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!

Blog War Ends

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

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

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!

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.