), an office built right on the Sandgate Road frontage, keeping the old shop and also knocking down the asbestos-laden storage building next door. This is the jewel within their crown, as the building houses the reason for the heritage listing - a 1930s brick baker's oven, which they hope will be restored and used in a future courtyard.

The developers do have a bit of an up-hill task ahead of them. Firstly, there's the Heritage Listing itself, which they have argued is erroneous to have the house included. The original Heritage documents cited the shop with attached residence as an important signpost of the inter-war period development of Albion. The problem is that the house is not actually attached to the shop or the old bakery. In addition, they argue, the house has been "extensively-, unsympathetically- and irreversibly-altered" which essentially cancels out its Heritage value.

They are also using this argument to try to convince Council to ignore the Demolition Control Precinct which also exists over both the shop and the house. Demolition Control was an important streetscape-saving Heritage measure put in place by the Soorley administration (I think) which states that if there are 3 properties in a row which were built prior to 1946 and displayed typical architectural styles of the era, then they were to be saved. This may be their sticking point, I feel. Despite what they claim was unsympathetic alterations, these were primarily internal the house was divided into units sometime in the 60s, I think) and did not significantly change the street view of the house. They claim, however, that the building in of the verandas on the front and side of the house have canceled out its historic value and hence should be excluded from the DCP.

So that's where it's at. I'm kind of relieved to have confirmation that there is finally something happening. It's been nearly 2 years since old mate Ray sold up, and the speculation going around has been frustrating. I have mixed feelings about the development itself, which may be part nimbyism, part sadness at the likely loss of my old girl, and part angst that another chunk of Brisbane history (albeit a small chunk) is most probably going to get bulldozed to make way for another corporately bland "modern" development devoid of soul and style (or "Leggo" type developments which are infecting our urban landscape, according to my mate Jules).

There is an internal conflict in my psyche, however, as the development completely fits into my view of sustainable urban development - high density mixed use projects, close to public transport and amenities to reduce the sprawl and hence reliance on cars. I'm keen to write up a response during the public submission phase of the development, but I fear I'm just not too concerned about the actual physical buildings and future of them.

After 10 years here (celebrating the milestone this month, I think!) I know it's time to move on, and I'm happy to do so. I just wish the rents would reduce a little... sheesh, it's madness out there! I did speak to the real estate this week, and they anticipate we'll get at least another six month lease, which is a relief. My mate Geoff also spoke to the architects who anticipate nothing would get going until at least 2010, so there's some time.

Now I've just got to get back to enjoying the void.

The beginning of the end

2009-07-01T12:17:00.002+10:00

It's been coming for a while, but this is the first indication that the Albion Love Den is to be demolished: a development application lodged with council yesterday. The details are extremely light on, but it seems pretty clear from the application for building works that this is more than just a spit and polish for the old girl.

Looking at the history of these applications, though, it still could be another year or so before any real movement around the place. It seems, too, that our owners may be in for a little bit of a battle, as Council also states it's part of a "demolition control precinct" and a heritage place (cultural and adjoining). I'll endeavour to get some facts about what these constraints mean. Our lease comes up for renewal in early September, so it's back to the waiting game.

Hottest 10 of all time

2009-06-27T23:58:00.005+10:00

Triple J have asked people to vote for their all time favourite songs, so that they can compose a Hottest 100 Of All Time, yet again. Now, despite Triple J not being the repository it once was, and acknowledging that the whole shebang may be a rip off, here's my list (in no particular order):

Bob Dylan – Masters Of War. The relentless rhythm allows the gravity of the powerful and earnest lyric to shine through. It’s structure is deceptively simple, like most of Bob’s work.

Stevie Wonder – Higher Ground. Gets the rump shakin like nothing else has ever been able to. That riff! Shit…

Beach Boys – God Only Knows. Hopeless romanticism all wrapped up just under 3 minutes.

You Am I – Berlin Chair. This shit was seriously underrated in its time as the Oz music public grappled with a credibility crisis and couldn’t quite grasp that a home-grown talent could come out with something this great. This was one of my first Triple J discoveries in the days just prior to nationalisation of the public broadcaster. I was doing work experience at the local ABC studio during the semester at high school, and the techies taught me how to patch 2JJJ up from Sydney. I felt dramatically cutting edge knowing about this band.

Pearl Jam – Alive. The iconic riff was first heard on a rare late Friday night rage session, as I shared a small 2-bedroom unit in country NSW with my Mum and little sis. Before, I was going through a serious metal phase, so anything with a melody or any form of pop sensibility was immediately discarded. The turbulent family life, however, also left me pre-disposed to moments of dramatic teenage angst and this song, band, movement and style fitting me like a glove. It immediately seeped into my bloodstream and has fuelled a life-long love affair and symbiosis with the band.

Smashing Pumpkins – Bullet with Butterfly Wings. Despite all my rage, I’m still just a rat in a cage. The lyric and pulsating riff seemed to sum up the teenaged, Gen-X angst a whole lot more sensibly than talk of mulattos and mosquitos.

Joy Division – Transmission. This song conveyed the urgency and pioneering spirit of Manchester at the brink of Madchester.

Natalie Merchant – Carnival. This is a wonderful lyrical life journey from the perspective of a person deeply unaffected by the day-to-day drama of it all. You also have to love a song which features lightly-touched bongo as a musical focus.

The Go Betweens – Cattle and Cane. This song has the ability to make you homesick, even if you’re still there.

Augie March – Sunset Studies. A gorgeous maudlin feel with an air of desperate hope. Well all by and by and all through and through, this is the only thing that comes back to you, how you banged her on a cannon in a World War Two park in Gundagai. Such a superb Australian lyric.

Dave and Hannah send the ocassional chill down the spine... or it may just have been cold.

2009-06-14T16:48:00.005+10:00

It's always refreshing to catch a loved artist in a different format. A rock band doing the sit-down acoustic thing has been a proven success; or the All Tomorrow's Parties format of a band playing their seminal album from start to finish are just 2 examples.

Tonight it was checking out young troubadour David Di Marco in a male-female duet, which was quite interesting. I came across Dave as a fresh 17 year old competitor in the Fretfest Find Of The Year 2007, winning the Under 18 age category. His songs are as catchy as hell (with his song-writing belying his young age) and are complimented beautifully by his sometimes astounding voice. He's been a pleasure to work with and listen to for the past couple of years, and was even invited to play at our wedding. Suffice to say I've been an ardent supporter and admirer of his music, and have been keen for him to branch out for some time.

The duet aspect came from his love interest (I'm guessing here) Hannah Shepherd. Setting up under an awning on the footpath in front of a coffee shop in a back street in West End seemed the perfect scene for this 'intimate' show which saw the duo draw a crowd spilling onto the street (which was still great, despite the shivering cold which was rapidly descending). With Hannah on occasional keys and Dave in the familiar acoustic-vox set up, the pair are honest and innocent enough to wear their influences not only on their sleeves, but also within their setlist: the few covers they cracked out included Angus and Julia as well as the benchmarking Glen and Marketa. And while their harmonies were not always on the money, the chemistry was evident enough to know that a bit more work and they'd nearly be there... the silence of the captivated crowd gathering on the street was sure of it. Now Dave just needs to find a way to ensure that pesky g-string stops breaking in the crucial bits.

Quitting smoking hurts your legs

2009-06-03T21:33:00.003+10:00

I gave up smoking just over a year ago. One year and 4 days ago, to be exact.

It's been a pretty cool year. Despite putting on a little weight, I've felt a surge in my sense of health and well-being which you would naturally expect to result from stopping the routine and willful poisoning of your body.

The quitting, however, did have a natural flow-on affect on my sense of overall health. I realised pretty quickly that smoking was just a crutch to excuse quite a lot of unhealthy life choices in recent years: poor diet, lack of exercise, horrible sleeping patterns, binge drinking and regular intoxication by other substances. I'd actively resisted attempting to fix those other things by hiding behind the fact that I was smoking at least a packet of cigarettes a day: it didn't matter how fit I became, or how balanced my diet was, I was ruining any positives by that rather large negative - was my thinking. Without the cigarettes, I know longer had a convenient bunker to hide behind.

So I joined a gym, I focused my attention on my diet and I sought to remove some aspects of my personal habits which were doing me damage. I also bought a bike. I rediscovered this machine as a relatively exhilarating way to exercise and commute. I vigorously explored the city bike paths on weekends, and often found myself wanting more. A lot more. And so it was in this frame of mind that I accepted workmate Mick's invitation to go actual mountain biking last weekend. My gym sessions were going very well, my bike had been recently serviced and I was feeling relatively invincible. And, since my mountain bike hadn't yet actually tasted anything near a mountain in its life, I figured this would be a great way to celebrate my one year no-smoking anniversary.

We trekked down to Daisy Hill on Brisbane's southside and quickly got into the rhythm of things. The first 10-15kms was relatively polite, as I traversed muddy tracks, craggy paths and pot-holed speckled firetrails. It was great to be in the outdoors and I could feel my confidence beginning to soar with every narrow miss, with every drop negotiated and with every rock ridden over without it resulting in my face assisting in my breaking. It was in this spirit that Mick suggested a final trail - more of a "technical route" that a "fast and scary". Sounded fine, I reasoned, and so we made the way up the red-mud clad hill to the top. "See you at the bottom" he called, as we begun the descent down the very narrow muddy trail.

The track was very narrow, with trees and rocks closing in on both sides. Often the trail was only big enough for your tires, not allowing any room for error. A steep hill fell away on the left for a lot of the trip. I traversed a few tricky corners and crags, and my confidence was reaching its zenith. Rounding a rather fast corner, I spied a deviation in the trail ahead - a purpose-laid path of relatively flat stones was gouged away on the left hand side by hundreds of bike tires slipping off. As is often the case, I focused on where I did not want to go - the sharp edge of a stone which dropped off steeply on one side. The focus did nothing but guide me into it. With both hands squeezing the brakes for dear life, I had no option and closed off my mind as the sickening thud of the tire on the sharp rock signaled a spiraling entanglement of my body and bike. The result was a bruised knee-cap and graze on my left knee, and rather deep scrapes on both thighs. These scrapes have manifested itself into two pretty impressive blue/yellow bruises:

Shut up! This camera sucks and it doesn't really do them justice. They're huge bruises! Certainly the most impressive I'd had as a result of physical exertion for some years (as opposed to bruises gained from sheer clumsiness or the like, which are relatively common). Bruises aside, it was a pretty bloody darned fun way to celebrate such a milestone and I can't wait to do it all over again. I think I'm hooked to this exercise-y stuff.

From Big Things

2009-05-02T03:30:00.006+10:00

I've always been a firm believer in a person identifying deeply with a genre or style of art: it's an intrinsic part of our being. Not the artistic vehicle (ie, music, film, stage, etc) as such, but the overall genre, field and intent of the art. I can totally appreciate, for example, the pure bliss of the escapism science-fiction can hold for people. I can admire those who immerse themselves so fully in soap operas, no matter the abject absurdity it brings. For me, however, it's the mirror-to-the-world honesty of heart-felt storytelling which gives me that pit-of-the-stomach resonance with anart form . And so I immediately identify with singer-songwriters as a whole, and straight-talking novelists who 'speak my tongue'; those who actively seek out the beauty in the mundane and find a deeper meaning in the process.

I'm also a proponent of the idea that many people will look towards a select few artists in their lifetime whom they truly hold dear as experts of their craft. Be it Speilberg, Spelling or The Strokes, people will latch on to a touchstone artist which will tap into that special place deep in our psyche. We continually turn to those touchstones as a reference point throughout our lives. It's why I will make a point of seeking out the literary works of, say, Andrew McGahan, Irvine Welsh, Alan Duff and John Birmingham (apart from his alternate reality guff :-) as a way to remind myself of the simple art of lovely storytelling. In music, I have a very similar bent and while I venture far and wide in my musical discoveries, will constantly lead myself back to my touchstone artists in order to give myself an effective reference point. These artists are fairly obvious for most - Pearl Jam, The Frames, The Go Betweens, Jeff Lang and, QPAC's guest this week, Paul Kelly.

Before the main event, however, was a new discovery in my world. Sitting alone and seemingly lost in the massive bare space of the Concert Hall's stage was US swampy blues man Charlie Parr. His gorgeous finger-picked resonator guitar sung beautifully to fill the space, but his muddy vocals and oftenexaggerated and ill-conceived stomp-boxing made it hard to really penetrate to appreciate what was going on. That, and the massive space between the nose-bleed seats and the stage, meant it was hard to feel a connection to something as relatively intricate as Parr's style. He doesn't disappoint, really, and sustains my intrigue for the full 40 minute set, but whether by design or circumstance, fails to fully engage his audience.

As Kelly strides out with his trusty band, it's almost an immediate wave of euphoria enveloping me which doesn't let up until many hours after the gig (and is still giving slight aftershocks with memory). The hall is the perfect venue for such an artist. Every ping, every note, every nuance can be heard amongst the deafening roars of some of his greatest hits. When it comes to touchstones, there are hardly any better than this right now. Superb stories, told in mesmerising ways, by fully accomplished musicians on impeccable equipment and set in a wonderfully sounding room can only be considered a true blessing in my world. And let's not forget the voice, as Robert Forster eloquently outlined in his recent review in The Monthly magazine:

"None of these songs would be as good or as pleasurable if Paul Kelly wasn't the singer he is. It is his most overlooked talent ... there are no growls or yelps, or strange ticks, or Americanisms, or faux-Pommy bits; he hasn't fallen into the horrible trap of so many old and new folk singers who sound like they've just stepped off the boat at Botany Bay, circa 1800. In fact, Kelly doesn't seem to be interested in authenticity at all - it just comes naturally to him, and it reaches further because of that, to the campfires and the bush, the suburbs and suburban pub, and the inner-city sophisticates. His voice - sly and warm, laconic and sometimes frail - may be the closest thing we have to a national one."

The songs flowed beautifully on from each other, and each musician had their moments in the spotlight. Pete Luscombe oozed rhythm through every movement of his polka-dot-shirt-wearing body, Ash Naylor was suitably restrained, but allowed the odd moment of superbly timed riff-work for effect and poignancy. Bill's bass proved to underlying foil to it all, as well as keyboardists Cam's finishing touches on the whole shebang.

It was the inclusion of Vika Bull on backup duties which astounded me the most, however, as she proceeded to slowly steal the show from under Paul's nose. Granted, from an outsider's perspective (The Tiger's, for example), the intrusion of this relatively unknown woman on Paul's songs was a little strange. And, as she proceeded to take the entire lead vocal for a number of songs, the audience might be forgiven for thinking they were gypped with their gig ticket. A little analysis revealed, however, that she was simply interpreting the many Paul songs he had written from and for the female perspective. One by one her booming deep, ethereal voice stole back the feminine side of Paul and his songs. The crowning, tear-jerking crescendo was the tale of betrayal and loss of trust in Everything's Turned To White. Vika took the majority of the vocal, with just Cam's spooky undertone of keys providing the murky underwater backing to this tale of woe. When a guitar-less Paul stepped from the shadows to sing the male protagonists pathetic plea of stupid innocence, it was earth-shattering raw emotion.

Indeed, it was Vika who led the vocal on the first of a triumvirate of sublime music which provided the evening's absolute highlight in my eyes. An extended jam of Sweet Guy had Vika plunging the depths of her vocal range and tone as she let out guttural moans of despair which provided the brushstrokes to the 3 guitarists' riff work ending out this classic of Paul's mid-80s ballads. From there, the band when into full rock mode with Deeper Water, beginning with Paul's bittersweet coming of age tale, being driven largely by a mind-bendingly simple and extremely effective bass and keys riff underlying the whole song. Pete and Paul's crashing finale segued straight into Paul's rebirth song God Told Me To, as the band well and truly found its feet within the massive space.

A double encore ended, somewhat predictably, with the Kev Carmody co-penned classic From Little Things, Big Things Grow. Starting with just Paul solo on stage, each verse saw a new band member casually walk on stage and join in the playing by the time the chorus kicked in. And while Ash needed to kick his guitar tech up the bum for missing his cue, the idea cemented beautifully as the entire band was in full swing by the final, neck-hair-raising chorus which signalled an end to yet another wonderfully crafted evening at the sonic hands of one of Australia's finest musical touchstones.

Night in the sticks

2009-04-20T21:21:00.002+10:00

We spent last Saturday night at a 50th birthday party for someone who was, prior to the weekend, simply a friend of a friend.

As far as 50ths go, though, this one was a standout. For reasons I'm yet to really know, birthday girl Carole is nothing like the "typical 50 year old". I sort of knew this prior to the weekend, but it kicked in even more as she regaled the gathered group about her marathon stint at the Byron Bay Blues Festival the weekend before. When a group of 40- or 50-somethings turned up with guitars, a double bass and a saxophone, you know it's going to be a cracker of a night.

Alas, for the Tiger and I, it was not too be a purely enjoyable eve, thanks largely to QRs ineptitude. Rather than go into a big sob story, I'll just say that due to a "police incident" at Ormeau, trains were not running between Robina and Beenleigh. About 6 phone calls later (to both Translink and QR), and I was finally assured that we would not be left stranded some 100-or-so kilometres from home. How pleasant. What ensued, however, was a marathon bus and train trip, still partially intoxicated from the beer bong Carole's young son and friends peer pressured me into. Joy!

This is not to detract from a great night at Carole's. Before the evening, we were merely "acquaintances", hanging out at various gigs and events in Brisbane thanks largely to her then boyfriend John. Accepting the invitation to her 50th was not taken lightly, due pretty much due to where it was (Palm Beach) and my absolute hatred of the feeling of being "trapped" somewhere without an easy plan for escape (as we don't drive, this can be a drama).

Just a few minutes into the afternoon, escape became the absolute last thing on my mind. Carole and her extended family of adult daughters, a teenage son and thriving gaggle of friends and compatriots made us feel completely at home straight away. It was with a sense of sadness, in fact, that we were wrenched away from the madness of her teenage son's beer bong shenanigans to venture home. And, despite the dramas imposed on us by Queensland Rail and Translink's absolute failure at both communications and customer service, I was bouyed by the beauty, joy and love such a humble thing as family, friends and laughter can bring. And it made me glad that my now 1-year-old marriage has (hopefully) put me on that path of such things as I head towards my 50th.

Reflections Of A Sound

2009-04-12T22:52:00.004+10:00

The Easter weekend has almost evaporated, and as I sit on the "nearly back at work" side of the scale and look back, I can honestly say I loved every second of its lazy goodness.

Just sitting at home, soaking up the Love Den's wonderfully welcoming embrace as the slow, lazy and overcast days rolled by was sort of cathartic, in a way. I have even managed to sleep in every morning, which is pretty rare in my world (thanks mainly to the construction worker's union remaining strong and ensuring NO work was being done around my home this weekend... it's easy to forget how quiet it can actually be on Sandgate Road sometimes). Hanging out with the Tiger was bliss, too. Our lives have been slowly circling away from each other's in the past few weeks as she focusses on her study, and I find most of my evenings wrapped up in either the gym or the gathering steam of the jamming sessions.

Late this afternoon, however, in the usual innocence of the Tiger's curious ways, I was slapped in the face by where my life had come in the past few years. Researching places to stay down the Gold Coast next weekend for a friend's 50th birthday party, we clicked on to Google Maps. As usual, we get side-tracked and the Tiger takes us on a Streetview tour of Albion... a tour back in time, as it seems.

Google isn't that keen on new-ness, it seems. A cursory glance around streetview shows the pics in my little neck of suburbia were taken about 2 years ago. The office block/restaurant across the road was nothing more than a lone cement slab standing as an omen to its future emptiness (the place is still not fully tenanted!). The curtain shop next door was still the curtain shop (it's now empty); the laundromat across the lane was still the laundromat (before it was turned into the mysterious upholstery shop which never seems to open). Heading down the lane is when you get the most stark view of where this corner of Brisbane has come from in such a short time. On the screen, the corner house was still there: it's now 2-story a construction site, complete with a high-level crane and countless to-ing and fro-ing from very early in the morning 6 days a week. A little further down the road, and the streetview single storey brick workshop is still there and in business. Today, it's a 6-storey concrete slab monstrosity which has topped out and add to Albion's big grey box skyline. Across the road, and the old mill is still completely intact (although, the hoardings are up advertising its future): today, it's nothing more than the old brick mill building, the iconic blue and white silo and a motley collection of weeds slowly taking over the site.

It got me thinking, naturally, of where I'd traveled in the same space of time. Sure, 2 or so years can fly by without you noticing it, but when you pack as much into those years as you can, 2 or so years ago can seem like a lifetime ago. And it also gives you a bit of a kick up the bum to get on your way to filling at least the next 2 years with as much fun, excitement, joy and love as the past 2 or so have been.

And while it's easy to get dismayed as you see the heart of your sweet suburb get ripped out from around you (and possibly even swallow your home), it can also be the necessary siren-song for the end of an era and the beginning of another. I'm rapidly turning this into a positive, as I look at the uncertainty of both my professional and personal worlds, and see it as nothing but a great thing: I know I'll land on my feet... I'm just pretty darned anxious to see exactly where those feet will end up.

I'm cool

2009-03-31T21:06:00.004+10:00

No, seriously. Like, really cool. Like, cutting edge of everything. Like seriously, amazingly fashionable that people want to do what I do. Want proof?

Take guava, for example. A couple of years back, I lamented the lack of fresh guava in this country. Sure, you can buy guava nectar in the shops, but it's not really the same. And then, what do we find in the fruit shop a few weeks back? Guava! And pretty soon, it wasn't just in the pinko, lefto, commo organic fruitstores... but also in Coles! Lordy above.

Still not convinced of my coolness? Well, let's continue the fruity theme with dragonfruit. Previously, it was a delicacy spied only occasionally in above-mentioned lefto, pinko, commo organic fruiterees. After lashing out one day with ex-Love Denner the Angry German, I was hooked. Now, you can't move in the fruit section of Toombul's Coles without coming face-to-face with a bloody dragonfruit.

But I can see you're still not totally convinced by cutting-edgedness. Well, let's go on a holiday, I suggest late last year to my fellow Love Dennion SatomiTiger. We hire a car and bolt southwards to a little nook called Yamba and Angourie and instantly fall in love. Such a lovely little corner of the world, it is. Realising our gem, we decided to tell the world it was crapola so they continue to be amazed by the slowly decaying and plastique Byron and not trample all over our paradise. And then I see this: the death-knell. Now instead of fish n chips down by the sea, it'll be latte-frappa-wotsits, gourmet fucking pancakes and playing dodge the fricken Beemer.

Seriously, I'm either ultra-cutting edge, or someone's following my every move and taking notes. Either way, I'm cool. Yeah.

One of those funks

2009-03-28T01:22:00.006+10:00

Commenting over at a friend's blog just now made me realise something - I've been a little bit out of the blogging loop. And I promised this one would not become another of those started, not continued numbers. Plus, I should really get back into the rhythm of writing again.

It's not that I haven't had much to talk about. In fact, life's pretty 'interesting' right now. And my head is teaming with a swirling soup of fantastic ideas which may simply be blog stories in the future, but may also be the seedlings of something larger.

I've completely changed my way of living in the past couple of months. Part of this whole 30s/looking after myself/being healthy thing which began about 10 months ago with giving up smoking. I've joined a gym (and still regularly attend!), I've had some personal training and am keeping a food diary. I have no burning need to lose heaps of weight (although some would be nice), but I do have this strong internal feeling that I haven't really been all that healthy for the past 30 or so years, and it's time to turn that around.

That in itself is pretty monumental. By nature I'm a fairly sedentary creature, so being fit and active is a 180-degree turn. But that hasn't been the be-all and end-all of my activity lately. There's an edgy feeling around my workplace at the moment, with whispers and rumours flying everywhere. Suffice to say, with 5 years under my belt at this workplace, I'm a little excited and a little apprehensive about what the future may hold in that regard.

Add to that a renewed musical activity, which is keeping me busy at least 2 nights a week. Nothing too ambitious or thrilling - just a loose collective of 4 mates with a semi-decent grasp of their instruments getting together to belt out a few numbers after work and on weekends. It's been good to get that creative outlet up and running again.

It's been a pretty cool couple of months, actually. A sort of rediscovery of myself in a way. For the past couple of years, my life's focus has been on the complicated and time-consuming elements of conducting a long-distance relationship, then the visa hassles, then the wedding drama and then just settling into coupledom life (can't believe our first wedding anniversary is this Monday!). It's been really enlightening to spend the past few weeks turning a little bit inward again and finding the joy and passion with those purely "me" things again.

And now tapping back into that writing vein... wonder what this will bring. Hopefully not a heap of boring diary entries like this one. But thanks for indulging if you got this far.

Right now, I'm intrigued by shuffle on my iPod. It's really loving Alex Lloyd tonight. Strange.

Top 50,000 countdown

2009-03-19T21:03:00.004+10:00

About 2 years ago, I got hooked on this site called Last.fm - which has taken me back to my childhood feelings in so many surprising ways recently.

For those not in the know, last.fm is a music-based social networking site. You download a tiny little bit of software which tracks which songs you play on your iTunes and iPod and presents them in a multitude of charts. It's fascinating stuff, and it's been my bread and butter website since about August 2006. And, as I'm about to click over to the 50,000th song on the chart, I reflected on why it fascinates me so.

49,995: The Church - Pharaoh

And it does go back to my childhood. One of my most prize possessions coming in the glorious double figures was a clock radio one of my family members gave me. Living in pre-JJJ times, I was stuck between a few sparse radio choices for a pre-teen, desperately cool kid. Until I hooked into Barry Bisel and his Top 40 Countdown every Sunday or Monday night. Eagerly, I'd listen to his dulcet tones as he counted down to the top spot for the week (and desperately trying to dodge my 8.30pm curfew to ensure I was awake enough to catch the Number 1, yet constantly waking up the next morning disappointed in falling asleep before it was announced). Barry was a fascinating radio character, interspersing the songs with fascinating tidbits from this world they called rock.

49,996: Tori Amos - Horses

It had me by the short and curlies from that point. I learned how to program the "sleep" and "alarm" functions so that I would fall asleep listening to the radio every night and wake up every morning listening (interestingly - it's a habit only recently broken thanks to a less-than-tolerant partner who does not like the night-time intrusion).

49,997: Andy Mitchell - Tell Me

It's more than Barry Bisel, though. It's also the blissful Saturday mornings spent camped on the lounge floor watching Rage's Top 50 countdown. Lazing about in your PJs, with breakfast crumbs scattered around and anticipating "your song" miraculously jumping from number 48 to number 1 in a week (and being disappointed with it being beaten by Richard Marx YET AGAIN!). It's your Mum being the sweetest she's ever been by waking up extra early to video tape the first 10 or so songs so you could go back and watch them later. It's the skipping to the local shopping centre's dodgy music store (but, by it's nature as the only record store around - the COOLEST. STORE. EVER!) every Wednesday after school to grab the latest copy of the Aria charts and scanning it's reddish/pink ink for the latest trends. And then drooling over the CDs and cassingles on display and dreaming of the day when you could buy it all...

49,998: REM - Aftermath

So here I am, at the age of 32, listening to music and wondering what the magical 50,000th will be. It means nothing, with my 8000 song iPod set to random. My charts will probably not change for some time yet, with the Top 5 dominated by my musical guides Pearl Jam, The Frames, Silverchair, Something For Kate and Augie March. Anyone who spends a couple of hours with me will know they are my top artists.

49,999: Something For Kate - Impossible

And yet... this magical site keeps me coming back. I watch the charts with wonder. I design iPod playlists to deliberately skew the results. I follow artist's links and constantly discover new music....

And, so - with great fanfare, I give you BrisJamin's 50,000th song:

50,000: George - Change

And I'm pretty happy with that.

For the love of God: Don't Look Down!

2009-03-06T22:08:00.004+10:00

It's amazing how quickly you can get immersed in the intricacies of a culture, isn't it? At the beginning, you take your cues from the status quo - observing the accepted behaviours and mimicking them in an effort to be accepted. Yet, you (and doubtlessly most others) don't know why the "norms" were established, by whom and for what purpose. Yet we strictly, almost religiously observe them... why?

Take the gym, for example. Having lived the "rock n roll" lifestyle for most of my teens and 20s, the introduction to the 30s (and marriage) brought on the Great Girth of Contentment. So much so, that I took the drastic measure a few weeks back to join the local gym. I've never been to a gym outside of a feeble attempt with the sticky-floored "gym" at high school. And, somehow, I don't think it's ancient, rusting bench presses and dumbells really qualified.

With gusto I take on this new role of gym-junky and I quickly get into the rhythm of the place. I barely acknowledge the door bitch as she swipes my card and unlocks the turnstyle to grant me access. I go about my workout with great pride and regimented discipline - wiping down the machines with disinfectant (for the "comfort of other patrons", you see?); taking the weights off the machines after I've finished (for the "convenience of other patrons", you see?); and I carry my sweat towel and water bottle like my life depends on them. Oh, and I am constantly aware of my "own body odour" for the "comfort of other patrons" (which I find weird, because if I'm being asked to be aware of my own body odour, then surely it's just for my benefit??).

It's back into the locker room at the end of the workout where the real social rules kick in. I learned early on, through trial and error, that your eyes need to stare resolutely forward at all times. Your head must be tilted at the precise angle to make it clear that in no way are you even glimpsing, even out of the farthest corners of your eyes, that naked butt or floppy wang just over the way. Your intent must be kept firmly on your own task at hand, even if that means intently concentrating on the precise tying of your shoes into a neat double bow. Anything to stop your eyes from being drawn to the chiseled crack of an ass just to the right of your head.

Now, anyone who knows me will agree that I'm in no way a prude. I'll take any opportunity to oggle a nice willy, as much as a nice bouncy cleavage. And, with my gym being smack bang in the middle of a predominantly gay part of town, you'd be forgiven for thinking that the social mores may have been relaxed slightly in the locker room? Not so, and I find myself plunged back into high school and the outright fear of being caught catching a glimpse at some other boy's tools and then being singled out as a "fag!".

You can imagine my surprise, then, when a guy opened a conversation with me in the locker room tonight. Even though we were both fully dressed, I was mortified that this dufus had broken the golden rule and had started an actual conversation! How dare he? Did he want to get us both labelled as "homos"??!?! My horror, however, quickly turned to disgust at myself, as I realised how quickly I'd succumbed to the enforced social mores of such a stuffy place. Any other part of the world, and this gent's openness and genuine interest in his fellow being would have been endearing, and yet here I was silently condemning him.

It got me to thinking how quickly one can be swayed by the social mores around them. Sure, a gym is probably an intense microcosm of peer pressure and rules, but I can count at least 4-5 other social situations in my day in which my natural way of thinking is overruled by the social rules of the place. On the train on the way to work. At the line up in the 7-11. At the toilet block at work. And here I was thinking I was a strong-willed individual...

Nick Cave and the Bad Saint?

2009-02-17T21:34:00.003+10:00

After a blistering set by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds at All Tomorrow's Parties (below), I was slightly disappointed to see Mick Harvey call it quits shortly afterwards.

That was swiftly replaced by news today of the masterstroke of the Bad Seeds adding The Saints' Ed Keupper as replacement! Wa-hay! Now, we only have to wait until their "world tour" late this year to see Keupper go head-to-head with a ferocious Warren Ellis and a manic Nick Cave... all backed by a double drum kit.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am positively firm at the thought.

The new view

2009-02-01T17:15:00.004+10:00

That's the new view from the back steps of the Love Den, with a 2nd crane going up late last week. The dueling cranes are working on the 2 office buildings at the end of the street.

More than that, the firing up of their diesel engines at the crack of dawn every morning are part of the new soundscape of Albion. Combined with the rumbling of semi trailers, the odd cursing and the incessant jack-hammering, the sounds of gentrification are omni-present 6 days a week around here now. I am very curious, though, about the seemingly stagnated development at the old Flour Mill. After feverish efforts to clear the site of everything apart from the 2 buildings to be refurbished, nothing has happened for months (apart from the whole site getting slowly over-run with weeds). One does wonder if the financial situation may be curtailing what can only be seen now as a rather extravagant luxury in terms of developments? We shall see.

News regarding the Love Den's own future is just as mysterious. With our lease running out in the middle of March, we're still not any wiser in terms of our tenure. The old curtain shop, which was vacated for a while and then turned into a very short-lived art studio, has now been empty for a few weeks. It's up for lease as a "short term" commercial lease, but there doesn't appear to be any takers. A net search recently showed the house and shop were up for sale again in January, and a recent visit by the real estate agents for a valuation confirmed that. So, I guess any buyer would not have had time to lodge a development application so quickly, which means the odds of us staying a little while longer are pretty good. We can never be too sure, however, and so have begun the depressing rental search tentatively. It's not too bad, with a bit out there, and I'm beginning to toy with the idea of just packing it all in by the end of lease and moving out, even if the owners want us to stay. The continual disruptions to our way of life with nearby construction sites and the seemingly continual interruptions by the real estate agent, are starting to out-weigh the pleasure of the Love Den and sully it's previous good name.

Time shall tell...

All Tomorrow's Parties - Today

2009-01-24T02:13:00.004+10:00

You know it's a pretty eclectic day when a drunken yob, who probably recently sported a fauxhawk until he realised how "gay" it looked, flops down next to you during a transcendental set by Spiritualized (spilling his double-sized cup of Jaggermeister all down your shirt), grabs you by the arm and demands to know who's on next. You confirm it's The Saints, which makes him groan with delight, before he asks you "and then?". "Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds", you reply. Another orgasmic groan of delight escapes him, as he asks you the same questions again. And again. And then utters perhaps the most profound encapsulation of what the music festival All Tomorrow's Parties is all about: "It's not often you say The Saints are on next, followed by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, is it?". No, it's not. And so that was the sort of day this festival was all about as it aimed to throw up the amazing with the weird, the sublime with the trippy and the yob with the thinky muso type (that's me, by the way. Modest).

All Tomorrow's Parties is a UK-based festival which is distinctive in that it is curated by an invited artist. For Australia's first shot at it, the seminal Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds were given the top hosting duties - and boy did they pull out all the stops. The festival itself was actually a 3 event affair, with a weekend bill at Cockatoo Island for the Sydney Festival, followed the next weekend by a 2-day affair at the Mt Buller Ski Resort in Victoria and culminating in a one-day bill at Brisbane's Riverstage (as well as a smattering of 'side shows' at the Powerhouse).

Brisbane January heat bathed all early-comers in a lather of sweat, which $7.50 beers in small cheap plastic cups was in no way close to combating. The only respite, it turned out for the better, was down in front of the stage. And so, with bottled water, crappy beer and camera in hand, I set up camp on the barrier just in time to welcome American free jazz exponent James Blood Ulmer on to the stage.
A student of the limited "harmolodic" free jazz movement, Ulmer's set - a paired back stage with just himself, his gorgeous full-bodied electric guitar and a music stand - was a mix of muddy blues and deft, almost imperceptible finger picking. Combined with the nearly-70-year-old's gravel voiced missives about love, loss and hurricanes had the small audience begging for more.

The Necks, on the other hand, had the crowd (around me at least) scratching their heads at either the sheer lunacy or sheer brilliance they were witnessing. A Sydney jazz trio, The Necks are renowned for one thing only - improvisation. No two sets are the same with this band of consummate musicians and eclectic personalities - the term "set" is even a little misleading, with absolutely no breaks between movements. The band is improv personified and, depending on which side of the musical fence you sat on, it was either setting the tone for the following transcendental nature of the day, or was the "... worst thing I have ever seen in my life". The partial quote in the previous sentence can be attributed to the two 40-somethings next to me on the barrier who clearly came from side of the musical fence which did not tolerate this "noise" - and they were prepared to be vocal about it. And while I'm sure they had a point (heck, even I was hankering to hear a 4/4 or even the crack of a drumstick on snare about half-way through), the point of musicianship was clearly wasted on such a crowd. Oh well, better luck - and better venue - next time?

Next on stage was pretty much 1/3 of the reason for me taking the day off and paying for this ticket - Robert Forster. Better known in previous incarnations as one half of hugely influential (both on a world stage and for myself) Brisbane pop band The Go-Betweens, Robert had just released his first solo work since the untimely death of song-writing partner Grant MacLennan.
With songs both referencing and from Grant (who was close to an idol for me), I was keen to see how he would go without his mate. Setting up, it was clear Grant was to be present, but not obvious. Using almost the same back band as the most recent GBs line up (with the addition of a new drummer, and old drummer Glenn Thompson moving to keys/guitar), the gig started off well, despite the sun just peaking below the stage awning and on to the side of my face. With the first couple of numbers drawing from new album The Evangelist, I was hoping to get an emotion free ride, but as the first few chords of Surfing Magazines rang out, I knew it was not to be. Robert was at his best, with an almost vaudevillian stage persona, lauding and interacting with crowd members in his self-effacing, almost arrogant bouffant style. Tears streamed throughout the gig, especially through 16 Lover's Lane's historic "stolen song" Quiet Heart, which Robert took back in a beautiful way (it was written by Robert, but then Grant stole the lead vocals during the recording of this seminal album, which was not done in the GBs before then).

With Robert devoured by the hot afternoon sun, I bid farewell to the barrier and retreated up the now shady and person-speckled hillside of the Riverstage's steep amphitheatre. Settling on a patch of turf to take in some food and drink and get a full appreciation for the wall of sound which signalled the beginning of an hour of transcendental music which was Spiritualized. The hugely influential minimalist soundscape artist (Jason Pierce, who in various incarnations has called his bands Spaceman, Spaceman 3, J Spaceman and now Spiritualized) is the full extended version of what bands like Radiohead and Mercury Rev have been trying to achieve. At once intricate and hollow, it can change to a cacophonous racket in a heart-beat. On stage, Jason positioned himself perpendicular to the crowd, facing the other guitarist. Backed by two amazing African American soul/gospel singers, the songs took on an almost rapturous feel and by the end, it certainly felt like floating in space as the 2 guitars duelled in a Mogwai-esque reverberated finale. Highlights included the ethereal Come Together and the anthemic Ladies and Gentleman We Are Floating In Space. With the entire crowd enthralled (and most of the other artist on the bill, who had gathered at any vantage point they could to witness the event), Jason uttered his only address to the crowd - a "thank you" - and left the stage.

Next up was The Saints - a band I was cautiously anticipating. I was cautious for a number of reasons: mainly relating to being only 'familiar' with their music (ie - not a huge fan) and also a consciousness of the danger of believing the hype and mythology of bands such as these. And if there's one thing which Brisbane does very well is mythologise and exaggerate The Saints (anyone read Pig City? Anyone go to the Pig City gig?). Sadly, tonight my caution was well heeded. In an effort to further distance itself from other festivals, ATP also usually incorporates an element into each of its gigs whereby a seminal artist/band plays its seminal recording from start to finish, live. For the first Australian leg, it was being billed as The Saints playing its 1978 opus (I'm) Stranded to its former hometown audience. What actualised, however, was nothing short of a farcical caricature of The Saints and nothing like the playing of their seminal album. Sloppy and muddy bass and drums were drowned in Ed Kuepper's double Marshall stack axe-work, while court jester Chris Bailey went about severing all ties with normality as he pranced and shimmied around the stage like a deranged monkey. Kuepper, studiously hunched over his guitar, tried hard to work through the bullshit, but it was clear from the beginning that The Saints were no more. Again. And this was just one last insult and raised middle finger to the audience which probably held it on a higher pedestal than most. While I personally didn't feel all that strongly about, the looks on the faces of those around showed it all - a betrayal of the highest order.

And so with the sour taste still ringing in my ears, it was a massive 2-drum kit stage set and phenomenal lighting rig which pulled me back into "rock" mode, as Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds took to the stage. The immaculate suited Cave immediately set about prowling the stage through opener Lotus Eater and never stopped throughout the gig. The imposing figure cuts through the din and flash to present himself as pure artistic rock in all its glory. His forceful stanzas are accentuated by trade-marked high kicks as his prancing takes him to all sides of the stage. Highlights included newies Dig, Lazuras, Dig and More News From Nowhere, a drawling and dripping bass line reflecting the humidity of the night. It was reworkings of old classics, such as Tupelo, The Weeping Song and Red Right Hand which truly stuck out - not just for their inclusion in what was quickly becoming a "greatest hits" setlist, but also for the band's boldness in the sometimes dramatic re-arrangements. Bad Seed and Dirty Three frontman Warren Ellis proved an expected focal point, as he gyrated and pulsed through most numbers. His enigmatic performance was noticeable at all times, whether it be as he wielded his trusty violin or one of many quirky miniature guitars (called Mandocasters, apparently). As quickly as it began, however, with the encore of a sloppy Lyre of Orpheas and a tiring Stagger Lee rounding it out. All in all, a truly wonderful and eclectic day of music. And, as my new drunken friend pointed out, I can now say that I have seen The Saints opening for Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. And the proteges showed them how it was meant to be done.

Banking Customer Service, huh?

2009-01-17T09:16:00.002+10:00

Taking last Thursday off to go to a music festival, I thought I'd kill 2 birds with the one stone and visit Suncorp to close an account I no longer needed. Suncorp's flakey definition of Customer Service decided, however, that was not to be.

Walking into the office, I was greeted by a pleasant young gentleman who directed me to the tellers to conduct a final withdrawal and close the account. The sour-face mole on the teller promptly swiped my card and in the most resigned of tones explained that I could not close the account because it was "dormant". I was perplexed at this, as I had used this very same Visa Debit card over the weekend to buy some iTunes songs. But, apparently, that was the "sub" account and the "main" account had not been used ever, and so had gone to "sleep". I would need to transfer $1 from the "sub" account to the "main" (or "dom") account to "wake it up" and then transfer the $1 back out again.

"Ok, let's do that," I requested of the young lass, who was ever eager to serve me. By which I mean was ever eager to shoot daggers of contempt into my heart with every breath she took as I was obviously too daft as to not understand their quite simple business operations...

"Oh no, I can't do that.. You'll have to go over to that phone on the wall and call telephone banking to do that," was the obvious reply.

Perplexed, I trundled over to the phone, only to be requested by the automatic answering person to enter my phone banking password. As I had never used such a service, I had no such password. With no option on the system to talk to a human, I gave up on the phone menu merry-go-round and went back to the first kind gentleman to help me.

Seeing my perplexity, he kindly stepped in and guided me through a 9-minute phone wank in which I reset my phone password, transferred money from one account to another and back out again and in the process "waking up" the account. Great. Awesome. My 11 minutes so far in this branch were proving very productive.

He then lead me back to another teller to proceed with the final transaction and close the account. But still nothing - this time it was because I had used the account 5 days ago and there were still some Visa "authorities" pending. A good 15 minutes of pleading and trying to make them realise the stupidity of their systems, I was finally over the hilt of frustration when they told me I had to come back another day and close the account. Nope. No fucking way was that happening. Not on your fucking nelly was I doing that.

Luckily, the helpful and patient teller kept searching for ways to ensure I did not have to step foot back into one of their god-forsaken branches. Scoffing at the absolute stupidity of the course of action present, I finally relented, if only to stop myself from going postal.

Their suggested action? I was to take my card, and the forms they had already filled in, along with a self-addressed pre-paid envelope the young girl had given me, and write a letter requesting the account be closed. After being refused by Rebekah to pen the letter right there and then and cut out the postal middle man, I left in absolute dismay at the bank's complete inability to be logical and customer focused.

I always knew banking was a black science filled with bureaucratic bumbling, but this was just plain ridiculous! Surely no other business can behave in this openly hostile way to their customers?

Top 50 Artists 2008

2009-01-02T20:42:00.003+10:00

1 Pearl Jam, played 784 times
2 Augie March, played 405
3 Jeff Lang, played 344 times
4 R.E.M., played 338 times
5 The Go-Betweens, played 328 times
6 The Frames, played 307 times
7 Paul Kelly, played 265 times
8 The Smashing Pumpkins, played 250 times
9 Powderfinger, played 238 times
10 Michael Franti & Spearhead, played 220 times
11 Ryan Adams, played 212 times
12 Something for Kate, played 191 times
13 Silverchair, played 188 times
13 Harry Manx, played 188 times
15 Midnight Oil, played 186 times
16 The Church, played 182 times
17 Led Zeppelin, played 157 times
18 David Gray, played 153 times
19 Eddie Vedder, played 150 times
20 Sarah Blasko, played 146 times
21 Rage Against the Machine, played 144 times
22 Bob Dylan, played 143 times
23 Kings of Leon, played 142 times
24 Bruce Springsteen, played 135 times
25 Red Hot Chili Peppers, played 134 times
26 Billy Bragg, played 132 times
27 Gomez, played 131 times
28 The Cat Empire, played 129 times
28 Salmonella Dub, played 129 times
30 Elvis Costello, played 125 times
31 AC/DC, played 124 times
32 Ben Lee, played 114 times
33 Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band, played 113 times
34 Archie Roach, played 111 times
34 Editors, played 111 times
36 Tim Rogers & Tex Perkins, played 109 times
37 The John Butler Trio, played 108 times
38 Pollyanna, played 104 times
39 Tamas Wells, played 102 times
39 Damien Rice, played 102 times
41 Jeff Martin, played 101 times
41 Elbow, played 101 times
43 The Tea Party, played 100 times
44 The Nightwatchman, played 97 times
44 The Killers, played 97 times
46 You Am I, played 96 times
47 The Roots, played 95 times
47 Clare Bowditch and The Feeding Set, played 94 times
49 Alex Lloyd, played 93 times
50 Bob Marley, played 93 times

This chart was taken from my Last.fm profile and includes all songs played through my iPod and iTunes for the past 12 months until 31 Jan 08. Come and visit me there... better still, join up and compare musical chops!

Blog War Ends

2009-01-02T20:34:00.004+10:00

Well, it seems the battle for blog supremacy has fizzled to a rather disappointing end. Much to the angst of many fellow bloggers around this fine land, jspace's recent dramatic demise has been sort of a blessing in disguise for me.

A few months back, in a moment of pure lunacy, I decided that my other 2 blogs were kinda crap and so it was time to start a new one: this time with a theme! Problem was that at the time, I had a couple of theme's swimming around in my head - the gentrification of the gorgeous suburb I lived in (which will eventually lead to me being squeezed out) and my psuedo-reviews of the gigs I go to see. So, with a brain-wave similar to that which leads someone to think that beginning a PhD is a "really good way to spend a few years", I decided to make 2 blogs.

Lo and behold, a few months down the track and all my good intentions got swept under the carpet and both blogs started getting fairly eagerly neglected. That was until a couple of weeks back when my source of many blog ideas, John Birmingham's Cheeseburger Gothic, suddenly went missing. Poof! Kapow. Gone. Just like that. Which also meant that my meager few blog entries had also gone, but more importantly, so did the growing sense of community and camaraderie with fellow jspacers.

It has meant that this is now my only blog site (and I don't propose to start more anytime soon!), and thank you if you found your way here through jspace - I was Albion Love Den, but also known as Blue Box to some. The abrupt disappearance of jspace has also kicked me in the butt and forced me back to the keyboard - so expect to see more of me in the coming months. I have a review of Augie March in the pipeline, as well as a wrap-up of the 2-odd days of my tenure at the Woodford Folk Festival. For now, however, is my list of Top 50 artists as decided by my charts on last.fm. Now, this is not my list of greatest albums or artists or anything like that - simply top to bottom of the top 50 artists I listened to on my iPod on iTunes for the entire 12 months. You may be able to infer a few things about the type of person I am...

Harry and Jeff

2008-11-16T10:56:00.006+10:00

You know your city is cool when...

... you can spend 2 weekends in a row sitting in the sun watching some of the world's best Blues and Roots artists. For absolutely nix.

With the Tiger and I still buzzing off the great weekend which was Valley Fiesta, as well as a cool show by Franti and Spearhead, we scoured the gig guides trying to search out our latest fix. It didn't take much searching, however, as staring at us clear in the face were 2 standout gigs - one by Harry Manx and one by perennial favourite Jeff Lang - on successive weekends. Better still, for one reason or another, both gigs were completely and utterly free!

First up was Canadian Harry Manx's gig at the Queensland Multicultural Festival. With a blustery and drizzly day on hand, The Tiger and I decided to stay in for most of the event, only venturing out towards the end of the afternoon in order to catch Harry at his finest. After being switched on to Harry's goodness a couple of years back by guitar purveyor Steve-O, he's been a staple of many live music experiences in the past couple of years. The Tiger was introduced to him this year, and instantly fell for his unique blues style, not to mention his cute Grandpa-style banter and humour.

Both were in abundance today, as the usual trio expanded to a quartet (incorporating keys into the stripped-back guitar, drums, bass standard) entertained a wide cross-section of punters one could expect in a free, government-sponsored orgy of "multi-cultural harmony". With the sun just breaking through the clouds in time for the gig, we settled into a comfy grass-covered seat in the amphitheater and became as equally enthralled with Harry's music as we were distracted by the dozens of kids - and some adults - using the music as a fitting soundtrack to their hulla-hooping in front of the stage.

Pulling on his back catalogue, Harry seemed intent on ignoring the status quo for free or festival events, and steered well clear of his better known tracks in favour of some more obscure numbers mixed in with some hard-core jamming. Sitting mostly on his custom Mohan Veenah guitar - a mix of an acoustic lap-slide guitar and a sitar, of which I'm still yet to totally understand the mechanics - he did manage a couple of covers (his now famous Voodoo Child included) before exiting the stage and leaving us wandering around the city unsuccessfully searching for a place to have a beer, a feed and watch the cricket on a quiet Sunday evening.

Fast forward a mindless working week, and we're back out in the outdoors and listening to some kick-ass tunes. This time the musicality was provided by blues blood brother Jeff Lang, who was once again drawn to our northern sunshine. After a rather uneventful Japanese society picnic or something, we ferried it from New Farm park down to North Quay for the annual "Groove and Grape Festival" in a rather small and nondescript park in front of the Condrad Treasury Hotel. The festival itself had been on all weekend, and was now into its 2nd or 3rd year, but it was a first time visit for TheTiger and I. Loftily named Groove and Grape and billing itself as a food and wine festival meant that there were some high expectations in my mind of some decent food and some rather nice wine to be had. After embarking on a fact-finding mission to determine if it did live up to expectations, we were slightly forlorn - the food was a marginal step up from music festival deep-fried goodery, with some token pastry offerings to make it look slightly more swanky. If their haughtily described "cheese and crackers" was anything to go by (it turned out to be nothing more than an individual serve of Arnott's dry Water Crackers and some no-name cheddar scraped from the bottom of a barrel), then their mouth-wateringly described "beer battered fries" would be nothing more than the floppy, sloppy, taste-less chips which could have been sourced from any shopping mall food court bain-marie any day during the week.

So it tanked on the food stakes? Who cares, this was about music and wine, yes? I mean, half of the festival name was derived from the wine's root ingredient, so you'd expect the offerings to be mildly ok, wouldn't you? Oh... no, not really. The wines were any old slop the large barrel-houses were trying to off-load in the truck full, obviously after being rejected by the wine-buying hordes for the past year or so. Having to part with 4 hard-earneds for a plastic cup of some South Oz brew was sickening. The snifter of plonk could hardly have even been considered enough for a "tasting" where I come from. So, after one $4 "tasting" we did the next obvious thing - forked over $20 for a bottle. It would go well with our lovingly crafted beer-battered fries served with a smattering of sea-salt. And smothered in red and sweet chilli sauce just to give it some hint of flavour.

Never mind, it was the Groove part of this festival we were really here for, and so this is where it really shone through. Setting up himself, I noticed a lovely return to the stage by drummer extraordinaire Danny McKenna. A regular in years past, Danny had been side-lined for recent Jeff live offerings, as he pursued the "disturbed folk" genre as a guitar and bass duet. And while he hasn't put a foot wrong with this move, I was still shivering with anticipation of seeing the raw syncopated power of the bearded Danny McKenna adding weight to Jeff's sound again. As the set began, it was clear they hadn't actually played or rehearsed with Danny for a long time, with the drummer seemingly struggling to find the beat, especially to the newer tunes which were recorded without a drum at all. As the set progressed, however, the beat found itself and he was let loose to run free on some of Jeff's older and more lumbering tunes like London and The Save. Both songs in particular truly outlined the band's faith in not only each other, but also with the crowd. Usually in such festival situations, artists such as Jeff tend to limit their forays away from the more well known songs, and even within those songs only restrict themselves to faithful renditions of the studio-versions of them - censoring themselves, if you will, in order to not alienate a possible new audience. It was not to be today, however, with the band rightly judging the audience to be on-side and tolerant and so let the songs wander around within a very loose structure - meaning that all 3 members had a chance to show their worth and take the sames in different directions and tangents. The skill shone through brightly as Jeff managed to wrangle each and every tangent back to the song's cores, leading to massive endings and amazing crowd appreciation. Being a festival, however, the timings were limited and just 7 or so songs into the mix the slot was over and so was our wine.

Bidding farewell to Jeff and to the now annoying sunshine (only annoying due to a developing burn raising itself on my arms), we headed for home and the local bottle-o to continue to wine-y goodness (sourcing the same bottle of wine for $12 no less!). The glow around us may have been wine-related, or it may have been sun-related, but I'd like to think a whole swag of it was related to seeing 2 amazing musicians in 2 weekends for absolutely nothing. This city really does kick ass sometimes.

Spearheading a return to form

2008-10-12T13:55:00.007+10:00

It's great when a gig turns into a big love-in of jumping around, singing at the top of your voice and smiling like your life depended on it. Remove the walls of the venue, and the musical impetus, and the actions of those (including myself) present at Friday night's Michael Franti and Spearhead gig would have surely landed us in some sort of institution. It's been a while, but it seems Franti is back on form and setting the room ablaze with his special vibe.

Walking into the gig halfway into the first song (and unfortunately missing support act The Winnie Coopers), we were greeted by a steamy, sweaty mass of bods. A sea of humans all focused on one 6 foot 6 inch tall dread-locked man standing on stage, beckoning its every move. At his call, the collective bounces, raises its hands in the air, responds to his calls and claps the beat when he demands. Stepping into the room, the excitement is palpable, with everyone bopping, moving, gyrating and even fist-pumping their way through Spearhead's first Brisbane gig since 2006.

Feeling like it was time to get freaky, we headed to the bar, only to be greeted by the price list... which start with cans of domestic beers for $7.50!

W.

T.

F?????

Picking myself up off the floor, we handed over the $15 for 2 beers and headed back into the room to search for a vantage point. Heading over the other side of the venue, we squeezed in amongst a few small groups of music lovers as they each bopped to their own little gig. And then it hit me - this was less a gig than a collective of small group parties, all having their own version of a great time, with Spearhead as the soundtrack. Girls gyrated and rotated, occasionally spinning on their heels to sing a meaningful line back to their friends behind them. Guys frantically nodded their heads and tapped their toes, with some of the more game amongst them actually dancing (what??!?! When did this happen? Guys don't fucking dance?!? This gig must have been veeeerrrryyyy cool). As we wedged ourselves amongst this throng, we caught our first full glimpse of the band and realised that they were having probably the most fun of all up on stage. The 5 piece, which sometimes extended to a 6 piece with the addition of Jamaican vocalist Cherine Anderson for that much missed female touch, was working off each other and taking the seemingly never-ending songs in all sorts of weird directions: false endings, bizarre key changes, out-there timings, elongated codas, and extended jams and crowd call-and-responses. More notable than anything they were playing, however, was the sheer excitement and happiness they each seemed to exude while on stage. The Tiger noticed it enough to comment on it, pointing out that she had never seen a band so happy to be on stage before. Awesome!

It had been a few years since I'd seen the band, or Franti himself, in such a spirit. In fact, it would have been way back at the beginning of my musical journey with Spearhead, the release of Stay Human, that they were in such form. The past few years, and couple of albums by both Spearhead and Franti by himself, had the distinct air of someone who was struggling with concept of being in an important social position, and it risked turning into a shit heap where the political will of the band and individuals threatened to swamp the music itself (like U2, or late Midnight Oil). This gig (and the new album All Rebel Rockers) showed, however, that they had turned their focus back to their artistic purpose and had spent some real time perfecting their craft. And tonight's smiles - on both the band and the audience - showed they were succeeding in that mission.

Continuing our wanderings, we tried upstairs, on each side of the stage and at the very back of the crowd behind the sound desk, but there was to be no relief to the oppressive heat and humidity in the venue. It was not to be, and so we settled into our sweaty selves and continued being swept away by the great sounds on stage, and the amazing atmosphere around us. Before long (well, that's what I thought... but it was actually about 1 and a half hours later), the band departed the stage. Unlike most gigs, where this is the cue for the crowd to plead and beg through cheering and clapping for their heroes to return, Franti left us with a beat and a chant to continue. Which it did for a full 3 minutes or so, without break, until they ran back on stage for the extended encore. A mix of reworked classics and new favourites rounded out the night, which ended just as topsy-turvy as the encore break. No big finish, no "boom-crash"-stage lights down-guitar screeching-house lights up finale, but just the song ending, the house lights coming up and the DJ whacking on some Marley at full volume. The band stayed around for a little bit, signing autographs and getting pictures taken, before they finally called it a night and we joined the sweaty masses wandering around the back streets of the valley. Smelly, dishevelled, worn out and tired. But not a single person left that gig without a smile. Franti is back, and about bloody time, too!

2008-09-29T22:17:00.002+10:00

Venues suck... Or Am I Getting Old?

Ending off our Fiesta regime, we trotted off to a midweek gig by Gothic guitar maestro Jeff Martin - the one and the same of The Tea Party fame.

It was his first ever real 'solo' show in Australia, with all his other 'solo' shows since he disbanded The Tea Party being, well, less than solo in the true sense of the word. Being a fan of his previous incarnation, and being a fan (by necessity, thanks to my current extra-curricular activities with Fretfest) of solo singer song-writer acoustic shows, I was actually quite excited by this gig.

Things did not bode well, however, as the Tiger and I chowed down at the cafe directly underneath tonight's venue (I'm in 2 minds as to whether to actually name the venue, considering I'm about to slander them). The ticket clearly stated "doors open at 8pm", but that didn't stop a few keen fans turning up extra early and milling around the entrance. Trying hard to be nonchalant and cool, we tried to not listen in to their extroverted conversations. It was impossible. One guy was clearly besotted with Jeff and spent the good 40 minutes or so valiantly tying each conversation piece back to his amazing tales of being an audience member at one or other of the featured artist's shows. He was annoying in a very cute way, and his clobber of black stove-pipes, black singlet, sneakers and shoulder-length lank hair would have been just as welcomed at a newly-reformed The Angels gig as it was here.

Anyway, with the audience segmentation complete, the doors did eventually open and we filed up the narrow staircase and into the long, thin venue of choice for the eve. After scoping this place out for a few local bands before, I was keen to see how it would go with a fairly large international artist and a full room. It's a long, narrow room without much head room and absolutely no stage presence to speak of. A 3-inch scaffolding platform was all that separated the unwashed masses from the talent. Keeping in mind this was an acoustic singer-songwriter gig with an artist known to sit down during his gigs, meant that without getting nose-to-armpit with our fellow audience members left us with a fleeing glimpse of the guitar maestro's middle part for most of the evening.

The back part of the room is filled with very old and worn long couches, along with a feature wall of a pleasant autumn scene and a homely bar area. It gives it a nice lounge-room feel, I guess. Well, it's certainly the feel the owners were going for, I'm sure. Sadly, the very lumpy couches, the inconsistent sound levels from the mixing desk and the constant to and fro of the punters made it feel all too much like a crappy share-house lounge room circa 1992, rather than a serious music venue in Brisbane in 2008 which I had paid $40 to enter.

Never-the-less, I was here for the music and not the decor, so I guess I shouldn't be quick to condemn. Problem was that it took so bloody long from doors open to the main artist getting to the stage that we had a lot of time to contemplate the surrounds. An atrocious set by Jeff's support act (who supplemented his value tonight by being the merch-bitch as well) left a bitter taste and had us tearing down the staircase in search of some kind of respite. Brisbane's sleepy small town tag hasn't quite been disowned yet, though, with the midweek offerings in the heart of the entertainment district being very slim indeed. Unless watching a drunken local getting the full force of the constabulary's move along laws is entertainment... well, considering what was on offer at the top of the stairs, then yes, it was a damn sight better than even that.

Anyway, we trawled back up into the belly of the beast and endured yet more interminable waits before the artiste of the night deigned us with his presence... only to be gone before he even had a chance to start due to his guitar not actually working properly. I mean, these guys took a full 50 minutes setting up a stage for one guitar and a microphone... and couldn't even get that right! In an almost comical move, Jeff tells us he's leaving the stage for them to sort out before coming back on. A couple of minutes later he does just that, and proceeds to make light of it and pretend as if it happened all the time. I don't know, maybe it does. But really, this is not a $40 show and any artist doing what he just did to his audience is truly taking the piss.

I decide to forgive first sins, however, and allow him the good grace of being listened to before fully condemning him. The room's sound was pitiful and tiny... with absolutely no bottom end in the sound to speak of, the first 3 songs or so sounded like very slow versions of the chipmunks, crossed with that sound made by your matronly Year 4 teacher dragging her fingernails down the blackboard. You know the sound...

Not his fault, sure... I get that. And so I forgive yet more sins and persevere even longer. We settled into the back of the room and tried vainly to block out the inane chatter of the bar staff who are clearly non-plussed by the fact that there is someone on stage trying to peddle his wares. Their talking, laughing and general mischief was completely inexcusable, especially for a venue purporting itself to be one of Brisbane's homes of the musical elite.

Still, this didn't have my blood reaching its limits of heat resistance. What got it to that critical boiling point was the complete lack of self-awareness, knowledge and acceptance of where the artist was in the real world. Listening to his gig was like listening to a facsimile of Rachmaninoff, sent while on a severe hang-over. The guy was churlish, sloppy and bored. He veered between self-mockery and Spinal Tap-esque moments of brilliance, and all without any air whatsoever of irony or sarcasm. Comparing his setlist to that which peppered his released live albums, and you could tell he had struck on to a formula and was milking the fuck out of it at every opportunity he could. The boys hanging at the front of the stage, consisting of endless clones of the black-singletted lank-haired friend from the beginning of the night fed this viscious cycle of self-love and bullshit until it was clear to almost everyone except those in that tight front-of-stage circle that the artist had firmly planted his head up his own asshole. With little to no hope of it being removed any time soon.

2008-09-24T20:27:00.001+10:00

The Love Den's Final Fiesta Finale Part San

So here was Sunday, probably the biggest day of the festival in my book. A plethora of acoustic and blues artists were awaiting my ears for the day, but an over-riding sense of lethargy had set in early. Deciding to skip a couple of the earlier in the day artists, the Tiger and I wandered into the Valley (via our new love Campos Coffee) late in the arvo to be greeted by some lurvely sunshine coupled with a nice breeze.

James Grehan was on the list today, and his dreamy styles did not fail to disappoint. Apart from the ill-placed advertising (I mean, who puts a huge video screen as a stage backdrop?), the set went off without a hitch and James seemed to garner a few new fans. Even his ever-present Dad, studiously recording the entire gig as usual, seemed impressed by the turn out. Knowing James from smaller, intimate gigs, I was keen to see how a potentially rowdy and demanding open air day time performance would be handled. And it was with aplomb. His earnest and sweet delivery, matched by his serious guitar playing and shimmery falsettos, seem to break through even the piped pap music emanating from the bar next door.

An early break in proceedings had us wandering a bit and stuffing our faces at the PhoB Vietnamese local, before heading back into the throng. The Tiger headed over to the Brunswick Street Mall stage, while I camped it out at the Chinatown Mall, finally catching Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side. A band which is probably as close to Valley royalty you can get, it had an impressive array of pure, raunchy, dirty, sweaty, sexy moves down pat. This is saying something, considering it's basically that intense dude from Sixfthick, Dylan McCormack and that dude with the huge mutton chops who I think lives at Ric's (I thought his name was Barry, but it's Tim or Nick or something. He was referred to as the Mayor of the Valley, which seemed fitting). Interestingly, the Mayor's stand up drumming style turned out to be only one of the strange things of band: with the histrionics of the singer, and the out-right boredom of the guitarist and keyboardist making it all a little bizarre. Still, nice for a rocky change. I've been a little mellow and acoustic by necessity with my musical choices lately, so it's good to get out and see some posturing and posing and rocking out. It's still fun.

With the slight drizzle now steadying into a bit of a run shower, Jackie Marshall took the stage and we set about meeting up with some long-lost friends. The former Tulipan singer still seemed to hit all the right notes, and certainly had the moistening masses in the palm of her hands. Unfortunately, my increasing gaggle was not as musically interested as I, so we ventured up the road a bit for some ales and piped muzak while catching up and chin wagging.

The rain had well and truly settled in now, and the conspicuous lack of activity on the main stage had me suspicious that the wetness had spoiled the fun. A quick check with organisers confirmed this, but also informed us that the headline act had been relocated down to the Chinatown Mall. In waiting for the rearrangement, we took in a bit of Katy Steele, which wasn't on the original list of anticipated artists. Being not a big fan of her main incarnation Little Birdy, I was pretty keen to avoid the pseudo-rock chic chick, but now she was thrust upon on us, I was pleasantly surprised. Clad in a skin-tight outfit splendidly replete with massive red sparkly heels and bleach-blond locks, this lass not only had the looks, but the sass and sound to boot. Armed almost solely with a beautiful white Strat (apart from one or two acoustics, plus a keyboard number), she worked the crowd with amazing dexterity and threw up a few of the gems that no doubt some of the great unwashed were salivating for. In all, a rather entertaining mix of attitude and musicality.

With the last time we saw him an unmitigated disaster (at the putrid Joe's Waterhole in Eumundi), Jeff Lang was almost the entire reason for getting out and about all weekend. Still in his stripped down mode of himself, stomp box and bass player, he powered through some newer versions of his own brand of "disturbed folk". With the rain now pretty steady, the crowd thinned considerably, leaving a core collective either braving the wetness or huddling under what sparse shelter there was. Despite the very short set, Jeff was in fine form, showing off all his guitar virtuoso ability early on, and backing it up with some seriously delightful melodies and deeply powerful story-telling. Add to that and enthralled and entranced crowd lapping up every move, and it proved to be a fitting end to a weekend mixed with discoveries and old friends.

And so that was it for Valley Fiesta 2008. And with a newly-extended 6 month lease coming into affect on the Love Den this week, it may prove to be the very last in which this place serves as the base to one of my most favourite contemporary music festivals in the land.

2008-09-13T23:58:00.001+10:00

The Love Den Fiesta Finale! Part 2

Day 2 brought with it an unseasonal heat, and very little wind, so I was blessing the Gods for not getting a stellar day time line up happening. It gave the Tiger and I an excuse to do some hard-core Love Den sitting and chilling, something we'd missed lately due to some other commitments. We tried reading, we tried watching some movies, we even tried cleaning, but when it all came down to it, today was just a day for lazing, and so that was what was achieved, saving our energies for the night assault.

As the sun dipped below the Enoggera hills, we both exited the Den for our respective night-time social gatherings. Sat-Tiger was off to shabu shabu with a group of ex-JETs, planning to drag some of their full carcasses Valley-side for some Fiesta-ing before night's end. Me? Well, it was pretty obvious I was going to be sharing my time between 3 musical stages and possibly a greasy pizza shop or two, for the rest of the eve.

Tonight kicked off with The Boat People, Brisbane's own banal smug-pop heroes. Despite their obvious formula-driven musical theories, they seem to be bounding along in leaps and, well... bounds. But, something tells me this group of 30-something smirkers have reached their zenith. Don't get me wrong, I happen to like their style, but I know deep down that their particular brand of pop sensibility is driven by a deeper sense of bitterness; which has a natural shelf life. Personally, I think that shelf life expired some time ago. But all power to them as they attempt to milk something out of their careers. Interesting to note that the sound issues which plagued bands on this stage yesterday were continuing, with absolutely little interest from the stage or sound crew. To me, there's something very wrong with a staging company when a band, which is essentially driven by a keyboard player, has the keyboard missing from the mix for a couple of songs. The poor muso had to not only continue playing and singing, but also diagnose and fix his own sound issue (a crappy lead), with not even a wink or yank from any of the stage crew. Absolutely pathetic, if you ask me, and totally not fitting the professionalism demanded for an outfit to take on such a large, open-air event.

A small wander lead me over to the Chinatown Mall stage for the seminal Brisbane band Ups & Downs, reuniting for the second time after the Pig City festival gig last year. Having missed the gig (possibly a political issue... I have a personal angst with someone involved in that project. Mainly, though, it was due to me going overseas a few weeks afterwards), I was hungry for news of a couple of the bands who reunited for the gig. One which came out of the woodwork in the reviews was this band, with most reviewers heaping overblown adjectival praise on these pop heroes. Having been aware of their future incarnation Big Heavy Stuff, and their influence on the Brisbane and Australian music scene of the mid to late 90s, I was more than keen to check them out. The mall stage area was filling nicely, and by a decent collection of grey-haired gents (making me feel at home), before the 4-piece took to the stage. The jangly guitar, heavy beat and nasal vocals immediately evoked The Church and REM, before their own brand of the sound crept through. Working hard to put my finger on it, I catch up with a mate during the set and we agree that the sound is altogether familiar, thanks to our personal generational grounding in the 90s pop/rock era of Brisbane and wider Australia, but it was also an important piece of the "historical jigsaw" which lead to that sound. In short, they left me wanting lots more, and reminiscing for a sound and possibly a scene which had left Brisbane some time ago.

With 20 minutes between sets, a wander was in order. This led me to the toilet block, and an interesting re-enforcing of my earlier fears of being seen as old. Exiting the toilet, I was confronted by 2 teenage girls, obviously who were waiting for their friend to return. To amuse themselves, I think they were pointing out boys to each other and gauging each other's reactions. Unbeknownst to me, one had pointed me out to other, who seriously did not approve. As I round the corner, I heard girl 1 anxiously blurt to girl 2: "Ewww, he's like 100 years old! As if!"... Ahhh... I didn't mind, but maybe that was just a sign of my maturity? Anyway, enough about my geriatric complex - back to the music.

Squeezing next to the sound desk, it was clear that Bluejuice were a lot of people's pick for the night, with the crush starting to form around the critical areas. I'm not sure why this was happening, though, because to put it plainly: they sucked. I mean, really really really sucked. With a line up of 2 "singers" or maybe "MCs", bass, synth and drums, I'm not really sure what they were trying to do, musically. It was a hotch-potch of styles which, if done correctly, could have been a really decent recipe for musical genius. Done half-assed, with a solid dash of self-hype, record-company hype and iTunes support, a generous serving of "fuck-you" Sydney cool attitude, and you've got the outcome of some great commercial success. As the cliche tends to prove, though, commercial success does not necessarily bring musical greatness. The 2 can be mutually exclusive. So, apart from the style and attitude, what do I find distasteful about this? Am I being critical just because the audience is made up of dirty meatheads who wouldn't know music if it sprang out of their morning hair-goop regime? Possibly. But I give myself more credit than that. I like music, I like it when 2 vocalists or MCs can interplay with each other and the music to bring about some sort of uplifting feeling thanks to their harmonies. What I don't like is a band made up of that intention, but all it manages is 2 boys yelling into microphones trying to out-sing each other, and both failing miserably at maintaining notes, pitch or timbre. Then compensate for that by jumping around lots. And the kids lap it up...

Heading back to sanity, I once again risk life and limb by crossing Ann Street and heading back to the Chinatown Mall. A couple of necessary line-up changes meant little to the end result for The Gin Club, the baby of Salty-dog Ben Salter. The eclectic alt-country collective revolves around the stewardship of both Salty and Georgina, as well as other core members. Tonight they seemed a little flatter than normal, although this may have been related to the 30-song recording schedule they had just completed, as well as the late addition of 2 members to fill out the sound. Never-the-less, they did pull through towards the end with Wyld Bitch providing an endearing send off for tonight's festivities.

On the way home, I head back up to the main stage to check out the much-discussed Urthboy. Having only been educated about this MC earlier today by my Japan hip-hop expert, I was pretty keen to check him/them out, if only to provide a reference point for a lot of Australia's recent hip-hop scene. As a main member of seminal hip hoppers The Herd, and also a record company exec with one of the land's most influential hip hop companies, Urthboy was someone clearly not to be messed with. And entering the stage with his co-MC (a female at that, which provided a nice harmonic counter-balance) and DJ all dressed as fairytale characters, it was hard to take them seriously. They led through a furious couple of first songs which left no-one uncertain as to who they were or what they did, and to my untrained hip hopian ears, they certainly were the real deal.

And so Day 2 proved Fiesta drew to a close and these bones and ears turn to rest, before the Sunday acoustic and blues vibe of Fiesta. Bring it!

2008-09-12T23:38:00.001+10:00

Love Den's Fiesta Finale? Part 1

Valley Fiesta kicked off tonight for its weekend of frivolity. And for those who know, it also kicks off my re-invigoration with all things Albion Love Den. To me, there's nothing better than the Den at this time of the year... crystal clear skies, a crispness which allows for being comfortable, and just 2 stops away from some of the best music this country has to offer. Who could ask for more?

So, after a quick slap and dash at home after work, we trotted off to tonight's festivities. Apart from one "must see", the rest of the night was more of a grab-bag of odds n ends when it comes to music. An Ekka showbag, if you will, of what Fiesta had to offer.

A quick storm meant our must see, The John Steel Singers were a half hour late in getting to the stage. But it was perfect timing for SatomiTiger and my fine self, as we dawdled along collecting sushi and pizza sustenance on the way. The Singers were fantastic, and everything they'd been hyped up to be, and more. They had some rather large reputations to full, what after being big upped by none other than Mr Go Betweens Robert Forster. And they did not fail in their mission. Part Supergrassy-cute, part school marching-band beat, the Singers are a mix n match when it comes to styles. Ending most songs with a screeching, Mogwai-esque wall-of-sound replete with trombone and trumpets, you can see why these guys have got the scene excited. The late start, alas, also meant a very short set, with only 6 or so songs gracing us before they were ushered off.

We set off for a bit of wander next, taking in all three stages the Fiesta had on offer this year. The "main stage" of the event seemed to be the one we were at, in the middle of Brunswick Street, on a closed part of the road in front of the old Sun building. Walking back across the road, the rotunda of the Valley Mall, which was usually the Fiesta's focal point, had been turned into a DJ stage, which pretty much meant it was almost empty at all times. Wandering through the alley (Licorice Lane, to be precise) we stumbled up into the Chinatown Mall, whose stage was set as normal and welcomed all-comers with its eclectic mix of entertainment. Even with the sad closure of the pagodas during the week for safety reasons, it didn't dampen the spirits in this neck of the woods. The Tiger even got her first in-the-flesh glimpses of some real-life drag queens performing on stage before we ventured back up to the main part of the action.

With the revised timeslot, next item of the list Abbe May was also pushed back 20 minutes or so. Enough time for her to amass a fairly sizeable audience, which was encouraging. Having not heard much of this lass (and band, which also went by the same name; although they seemed very keen to be known as the band called Abbe May, not just the lead singer called Abbe May with her backing band... ego? Hmm?), I checked with one of my musical touch-stones and fellow West Aus resident Brendan, who assured me via SMS she was the shit and worth checking out. A couple of songs in, however, and it was clear this was not the cup of tea I was looking for. It may just have been a too wide juxtaposition between the JSS preceding her, but Abbe just appeared way too serious and earnest for her own good. The glassy clean high notes, mixed with the reverb-saturated sqauls and wails just seemed way out of place on this stage, on this street and on this windy night. The carnival atmosphere surrounding event and night so far - which was enhanced by the freak storm hitting moments before curtains - butted up a little too ubruptly with this screeching soul, and so we opted to wander just a little. After not being able to find much else to hold out attention span, we wandered back to catch the end of her set, which seemed to have gathered a little bit of pace, but still jarred a little bit too much. Perhaps a different setting will put my right as far as this lady and band were concerned.

The rest of the night was spent sampling the Fiesta's other offerings, including a woeful one song by Operator Please, which was made even worse by the absolutely atrocious mixing which had afflicted every artist so far tonight, and a couple of songs by The Winnie Coopers, a mildly inebriating mix of hip hoppie 2 MCs, one DJ (and a bass and drummer, too) which we will see more of when they support Michael Franti and Spearhead in a couple of weeks.

And so we retire our weary bones and ready them for tomorrow's Fiesta offerings. And bask in the Love Den's warm glowing warming glow.

The Albion Love Den

2008-09-06T22:23:00.001+10:00

Just a pic of the aforementioned Albion Love Den. It's the view from up the hill slightly, and across the road. The Den is hidden by the mass of greenery at the front.

Musicality

2008-09-02T21:13:00.002+10:00

I turned 30 a couple of years (a-hem) back and promised myself I wouldn't become one of those boring, rigid, old-school, pot-bellied maxims of "back when I was boy".

Fat chance.

I bought myself a bike recently to work off the post honeymoon "girth of contentment". And skimmed through the once important weekly bibles of streetpress... and realised I knew fuck all of the bands! That's depressing. I used to be hip. I used to be with it. I used to even know these people in bands and used to hang out with them... Ok, well I still do that, it's just that they're no long the cool and happening ones.

So, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd Lost Touch. Resolutely, I kicked myself up the coit and spent the past 2 weeks on a CD-buying, and iTunes and eMule downloading spree to get my sorry ass back into this current decade musically. I've even contemplated seeking some serious paid employment-type review stuff to give me extra motivation to keep up with it all. Wish me luck.

Juxtapose that urge to get back in touch with new music with the Big Day Out's impending announcement that Neil Young will be headlining 09s event? Oh fuck off... now I have to win more tickets?!!?!?!

Life ain't fair sometimes.

2008-08-30T23:52:00.001+10:00

Big houses and bigger fences... what are we hiding?

I went for a walk the other afternoon, up and down the hills of Ascot and Clayfield - the beginning of the preparations for Project Fuji Assault scheduled for next year. As I was walking, I was doing what everyone else like me does and sought every opportunity to sneak a peek at how the other half lived. And I didn't realise how hard that had become lately! Fleeting glimpses up driveways and through iron garden gates was all that was afforded me; with almost every gaudy mansion was walled off from prying eyes by massive 8- and 10-foot brick, cement and besser-block fences, it left me more impressed by the footpath and 'nature' strip than by the mass of wealthy exuberance. Not like the big Greek and Italian jobs of inner Melbourne and Sydney I had grown up with, which screamed out their worth and value and "we're better than you" mentality of the owners like a rather crisp slap across the cold, wintery cheek.

I began to wonder why people spent so much money and effort on their houses - an obvious and realistic status symbol of their perception of their life's worth and value - only to shut it away by massive walled fences and partitions. Sure, I canvassed the obvious reasons for the over-the-top segregation: security to keep out the undesirables (ha, like me!); safety for the occupants inside; and maybe even a little bit of status cringe creeping in. The theories just really didn't stack up to me, but I did resolve that if I ever decided to enter the property market, I was going to make sure I buy the shittiest, dingiest and cheapest house I could find, but then spend a mint surrounding it with the biggest, fuck-offest fence money could buy, just to get the tongues wagging and the neighbours intrigued. And, I guess, maybe that's part of the reason why these fences exist - to provide a tantalising glimpse into their worlds, but not provide you with the whole picture. Just whet the appetite.

Anyway, this thought process led me worry about what might happen to this nation with the impending financial crisis. I look around my peer and professional groups on an almost daily basis and have noticed a definite change in their outlook on life. People not 10 years younger than me have no recollection of the 1990s credit squeeze and what that did to families all around the nation. And that was in a period of mild economic growth and lower comparative house prices. Now, the search for the mighty dollar sees 25-year-olds with debts in the realm of half a million dollars and slim hope to actually paying it back. In fact, with belts stretched to breaking point, even the slight murmur in interest rate talk has seen them shake like frightened lap dogs. It's funny how even half a generations gap has seen the entire collective wisdom removed in favour of searching for a "leg up" in this financially driven community.

This collective amnesia, I believe, has led to a fundamental shift of the national psyche in recent years. Thanks partly to the world economic cycle, the south-east Asian tiger economies (and subsequent Bear markets... which makes me wonder if our doom will be similarly tagged with an animal motif: an eel or snake comes to mind), our own "mining boom" and a decade of ultra-conservative rule, we have developed a national pysche completely different to the one which faced our last great economic bitch-slapping. We have become more US focussed in our introspective dealings and have risen to being a rather heavy-hitting 'aspirational capitalism': one in which the traditional elements of honesty, hard-work and credibility have moved aside for cunning, daring and prejudice in order to forge success.

And that, then, is why I'm worried. I look around at my peers and professional groups and see a whole swag of essentially decent people who have unfortunately bought into this aspirational capitalism and have tagged their sense of self-worth and value to this market. If that goes down, or at least stumbles to the point where those already over-extended lose their bundles, then what will happen to them? Will there be a national out-pouring of grief, with association depression and anxiety? Or will we merely develop a thicker skin which allows us to lose these literal and metaphoric fur coats we like to portray to the world, yet still continue to be an important, contributing community? Time will tell, I guess.