What I Got, You Gotta Get It.

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?

Is Splendour A Farce?

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.

What have I really been listening to?

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

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

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.

Another Brick In The Wall

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

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

New gig

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

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.

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

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

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.

Hottest 10 of all time

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.

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.

From Big Things

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.

Top 50,000 countdown

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.

Nick Cave and the Bad Saint?

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.

All Tomorrow's Parties - Today

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.
 

Top 50 Artists 2008

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!

Harry and Jeff

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.