from the luscious limp edition:
Reading Paul McGeough’s most recent, typically incisive report from Iraq in the Fairfax papers, my eyes rested upon the following expression: “... the rising impotence of ...”. Now, it could be just me, but is it possible that those two words don't fit together terribly well?
apostrophes are my life:
Nearby, in the same paper, was a job advertisement, from the Victorian state government. There, in big and bold lettering, were these words -
OFFICIAL PRISON VISITOR’S
No. That’s all I want to say about this. Just, no.
joke of the week:
What if they held a democratic election in the Middle East and it was won by a recognised terrorist organisation? Yet again, Mr Bush would do well to remember that old phrase about not wishing too hard for what you want because you might just get it.
(And, wrestling with ideas beyond my abilities: if Iraq does happen to tumble into civil war [see Paul McGeough, supra] and if Hamas is able to establish a proper Palestinian government, the leaders of Iran would seem to be extremely well positioned. They have a good working relationship with Hamas, and they would appear to be bankrolling most of the dominant Shiite parties in Iraq. The Americans, unless I’ve been looking the wrong way, have been all but silent on the current “sectarian” violence in Iraq. My guess is they know that bringing the entire country to order is well beyond them. Might we wake up in the southern hemisphere one morning to reports of a helicopter evacuation of the Green Zone? The situation is, on one level, a win-win situation for those schadenfreudians among us. But, more seriously, and tragically, the word “mess” hardly suffices. Because what would happen if America pulled out? (Shhhh. Don't mention the price of oil.))
meanwhile, in “old” europe:
“Those Europeans”, Obelix is saying, while furiously tapping the side of his head cartoon-woodpecker style, “are crazy.” Exactly what point is Austria, itself note entirely squeaky clean in this area, seeking to prove by not only charging, but convicting, that nasty piece of work David Irving of something that is being reported here as “denying the Holocaust”? Thoughtcrime, if you ask me, is an idea better left to George Orwell and other worthwhile allegorists, as opposed to being the official policy of an enlightened democracy. Mr Irving, of course, well knows that any publicity is good publicity, and his photograph (wherein he is conveniently holding a copy of one of his books, OF COURSE) is now everywhere. And becoming a martyr to his misguided cause is not a bad career move. Surely it is better to marginalise him, and people like him, by starving them of the oxygen of publicity that they need in order to survive. I will say no more on this subject. But, citizens of the free world, beware: laws are being passed, maybe even in your country, whereby you might find yourself in jail on account of what you write, or whom you consort with. I'm sure that, if technology permitted, you might even need to be careful what you think. (End of sermon.)
and now, a word from our sponsors:
You want zucchinis? We’ve got zucchinis. In fact, we’ve got zucchinis up the wazoo. I don’t actually know what that means. Most are small and perfectly formed, but a couple were lost in the undergrowth for just long enough that they are now suitable for whacking baseballs out of the park. (Although you would only do it once.) It seems there are limits to what one can do with zucchinis. We are not far from that limit.
the elephant is still in the living room:
And, finally, the weather. Every day the planet is getting just that little bit hotter, and the only person who can realistically do anything about it is doing nothing about it. Or, nothing helpful, anyway.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
This here music mash up the nation
Things move a bit more slowly here in the Nation’s Capital than they do out in the real world, so I am indebted to my good man Darren O’Shanassy for introducing me, during a recent extended (but far from unwelcome) visit to this part of the world, to the phenomenon of the mash-up, a thing with which I have hitherto had only a passing acquaintance.
For the benefit of those of you even more ignorant than myself, a mash-up is what you get when you find two (or more) pieces of music, preferably with very little in common, and bang them together with the electronic equivalent of scissors and sticky-tape, thus creating an entirely new song.
Upon hearing a quality mash-up for the first time, one’s reaction is threefold:
amazement at the sheer audacity of the idea of putting those particular songs together
admiration for the technical achievement involved - it must be so easy to get wrong, and, like bad jazz, so obvious
roll-around-on-the-floor gleefulness when a song element you have always loved - or perhaps hated - appears in an entirely new context, and fits there like a glove.
Sometimes the technical aspect is the thing. Twinning “Riders on the Storm” with Blondie’s “Rapture” was a great idea. Listening to it once is a treat. Yes, they blend perfectly. Who knew? And yet, once the novelty wears off, perhaps two minutes in, there’s really not much to get lasting excitement from. It’s a neat fit, but that’s really all it is.
At the other end of the spectrum, you have something like “Ray Of Gob”, where Madonna’s “Ray Of Light” is paired with a blend of signature Sex Pistols songs and a healthy amount of swearing, to create something much bigger than its separate elements. The first time you hear it, you cannot wipe the grin from your face at how ridiculously brilliant it is. Bits of Pistol guitar skewer Madonna’s vocals, giving a renewed sense of clarity, and purpose, to both. Then you listen to it again. And again. And you can’t imagine ever hearing the Pistols, or Ms Ciccone, any other way.
A bit of dirt and grit also work wonders for Kylie Minogue, when she is conjoined with The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” for a mash-up entitled “Who Fooled Kylie” (whereas Missy Elliott and Joy Division, as demonstrated by “Love Will Freak Us”, simply do not belong together: Missy’s voice, unlike those of Kylie and Madonna, does not obtain any particular benefit from the kind of abrasion perpetrated by arty, moody boys).
And don’t get me started on Hank Handy’s “Beatles Mash-up Medley”, three minutes of complete insanity that is guaranteed to induce epilepsy in those prone thereto, and a nasty meta-hangover in all others. (Although even that pales in comparison with “Intro Introspection” by Osymyso, which takes the first bits of every instantly recognisable song you ever heard on the radio, and runs them all over the top of each other, stars-on-45 style, until you can’t take any more, and then keeps going for longer than you thought humanly possible, until you really can’t take any more.)
Those Kylie and Madonna mash-ups, along with many others of equal merit, are the product of Mark Vidler, the humble genius behind Go Home Productions, who surely deserves a Nobel peace prize for bringing together, in a spirit of peace and harmony, people who are less likely to have anything nice to say to each other than, say, George W Bush and Osama bin Laden.
It’s a real shame, though, that mash-up mechanics like Go Home Productions are, for the most part, forced to give their handiwork away. It is only that way because, unlike in the art world, where any two-fisted artist can appropriate pretty much anything that he or she likes and sell the resulting work for unfeasibly large sums of money [qualification: I have nothing whatsoever against artists, and good luck to them all, I am merely using them to make a point, which is, admittedly, unfair], the music-publishing juggernaut seems to have the recording industry stitched up to within an inch of its life, ensuring that mash-ups must dwell forever in a twilight zone of legality. But it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the mashers’ loss is your gain, for if you know where to look, or have good contacts, fine mash-ups are out there for the taking.
(I still haven’t found the mash-up Sasha Frere-Jones (link at right) wrote about in the New Yorker a while back which included Beck’s “Deborah”, which would certainly be something I would like to hear. At least once.)
For the benefit of those of you even more ignorant than myself, a mash-up is what you get when you find two (or more) pieces of music, preferably with very little in common, and bang them together with the electronic equivalent of scissors and sticky-tape, thus creating an entirely new song.
Upon hearing a quality mash-up for the first time, one’s reaction is threefold:
amazement at the sheer audacity of the idea of putting those particular songs together
admiration for the technical achievement involved - it must be so easy to get wrong, and, like bad jazz, so obvious
roll-around-on-the-floor gleefulness when a song element you have always loved - or perhaps hated - appears in an entirely new context, and fits there like a glove.
Sometimes the technical aspect is the thing. Twinning “Riders on the Storm” with Blondie’s “Rapture” was a great idea. Listening to it once is a treat. Yes, they blend perfectly. Who knew? And yet, once the novelty wears off, perhaps two minutes in, there’s really not much to get lasting excitement from. It’s a neat fit, but that’s really all it is.
At the other end of the spectrum, you have something like “Ray Of Gob”, where Madonna’s “Ray Of Light” is paired with a blend of signature Sex Pistols songs and a healthy amount of swearing, to create something much bigger than its separate elements. The first time you hear it, you cannot wipe the grin from your face at how ridiculously brilliant it is. Bits of Pistol guitar skewer Madonna’s vocals, giving a renewed sense of clarity, and purpose, to both. Then you listen to it again. And again. And you can’t imagine ever hearing the Pistols, or Ms Ciccone, any other way.
A bit of dirt and grit also work wonders for Kylie Minogue, when she is conjoined with The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” for a mash-up entitled “Who Fooled Kylie” (whereas Missy Elliott and Joy Division, as demonstrated by “Love Will Freak Us”, simply do not belong together: Missy’s voice, unlike those of Kylie and Madonna, does not obtain any particular benefit from the kind of abrasion perpetrated by arty, moody boys).
And don’t get me started on Hank Handy’s “Beatles Mash-up Medley”, three minutes of complete insanity that is guaranteed to induce epilepsy in those prone thereto, and a nasty meta-hangover in all others. (Although even that pales in comparison with “Intro Introspection” by Osymyso, which takes the first bits of every instantly recognisable song you ever heard on the radio, and runs them all over the top of each other, stars-on-45 style, until you can’t take any more, and then keeps going for longer than you thought humanly possible, until you really can’t take any more.)
Those Kylie and Madonna mash-ups, along with many others of equal merit, are the product of Mark Vidler, the humble genius behind Go Home Productions, who surely deserves a Nobel peace prize for bringing together, in a spirit of peace and harmony, people who are less likely to have anything nice to say to each other than, say, George W Bush and Osama bin Laden.
It’s a real shame, though, that mash-up mechanics like Go Home Productions are, for the most part, forced to give their handiwork away. It is only that way because, unlike in the art world, where any two-fisted artist can appropriate pretty much anything that he or she likes and sell the resulting work for unfeasibly large sums of money [qualification: I have nothing whatsoever against artists, and good luck to them all, I am merely using them to make a point, which is, admittedly, unfair], the music-publishing juggernaut seems to have the recording industry stitched up to within an inch of its life, ensuring that mash-ups must dwell forever in a twilight zone of legality. But it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good, and the mashers’ loss is your gain, for if you know where to look, or have good contacts, fine mash-ups are out there for the taking.
(I still haven’t found the mash-up Sasha Frere-Jones (link at right) wrote about in the New Yorker a while back which included Beck’s “Deborah”, which would certainly be something I would like to hear. At least once.)
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Through a glass, darkly
I found myself, for no good reason, perusing an American legal decision by the name of Healy v The Beer Institute.
Now, the Beer Institute: that sounds too good to be true. One imagines its members hammering out solutions to difficult questions of public policy while gradually sliding underneath the table. Where the best answers are usually found, if not always remembered.
Can I join?
Now, the Beer Institute: that sounds too good to be true. One imagines its members hammering out solutions to difficult questions of public policy while gradually sliding underneath the table. Where the best answers are usually found, if not always remembered.
Can I join?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Strangeways, Here We Come
You can learn a lot by reading the Harper's Weekly Review. It distils the important things going on around the world, intermingled with things you didn't know you needed to know (as Don Rumsfeld may have said). The next-to-last item in this week's instalment (about the BBC's proposed Easter tribute) is so astounding it can only be allowed to speak for itself. If you see the BBC as a constant struggle between the creatives and the suits, you can have fun imagining some of the conversations that must have gone on.
***
Meanwhile and unrelated, over at Moistworks Jonathan Lethem, of whose writings we haven't read much but what we have read we have been rather thrilled by, has been having some fun of his own, putting together a double-header which can only be described as, er, "fowl".
***
Meanwhile and unrelated, over at Moistworks Jonathan Lethem, of whose writings we haven't read much but what we have read we have been rather thrilled by, has been having some fun of his own, putting together a double-header which can only be described as, er, "fowl".
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Oh You're So Silent Jens
If, as is speculated upon in this Pitchfork article, 2006 turns out to be the year of Jens Lekman, nobody will be more happy than me.
(Except, perhaps, Adrienne.)
(Except, perhaps, Adrienne.)
Friday, February 10, 2006
Vital Signs
Shocked, stunned and, let’s be honest here, not a little embarrassed, to tune across to the re-emergent Ian Penman's weblog, as one does, only to discover there a link to - wait for it - this page.
And I’m, like, “say what?”
[stunned silence]
And I’m, like, “gosh”.
[at which point a foolish and somewhat gormless grin breaks out]
I’m pretty sure I have already bored everybody of my acquaintance senseless about what an influence the NME of the late seventies/early eighties was on me, in particular the writings of Penman and Charles Shaar Murray. As a shy and sheltered boy growing up on a farm, with little or no first-hand exposure to Culture, I made an instant connection with these two, and with their tastes in music, and in many ways they made me what I am today (whatever that is).
But to find little old me with what I take to be an endorsement from Penman himself? Heck. I’m not a writer, or a music critic, or a cultural theorist, or a cineaste. Not a purveyor of memes, or a surveyor of themes. Or anything at all, really. I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.
But in the absence of an email address on his site, this is the only way that I can say “Thanks, Mr Penman, for everything.” Which I now do.
***
(En)forced segue corner:
And speaking of Ian Penman, it was interesting to read in the most recent Observer Music Monthly the other half of the NME’s Glummer Twins, Paul Morley, writing with some degree of convincingness (? - see, I told you I wasn’t a writer) of the idea that your music-listening experience should revolve around a combination of MP3 files and vinyl, and that the CD as a medium can (and should) now be done away with as a redundant, environmentally unsound and aesthetically pathetic artefact. In other words, download music, throw it on your iPod, and take it with you. Then go home and hold the record in your hand; put it on the mantelpiece; worship it.
(Interesting that Patti Smith’s “Horses” is one of his examples. The inadequacy of the Compact Disc TM is conclusively demonstrated by putting the (vinyl) album cover next to the miserable little CD cover. Mapplethorpe’s iconic (oops, sorry, Ian) image refuses to be reduced. (In fact, if “Horses” had come out in the CD era, perhaps “that” photo would never have become “iconic”.) Sure, you can buy the CD (I did) so as to be able to listen to the music with a clarity that your trashed-almost-to-death vinyl copy lost many years ago. But the object on which that music comes to you is as good as useless for any purpose except cluttering up the house unnecessarily.)
You could, I suppose, argue that affection for vinyl is correlative with age, and is nothing more than a kind of William Gibson-type retro-techno-fetishism. But it is interesting, is it not, that a large part of the stock of your local “dance” music shop consists of vinyl, and those are not places many people born before the advent of the CD are known to frequent.
And I’m, like, “say what?”
[stunned silence]
And I’m, like, “gosh”.
[at which point a foolish and somewhat gormless grin breaks out]
I’m pretty sure I have already bored everybody of my acquaintance senseless about what an influence the NME of the late seventies/early eighties was on me, in particular the writings of Penman and Charles Shaar Murray. As a shy and sheltered boy growing up on a farm, with little or no first-hand exposure to Culture, I made an instant connection with these two, and with their tastes in music, and in many ways they made me what I am today (whatever that is).
But to find little old me with what I take to be an endorsement from Penman himself? Heck. I’m not a writer, or a music critic, or a cultural theorist, or a cineaste. Not a purveyor of memes, or a surveyor of themes. Or anything at all, really. I yam what I yam, and that’s all that I yam.
But in the absence of an email address on his site, this is the only way that I can say “Thanks, Mr Penman, for everything.” Which I now do.
***
(En)forced segue corner:
And speaking of Ian Penman, it was interesting to read in the most recent Observer Music Monthly the other half of the NME’s Glummer Twins, Paul Morley, writing with some degree of convincingness (? - see, I told you I wasn’t a writer) of the idea that your music-listening experience should revolve around a combination of MP3 files and vinyl, and that the CD as a medium can (and should) now be done away with as a redundant, environmentally unsound and aesthetically pathetic artefact. In other words, download music, throw it on your iPod, and take it with you. Then go home and hold the record in your hand; put it on the mantelpiece; worship it.
(Interesting that Patti Smith’s “Horses” is one of his examples. The inadequacy of the Compact Disc TM is conclusively demonstrated by putting the (vinyl) album cover next to the miserable little CD cover. Mapplethorpe’s iconic (oops, sorry, Ian) image refuses to be reduced. (In fact, if “Horses” had come out in the CD era, perhaps “that” photo would never have become “iconic”.) Sure, you can buy the CD (I did) so as to be able to listen to the music with a clarity that your trashed-almost-to-death vinyl copy lost many years ago. But the object on which that music comes to you is as good as useless for any purpose except cluttering up the house unnecessarily.)
You could, I suppose, argue that affection for vinyl is correlative with age, and is nothing more than a kind of William Gibson-type retro-techno-fetishism. But it is interesting, is it not, that a large part of the stock of your local “dance” music shop consists of vinyl, and those are not places many people born before the advent of the CD are known to frequent.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Don't Let Our Youth Go To Waste
The boys have a friend who plays rather a lot of video games. This is not said by way of passing judgment on his parents, but as a simple statement of fact.
He also loves to draw.
He was at our house recently, and the boys were all busy drawing movie posters for imagined movies. Some of them have potential. Who wouldn't want to see a film called "3-D Tai Chi Madness"?
If there are any film producers out there, I would be happy to facilitate a meeting. For a fee, obviously.
He also loves to draw.
He was at our house recently, and the boys were all busy drawing movie posters for imagined movies. Some of them have potential. Who wouldn't want to see a film called "3-D Tai Chi Madness"?
If there are any film producers out there, I would be happy to facilitate a meeting. For a fee, obviously.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (not in that order)
ITEM
Unlike Robert Hughes, when I think of Robert Rauschenberg’s stuffed Angora goat wearing a car tyre, the first thing I think of is not anal intercourse. I suppose his thinking is clear enough: goat = randy plus car tyre = round hole. Q.E.D. Well, perhaps, but might it not also mean:
1 what a pervy old bugger my long-time favourite art critic has become;
2 goat = Richard Nixon plus car tyre = donut, giving us Tricky Dicky and the Donut What Ate Him. I’d pay to see that.
ITEM
I’m glad to have lived long enough to hear the Galaxie 500 Peel Sessions. Yes I am.
ITEM
At this early stage, I’m afraid, I am not too sure about the new Belle and Sebastian album, “The Life Pursuit”. Adding Trevor Horn’s production to the mix led them to the joyful sounds of “Dear Catastrophe Waitress”. That album seemed to play to all of B&S’s not inconsiderable strengths, and wrapped them in a newfound clarity and precision. Whereas this new one sounds a bit forced, a bit (and this is the bit that really hurts) dull. Which is not something one has been able to say about any other B&S album, even those all-too-democratic affairs that were as much miss as hit. (And, for what it’s worth, “Storytelling” is, in my opinion, far from the bad apple in the bunch that it is made out to be.) “The Life Pursuit” might yet contain three certifiable B&S classics, which might include “The Blues Are Still Blue”, “Dress Up In You” and “Act of the Apostle II”. But that is not quite enough. And yet, isn’t this the danger inherent in trusting record reviews, and the primary pitfall of being a reviewer: some records just take their own sweet time. Maybe this will be one of those. I sincerely hope so.
POSTSCRIPT
Listening to “The Life Pursuit” again now: I think I might be succumbing. This could be the last time I ever say anything about a record that’s less than six months old.
Unlike Robert Hughes, when I think of Robert Rauschenberg’s stuffed Angora goat wearing a car tyre, the first thing I think of is not anal intercourse. I suppose his thinking is clear enough: goat = randy plus car tyre = round hole. Q.E.D. Well, perhaps, but might it not also mean:
1 what a pervy old bugger my long-time favourite art critic has become;
2 goat = Richard Nixon plus car tyre = donut, giving us Tricky Dicky and the Donut What Ate Him. I’d pay to see that.
ITEM
I’m glad to have lived long enough to hear the Galaxie 500 Peel Sessions. Yes I am.
ITEM
At this early stage, I’m afraid, I am not too sure about the new Belle and Sebastian album, “The Life Pursuit”. Adding Trevor Horn’s production to the mix led them to the joyful sounds of “Dear Catastrophe Waitress”. That album seemed to play to all of B&S’s not inconsiderable strengths, and wrapped them in a newfound clarity and precision. Whereas this new one sounds a bit forced, a bit (and this is the bit that really hurts) dull. Which is not something one has been able to say about any other B&S album, even those all-too-democratic affairs that were as much miss as hit. (And, for what it’s worth, “Storytelling” is, in my opinion, far from the bad apple in the bunch that it is made out to be.) “The Life Pursuit” might yet contain three certifiable B&S classics, which might include “The Blues Are Still Blue”, “Dress Up In You” and “Act of the Apostle II”. But that is not quite enough. And yet, isn’t this the danger inherent in trusting record reviews, and the primary pitfall of being a reviewer: some records just take their own sweet time. Maybe this will be one of those. I sincerely hope so.
POSTSCRIPT
Listening to “The Life Pursuit” again now: I think I might be succumbing. This could be the last time I ever say anything about a record that’s less than six months old.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Bag's Groove
It seems like the whole of Australia has caught Baghdatis fever.
Even our five-year-old ("this time tomorrow you will be six"; "I know"; "how do you feel about that?"; [totally deadpan] "very excited") came home a few days ago telling us about a tennis player called Bag. Of course, back then we had no idea what he was talking about. We don't "do" tennis. But will we be on the Bag-wagon tomorrow afternoon? You bet.
Even our five-year-old ("this time tomorrow you will be six"; "I know"; "how do you feel about that?"; [totally deadpan] "very excited") came home a few days ago telling us about a tennis player called Bag. Of course, back then we had no idea what he was talking about. We don't "do" tennis. But will we be on the Bag-wagon tomorrow afternoon? You bet.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Virtual Mixtape: October 2005
Here we are again, with another futile, and out-of-date, exercise:
Yellow Magic Orchestra, “Technopolis”: in an ideal world, this would have been the theme music for a long-running current affairs television show. It deserves to be as ubiquitous as it sounds like it is.
DAF, “Der Mussolini”: one of the last of my itches to have remained unscratched. Thundering early-1980s German electronic dance music that makes fascism seem like a damn fine idea. Oops.
Lindstrom, “I Feel Space”: more electronic dance music, this one from 2005, which will answer most of your questions about why you should listen to music of this century even if you have passed 40 years of age.
Television Personalities, “I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives”: comes down to one word - “aaaaaahhhh”.
Kevin Ayers featuring Syd Barrett, “Religious Experience (Singing A Song In The Morning)”: there is some magical VU-style guitar riffage in here, which I assume to be Barrett’s contribution, although I’m no expert here.
Kevin Ayers, “Lady Rachel”: this is Ayers in a much darker, gothic, minor-chord mode.
Bird Nest Roys, “Jaffa Boy”: here we have what is, along with “Pink Frost” by the Chills, the lasting achievement of the golden age of NZ pop. Which is not to discredit others whose contributions may have been more lasting, more prolific, or more solid and/or brilliant overall than the shortlived Roys. But one cannot deny that this is a perfect, moving Pop Moment.
Robert Scott with Barbara Manning, “B4 We Go Under”: and here we have a little lo-fi obscurity from one of those prolific others, Robert Scott from the Bats, singing with Ms Manning who, if memory serves, ran off with one of the Jefferies boys, who covered her “Scissors” on one of his own records. Where this recording fits in with that chronology I do not know, but it does provide another small piece in what is a rather complicated puzzle.
The Roches, “Hammond Song”: our hopes of this being the Roche girls doing their thing in company with the mighty Hammond B3 were sorely, but only temporarily, dashed. There is not an organ in sight here (ahem), and the Hammond they are singing about is a place. But the song itself turns out to be slow and lovely, and makes up for the 95 percent of songs that get held out by (some) bloggers as being worthy of your time but which turn out not to be.
Donovan, “Colours”: interesting to note that hot on the heels of Dylan’s “Chronicles: Volume One” comes an autobiography by Donovan. It looks like Donovan is always going to be Stuart MacGill to Dylan’s Shane Warne.
Fred Neil with Gram Parsons, “You Don’t Miss Your Water”: you could collect versions of this song, like you could (if you were me) collect versions of “A Man And A Woman”, or “Love Is Blue”. Artists as disparate as the Triffids and Brian Eno have had a go. But Fred and Gram would be a tough act to beat.
Opal, “Hear The Wind Blow” and “She’s A Diamond”: two from Opal’s “Early Recordings”, a disc which continues to elude me and which I am therefore reduced to picking up in dribs and drabs by way of this thing we call the interweb.
Tom Ze, “Brigitte Bardot”: with summer in full flight, it would be remiss of us not to include at least a little piece of Brazil.
Rachel Stevens, “I Said Never Again (But Here We Are)”: one of the singles of 2005. A perfect pop song never did anyone any harm. (Except when it gets wedged in your head and keeps you from going to sleep.)
The Comateens, “Nightmares”: pure pop from another era.
The Smoking Popes, “I Need You Around”: the ghost of Morrissey hovers above and slightly behind this song, giving it the dose of passion without which it might not have registered.
Manfred Mann’s Earth Band, “Solar Fire”: ah, the psychedelic psixties.
Morgen, “Of Dreams”: there were two songs by this band floating around in the ether at the same time. I snaffled this one, but the other one got away. If the words “prog rock” turn you into stone, try this. You can feel the difference.
Spanky & Our Gang, “Leopard Skin Phones”: ah, the early days of stereo.
Yellow Magic Orchestra, “Technopolis”: in an ideal world, this would have been the theme music for a long-running current affairs television show. It deserves to be as ubiquitous as it sounds like it is.
DAF, “Der Mussolini”: one of the last of my itches to have remained unscratched. Thundering early-1980s German electronic dance music that makes fascism seem like a damn fine idea. Oops.
Lindstrom, “I Feel Space”: more electronic dance music, this one from 2005, which will answer most of your questions about why you should listen to music of this century even if you have passed 40 years of age.
Television Personalities, “I Know Where Syd Barrett Lives”: comes down to one word - “aaaaaahhhh”.
Kevin Ayers featuring Syd Barrett, “Religious Experience (Singing A Song In The Morning)”: there is some magical VU-style guitar riffage in here, which I assume to be Barrett’s contribution, although I’m no expert here.
Kevin Ayers, “Lady Rachel”: this is Ayers in a much darker, gothic, minor-chord mode.
Bird Nest Roys, “Jaffa Boy”: here we have what is, along with “Pink Frost” by the Chills, the lasting achievement of the golden age of NZ pop. Which is not to discredit others whose contributions may have been more lasting, more prolific, or more solid and/or brilliant overall than the shortlived Roys. But one cannot deny that this is a perfect, moving Pop Moment.
Robert Scott with Barbara Manning, “B4 We Go Under”: and here we have a little lo-fi obscurity from one of those prolific others, Robert Scott from the Bats, singing with Ms Manning who, if memory serves, ran off with one of the Jefferies boys, who covered her “Scissors” on one of his own records. Where this recording fits in with that chronology I do not know, but it does provide another small piece in what is a rather complicated puzzle.
The Roches, “Hammond Song”: our hopes of this being the Roche girls doing their thing in company with the mighty Hammond B3 were sorely, but only temporarily, dashed. There is not an organ in sight here (ahem), and the Hammond they are singing about is a place. But the song itself turns out to be slow and lovely, and makes up for the 95 percent of songs that get held out by (some) bloggers as being worthy of your time but which turn out not to be.
Donovan, “Colours”: interesting to note that hot on the heels of Dylan’s “Chronicles: Volume One” comes an autobiography by Donovan. It looks like Donovan is always going to be Stuart MacGill to Dylan’s Shane Warne.
Fred Neil with Gram Parsons, “You Don’t Miss Your Water”: you could collect versions of this song, like you could (if you were me) collect versions of “A Man And A Woman”, or “Love Is Blue”. Artists as disparate as the Triffids and Brian Eno have had a go. But Fred and Gram would be a tough act to beat.
Opal, “Hear The Wind Blow” and “She’s A Diamond”: two from Opal’s “Early Recordings”, a disc which continues to elude me and which I am therefore reduced to picking up in dribs and drabs by way of this thing we call the interweb.
Tom Ze, “Brigitte Bardot”: with summer in full flight, it would be remiss of us not to include at least a little piece of Brazil.
Rachel Stevens, “I Said Never Again (But Here We Are)”: one of the singles of 2005. A perfect pop song never did anyone any harm. (Except when it gets wedged in your head and keeps you from going to sleep.)
The Comateens, “Nightmares”: pure pop from another era.
The Smoking Popes, “I Need You Around”: the ghost of Morrissey hovers above and slightly behind this song, giving it the dose of passion without which it might not have registered.
Manfred Mann’s Earth Band, “Solar Fire”: ah, the psychedelic psixties.
Morgen, “Of Dreams”: there were two songs by this band floating around in the ether at the same time. I snaffled this one, but the other one got away. If the words “prog rock” turn you into stone, try this. You can feel the difference.
Spanky & Our Gang, “Leopard Skin Phones”: ah, the early days of stereo.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
In response to your recent inquiry:
1. Rowan Marks was solely and exclusively responsible for locating and procuring the sheep’s heads. To the best of my knowledge it was his idea as well. The first I knew of it was when I came home and saw them sitting on top of the fridge, looking forlorn (not to mention devoid of skin or bodies, but at least they still had their eyes).
2. No, I don’t know whose idea it was to impale the sheep’s heads onto the gateposts as a welcoming gesture.
3. I have a feeling that Russell may have had some hand in the engineering that was required in order to attach one of the sheep’s heads to rope and thence suspend it over the lamppost on Nicholson Street, hanging as it then was not a great height above the tops of passing cars, and especially trucks. I am not sure who physically tossed the rope from the balcony over the lamppost, but if I said I recall it as being “the usual suspects” you would know of whom I speak. I may have been guilty of urging them on.
4. It was Andrew Jowett who threw the other sheep’s head (or maybe it was the same one - come to think of it, what did happen to the second one?) through the open door of the passing 96 tram, as it stopped to let off passengers at the tram stop out the front of the house.
2. No, I don’t know whose idea it was to impale the sheep’s heads onto the gateposts as a welcoming gesture.
3. I have a feeling that Russell may have had some hand in the engineering that was required in order to attach one of the sheep’s heads to rope and thence suspend it over the lamppost on Nicholson Street, hanging as it then was not a great height above the tops of passing cars, and especially trucks. I am not sure who physically tossed the rope from the balcony over the lamppost, but if I said I recall it as being “the usual suspects” you would know of whom I speak. I may have been guilty of urging them on.
4. It was Andrew Jowett who threw the other sheep’s head (or maybe it was the same one - come to think of it, what did happen to the second one?) through the open door of the passing 96 tram, as it stopped to let off passengers at the tram stop out the front of the house.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
How Does It Make You Feel?
An oft-asked question around here is: What would I think of X record if I hadn't heard Y record first?
It comes up again now with my belated acquisition (legal, man) of the second Air long-player, "10,000Hz Legend". Given that it was universally bucketed at the time, including by a person of my acquaintance whose judgment is generally spot-on, I was happy to keep listening to "Moon Safari"That is, until "Talkie Walkie" came along, was written about, in terms that simply could not be ignored, by Marcello Carlin, and promptly changed my life (I hadn't been as emotionally affected by a record since I know not when).
In which context, the only possible response to "10,000Hz Legend" in 2006 is, What was all that about? Critics, and listeners, decided at the time that it was practically unlistenable Prog Rock, with no concessions whatsoever to the audience (who must have been, to a person, dutifully expecting "Sexy Boy Pt II"). Obviously, given what we now know, this was a load of bollocks. It starts off with four unquestionable pop gems that sing in perfect harmony with anything on albums 1 and 3. Okay, it meanders from time to time, and tries a little bit of this and that, but then again neither "Talkie Walkie" or "Moon Safari" were pallid forays into the LCD (i.e., lowest common denominator) mainstream.
But what would have happened if I had listened to the albums in the order in which they came out, therefore being ignorant of the cushion provided by albums 1 and 3 that album 2 now sits comfortably astride. That cushion, retrospectively at least, gives "10,000Hz Legend" room to move. Room that it may not have had when the tunnel did not yet contain light at its end. We will never know. All I can say for sure is, kids, don't make the mistakes in your life that I have made.
Plus, as Led Zeppelin said, it makes me wonder: If there ever is a third Portishead album, will it make "Portishead" clear? (Yes, I still come back to it once every few months, to see if its secrets, which your average seasoned music listener can tell must be in there somewhere, have been revealed. Nope, nope, and nope. Not yet, anyway.)
It comes up again now with my belated acquisition (legal, man) of the second Air long-player, "10,000Hz Legend". Given that it was universally bucketed at the time, including by a person of my acquaintance whose judgment is generally spot-on, I was happy to keep listening to "Moon Safari"That is, until "Talkie Walkie" came along, was written about, in terms that simply could not be ignored, by Marcello Carlin, and promptly changed my life (I hadn't been as emotionally affected by a record since I know not when).
In which context, the only possible response to "10,000Hz Legend" in 2006 is, What was all that about? Critics, and listeners, decided at the time that it was practically unlistenable Prog Rock, with no concessions whatsoever to the audience (who must have been, to a person, dutifully expecting "Sexy Boy Pt II"). Obviously, given what we now know, this was a load of bollocks. It starts off with four unquestionable pop gems that sing in perfect harmony with anything on albums 1 and 3. Okay, it meanders from time to time, and tries a little bit of this and that, but then again neither "Talkie Walkie" or "Moon Safari" were pallid forays into the LCD (i.e., lowest common denominator) mainstream.
But what would have happened if I had listened to the albums in the order in which they came out, therefore being ignorant of the cushion provided by albums 1 and 3 that album 2 now sits comfortably astride. That cushion, retrospectively at least, gives "10,000Hz Legend" room to move. Room that it may not have had when the tunnel did not yet contain light at its end. We will never know. All I can say for sure is, kids, don't make the mistakes in your life that I have made.
Plus, as Led Zeppelin said, it makes me wonder: If there ever is a third Portishead album, will it make "Portishead" clear? (Yes, I still come back to it once every few months, to see if its secrets, which your average seasoned music listener can tell must be in there somewhere, have been revealed. Nope, nope, and nope. Not yet, anyway.)
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Eulogy
I first met Russell at Trinity College, University of Melbourne, on the first day of "O" Week, 1982. Russell and I may or may not have been the token country-high-school intake to the College for that year, but in any event we gravitated towards each other by reason of a common farmboy background, and mutual interests in music, cricket and science fiction novels. I got to visit Russell's farm at Wangaratta on several occasions, and he came down to Fish Creek more than once.
We spent a lot of time going to watch bands together (I soon lost count of the number of times we had seen the Models, following in minute detail all of its complex web of line-up changes; and we were two of the very few people to witness David Bridie's short-lived Not Drowning, Waving offshoot band, Easter). We also, as was the custom, wandered up to Lygon Street at late hours, to Twins for souvlaki and to l'Alba to play the machines. We could also be found, late afternoons, at Naughton's Hotel, nursing a quiet beer and playing Centipede, or Galaga, or whatever games were built into the tables over there at any given time.
After a year and a half we had both outgrown college life (it became too demoralising to see the first-year girls jumping into the beds of seemingly all of the older guys at the college except ours). A house became available at 166 Nicholson Street, Fitzroy. Five of us got together and took out a lease of that house. Russell and I stayed there for two years. During that time Russell and I, and Russell's long-lost friend Roger, who had recently left the Australian defence forces, rented a room in the Nicholas Building, on the corner of Swanston Street and Flinders Lane, just round the corner from the original site of Missing Link Records. This room was known to us as "The Studio", and was used for the purpose of forming a band. Russell, I think, saw himself as Paul McCartney to Roger's John Lennon, even to the extent of paying a large sum of money for a left-handed Maton guitar. (Perhaps I was their Ringo Starr.) We called ourselves The Drought. Much fun was had. Eventually I recognised my limited ability to contribute, other members came along, and my interest in the band became that of a close outsider. I moved to the country, where, as host of a radio program on the local community FM station, I was able to get them a live-to-air slot, at a time when they were sounding like a "real" group (and if anyone happens to have a tape of that performance I would be very grateful for a copy). An eight-song recording exists as proof of The Drought, on which I can be heard playing some wayward keyboards on one track. That my contribution wasn't edited out is more a testament to Russell's sense of loyalty and fair play than any endorsement of my playing ability.
Greg Clark, Ed Kuepper's number one fan, became a friend of Russell's during the Nicholson Street years. I liked Greg. The only problem with Greg was his friendship with the Willy Boys (named for their shared history as Williamstown residents). At the second annual Nicholson Street party, the house was briefly, and unpleasantly, invaded by the Willy Boys, who kicked a hole in our backyard dunny, and who, once we managed to get rid of them, terrorised us by bashing on the back gate and throwing sticks, stones, beer cans and other solid objects over the back fence and up onto the front balcony, before eventually going off to perform other acts of humanitarianism elsewhere. Russell, of course, was terribly apologetic and remorseful for days afterwards, even though it clearly wasn't his fault that any of this had happened.
Russell was too level-headed to have crises of identity; but when I had mine, which inevitably reached its pinnacle at three o'clock one morning, it was Russell I turned to. I am forever in his debt, which cannot now be repaid, for the way he was prepared to hear me out, offering some of his typically gentle, non-judgmental wisdom, and never speaking of it again. (None of you know anything of this. Nor will you ask.)
Russell, Roger and I took a summer job at Erand Couriers, in the south-eastern suburbs of Melbourne, working on the conveyor belt that sorted packages for delivery to the (if they were lucky) correct locations (not always unbroken - upended tins of paint make a heck of a mess - but what can you do?), and loading and unloading trucks. It was good, hard, cash-in-hand work, and we met some fun people there, one of whom invited the three of us to his house in Hawthorn for a barbecue one Sunday. Roger drove, he being the only one of us with a car. Alcohol was consumed. More alcohol was consumed. At some point a device for the communal smoking of marijuana appeared. Not being dope smokers, we underwent a crash course in bong etiquette and smoking technique. Whether the weed had any effect is impossible to tell. The afternoon spun out of control. Roger drove home, the only way he knew how to drive: fast and lurching. He dropped us off at Nicholson Street, and as soon as we got inside the front door we staggered off, one to the upstairs toilet and the other to the aforementioned backyard dunny, to vomit our naive little hearts out. It was a salutary lesson for both of us. Clean living was the only way forward.
Shared houses cannot last forever, and at the end of 1985 we went our separate ways. I stayed with Russell a couple of times in a terrace house in Best Street, North Fitzroy. And then Russell moved to the UK, met Tracy, moved back (briefly) to Melbourne, and then left for the United States, where he and Tracy started a family. Russell, Roger and I had a reunion of sorts one night at Mario's in Brunswick Street when Russell made a flying visit back to Australia to see his ailing father. I spoke to Russell over the phone during his last trip back. I was looking forward to our next catch-up, whenever it may have been.
We spent a lot of time going to watch bands together (I soon lost count of the number of times we had seen the Models, following in minute detail all of its complex web of line-up changes; and we were two of the very few people to witness David Bridie's short-lived Not Drowning, Waving offshoot band, Easter). We also, as was the custom, wandered up to Lygon Street at late hours, to Twins for souvlaki and to l'Alba to play the machines. We could also be found, late afternoons, at Naughton's Hotel, nursing a quiet beer and playing Centipede, or Galaga, or whatever games were built into the tables over there at any given time.
After a year and a half we had both outgrown college life (it became too demoralising to see the first-year girls jumping into the beds of seemingly all of the older guys at the college except ours). A house became available at 166 Nicholson Street, Fitzroy. Five of us got together and took out a lease of that house. Russell and I stayed there for two years. During that time Russell and I, and Russell's long-lost friend Roger, who had recently left the Australian defence forces, rented a room in the Nicholas Building, on the corner of Swanston Street and Flinders Lane, just round the corner from the original site of Missing Link Records. This room was known to us as "The Studio", and was used for the purpose of forming a band. Russell, I think, saw himself as Paul McCartney to Roger's John Lennon, even to the extent of paying a large sum of money for a left-handed Maton guitar. (Perhaps I was their Ringo Starr.) We called ourselves The Drought. Much fun was had. Eventually I recognised my limited ability to contribute, other members came along, and my interest in the band became that of a close outsider. I moved to the country, where, as host of a radio program on the local community FM station, I was able to get them a live-to-air slot, at a time when they were sounding like a "real" group (and if anyone happens to have a tape of that performance I would be very grateful for a copy). An eight-song recording exists as proof of The Drought, on which I can be heard playing some wayward keyboards on one track. That my contribution wasn't edited out is more a testament to Russell's sense of loyalty and fair play than any endorsement of my playing ability.
Greg Clark, Ed Kuepper's number one fan, became a friend of Russell's during the Nicholson Street years. I liked Greg. The only problem with Greg was his friendship with the Willy Boys (named for their shared history as Williamstown residents). At the second annual Nicholson Street party, the house was briefly, and unpleasantly, invaded by the Willy Boys, who kicked a hole in our backyard dunny, and who, once we managed to get rid of them, terrorised us by bashing on the back gate and throwing sticks, stones, beer cans and other solid objects over the back fence and up onto the front balcony, before eventually going off to perform other acts of humanitarianism elsewhere. Russell, of course, was terribly apologetic and remorseful for days afterwards, even though it clearly wasn't his fault that any of this had happened.
Russell was too level-headed to have crises of identity; but when I had mine, which inevitably reached its pinnacle at three o'clock one morning, it was Russell I turned to. I am forever in his debt, which cannot now be repaid, for the way he was prepared to hear me out, offering some of his typically gentle, non-judgmental wisdom, and never speaking of it again. (None of you know anything of this. Nor will you ask.)
Russell, Roger and I took a summer job at Erand Couriers, in the south-eastern suburbs of Melbourne, working on the conveyor belt that sorted packages for delivery to the (if they were lucky) correct locations (not always unbroken - upended tins of paint make a heck of a mess - but what can you do?), and loading and unloading trucks. It was good, hard, cash-in-hand work, and we met some fun people there, one of whom invited the three of us to his house in Hawthorn for a barbecue one Sunday. Roger drove, he being the only one of us with a car. Alcohol was consumed. More alcohol was consumed. At some point a device for the communal smoking of marijuana appeared. Not being dope smokers, we underwent a crash course in bong etiquette and smoking technique. Whether the weed had any effect is impossible to tell. The afternoon spun out of control. Roger drove home, the only way he knew how to drive: fast and lurching. He dropped us off at Nicholson Street, and as soon as we got inside the front door we staggered off, one to the upstairs toilet and the other to the aforementioned backyard dunny, to vomit our naive little hearts out. It was a salutary lesson for both of us. Clean living was the only way forward.
Shared houses cannot last forever, and at the end of 1985 we went our separate ways. I stayed with Russell a couple of times in a terrace house in Best Street, North Fitzroy. And then Russell moved to the UK, met Tracy, moved back (briefly) to Melbourne, and then left for the United States, where he and Tracy started a family. Russell, Roger and I had a reunion of sorts one night at Mario's in Brunswick Street when Russell made a flying visit back to Australia to see his ailing father. I spoke to Russell over the phone during his last trip back. I was looking forward to our next catch-up, whenever it may have been.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Friday, December 16, 2005
The paddock bomb
A common fixture on Australian farms is the paddock bomb. In case you don’t know, a paddock bomb is a car, probably twenty years old or more, unlicensed for driving on the road, and most likely completely unroadworthy. Not to mention highly unreliable and unsafe. Its main purpose is to provide an excuse for farmers to spend time out of the house, tinkering around under the hood and generally undertaking a course in Experimental Mechanics, when there is no actual productive work to be done.
There was no particular means by which a paddock bomb might be acquired. In our case, it coincided with the demise of a large black bullock. It was a dark and stormy night (of course). One of our cattle, as a result of a late-night episode of extreme boredom, managed to breach the boundary fence of the property, and found itself in the unfamiliar environment of the main road between Fish Creek and Meeniyan. Notwithstanding the very infrequent appearance of cars on that road in the wee small hours, a poor unfortunate local happened upon the animal. History does not tell us which of the two received the bigger surprise. The cow, a solid, purpose-bred beef-laden beast, made acquaintance with the bonnet of the car, upon which it was then carried for some distance, balanced precariously, as the driver struggled to come to terms with this new reality, applied the brakes, and the cow, by now quite dead, rolled off the bonnet and onto the road.
The driver, who had a fair idea of the animal’s provenance, walked up the hill to the farmhousewhere my uncles lived, and woke them up.
“I’ve run into your cow.”
“Right. Let’s go and have a look, then.”
Arriving at the scene, the uncles did a quick bit of prioritising: first, they checked the cow to see if it was too late to salvage its carcass for meat. (It was.) So, with the help of a tractor, they dragged the corpse off the road, and towed the car up to the house. In the spirit of the pre-litigious 1970s, a deal was reached whereby we paid a sum of money to the other party, and became the proud owners of a seriously dented black EH Holden.
My uncles were of perhaps the last generation of human beings to be capable of doing almost anything they set their hands to, whether it be milking cows, making folk art, baking, converting a refrigerated truck into a fully appointed mobile home, conducting a home slaughterhouse and butchery, darning socks, constructing large-scale irrigation systems, or playing lawn bowls. They set to making the car operable again, most likely with help from my city cousins, who enjoyed nothing more than being surrounded by car parts and grease.
Actually, my cousins did enjoy one thing more than being surrounded by car parts and grease: they also loved to get into the paddock bomb and hoon around the farm, either (in the daytime) for the sheer heck of it or (at night) for the purpose of putting a spotlight on the top of the car, grabbing a couple of guns, and trying to shoot as many rabbits as they could scare out of their burrows. Goodness knows what the cows (not to mention the neighbours) thought about all of this. But one thing I do know is that it appalled my mother. This activity all took place at my uncles’ part of the farm, which was some miles away from our place. So I was for the most part sufficiently removed from it that she didn’t much need to worry on my account. But always when my cousins came to visit, we would go over there for a barbecue. I spent most of these visits wide-eyed with amazement at the kinds of things my cousins would get up to, while at the same time being too scared to actually get involved (and anyway, mum was usually not far away, making sure I didn’t get led astray). But my cousins, and Heather in particular, who was three years older than me and very persuasive in her own way, seemed to have a knack of getting me to do things that I didn’t really want to do (like the time they took me out for a walk in the dark one night, for the sole purpose of getting me to walk into an electric fence, just for a “laugh”), or that would get me in a heap of trouble if my mother ever found out.
Which is how I found myself one afternoon in the back seat of the paddock bomb, laughing uncontrollably, out of fear and exhilaration, as my cousins, screaming and carrying on as only they knew how, spun around and around one of the paddocks just up the hill from my uncles’ house: forwards, backwards, sideways, stopping, starting, skidding the wheels. Of course there were no seatbelts, and the entire back seat of the car was not attached to anything, so we were flying around the inside of the car at about the same rate as the car itself was flying about. I may have been too scared to contemplate going on the legendary Mad Mouse at the Melbourne Show, yet here I was, doing something that was at once more frightening than that, several times more genuinely dangerous, and, because it was actually happening, the most fun I had ever had in my entire sheltered life. I was in paddock-bomb heaven.
What I didn’t know, and only found out because my cousins’ mother, my aunty Betty, told me many years later, was that this was, in fact, happening right under the nose of my mother, who was watching the goings-on from the kitchen window with my aunty (who knew that I was in the car). “Well, would you look at that,” said mum, with all the disdain she could muster. “At least Stan isn’t out there with them.” (I don’t know where she thought I was. Probably my cousins had spun her a yarn about me playing cricket up at the nets behind the old house, or swinging on the makeshift swing under the cypress trees behind the house (actually the hook my uncles hung freshly killed cattle on until they bled dry), or fishing for eels in the creek.) Betty said nothing, but smiled quietly to herself as she went on drying the dishes. And as far as I know, mum never found out.
There was no particular means by which a paddock bomb might be acquired. In our case, it coincided with the demise of a large black bullock. It was a dark and stormy night (of course). One of our cattle, as a result of a late-night episode of extreme boredom, managed to breach the boundary fence of the property, and found itself in the unfamiliar environment of the main road between Fish Creek and Meeniyan. Notwithstanding the very infrequent appearance of cars on that road in the wee small hours, a poor unfortunate local happened upon the animal. History does not tell us which of the two received the bigger surprise. The cow, a solid, purpose-bred beef-laden beast, made acquaintance with the bonnet of the car, upon which it was then carried for some distance, balanced precariously, as the driver struggled to come to terms with this new reality, applied the brakes, and the cow, by now quite dead, rolled off the bonnet and onto the road.
The driver, who had a fair idea of the animal’s provenance, walked up the hill to the farmhousewhere my uncles lived, and woke them up.
“I’ve run into your cow.”
“Right. Let’s go and have a look, then.”
Arriving at the scene, the uncles did a quick bit of prioritising: first, they checked the cow to see if it was too late to salvage its carcass for meat. (It was.) So, with the help of a tractor, they dragged the corpse off the road, and towed the car up to the house. In the spirit of the pre-litigious 1970s, a deal was reached whereby we paid a sum of money to the other party, and became the proud owners of a seriously dented black EH Holden.
My uncles were of perhaps the last generation of human beings to be capable of doing almost anything they set their hands to, whether it be milking cows, making folk art, baking, converting a refrigerated truck into a fully appointed mobile home, conducting a home slaughterhouse and butchery, darning socks, constructing large-scale irrigation systems, or playing lawn bowls. They set to making the car operable again, most likely with help from my city cousins, who enjoyed nothing more than being surrounded by car parts and grease.
Actually, my cousins did enjoy one thing more than being surrounded by car parts and grease: they also loved to get into the paddock bomb and hoon around the farm, either (in the daytime) for the sheer heck of it or (at night) for the purpose of putting a spotlight on the top of the car, grabbing a couple of guns, and trying to shoot as many rabbits as they could scare out of their burrows. Goodness knows what the cows (not to mention the neighbours) thought about all of this. But one thing I do know is that it appalled my mother. This activity all took place at my uncles’ part of the farm, which was some miles away from our place. So I was for the most part sufficiently removed from it that she didn’t much need to worry on my account. But always when my cousins came to visit, we would go over there for a barbecue. I spent most of these visits wide-eyed with amazement at the kinds of things my cousins would get up to, while at the same time being too scared to actually get involved (and anyway, mum was usually not far away, making sure I didn’t get led astray). But my cousins, and Heather in particular, who was three years older than me and very persuasive in her own way, seemed to have a knack of getting me to do things that I didn’t really want to do (like the time they took me out for a walk in the dark one night, for the sole purpose of getting me to walk into an electric fence, just for a “laugh”), or that would get me in a heap of trouble if my mother ever found out.
Which is how I found myself one afternoon in the back seat of the paddock bomb, laughing uncontrollably, out of fear and exhilaration, as my cousins, screaming and carrying on as only they knew how, spun around and around one of the paddocks just up the hill from my uncles’ house: forwards, backwards, sideways, stopping, starting, skidding the wheels. Of course there were no seatbelts, and the entire back seat of the car was not attached to anything, so we were flying around the inside of the car at about the same rate as the car itself was flying about. I may have been too scared to contemplate going on the legendary Mad Mouse at the Melbourne Show, yet here I was, doing something that was at once more frightening than that, several times more genuinely dangerous, and, because it was actually happening, the most fun I had ever had in my entire sheltered life. I was in paddock-bomb heaven.
What I didn’t know, and only found out because my cousins’ mother, my aunty Betty, told me many years later, was that this was, in fact, happening right under the nose of my mother, who was watching the goings-on from the kitchen window with my aunty (who knew that I was in the car). “Well, would you look at that,” said mum, with all the disdain she could muster. “At least Stan isn’t out there with them.” (I don’t know where she thought I was. Probably my cousins had spun her a yarn about me playing cricket up at the nets behind the old house, or swinging on the makeshift swing under the cypress trees behind the house (actually the hook my uncles hung freshly killed cattle on until they bled dry), or fishing for eels in the creek.) Betty said nothing, but smiled quietly to herself as she went on drying the dishes. And as far as I know, mum never found out.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Digital mixtape: May 2005
Anton Karas, “Third Man Theme”: Trinity College, Melbourne University, 1982. A number of us were in love with Kris McKie. Kris was small, had short dark hair, an endearing way of saying her “r”s as almost-“w”s, and was from Coventry (ie, “Coventwy”), England. She was, in other words, from the mythical land of the Punk Rock explosion, and had some firstknowledge of the scene. The other particularly nice thing about Kris was the way she would walk around singing the theme from “The Third Man”, in a “doo-be-doo-be-doo, be-doo-be-doo” style. I wonder where she is now.
Marcos Valle, “Garra”: Brazilian music from the late 60s/early 70s is a recent obsession. This is a good example of why. Winter in Canberra serves to make the inherent sunniness of this music more profound.
Would-Be-Goods, “Le Crocodile”: girls singing in French has been a much older obsession. This, again, is another good example of why.
Emiliana Torrini, “Sunny Road”: I thought this might have been a guilty pleasure. Then SFJ gave her a good write-up in the New Yorker. It’s a sure sign of my own inadequacies that I have always been much more comfortable when things I latch on to get endorsed by reputable third parties.
Claudine Longet, “Love Is Blue”: not much I can add here. If the brief had been open ended I would have followed it up with the discofied “Love Is Still Blue” which may or may not have been recorded by Mr Mauriat himself. But we have only 80 minutes, and we must move on.
Paul Mauriat (or perhaps not), “Love Is Still Blue”: a disco-and-harpsichord interpretation of the above. Surely you can’t be serious.
Bobby Hughes Experience, “Season of the Witch”: a funky, electric-piano groove, based on a song that we have previously used in one of these mixes in a much different guise. This song must be endlessly adaptable, like the “Autumn Leaves” (or “Nature Boy”) of the rock’n’roll generation.
The Camberwell Now, “Working Nights”: prog rock rears its no-longer-ugly head. Is this the real thing, or is it just fantasy? (Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.) Or is it a crafty simulacrum of the Camberwell scene, updated to Now?
Sondre Lerche, “Two Way Monologue”: it was a toss-up between this and “On The Tower”. I think if I was doing this now I would have opted the other way. There is something timeless about Sondre Lerche, which is why it sits well in this particular place, between maybe-genuine-maybe-not psych-folk and the real thing.
Harpers Bizarre, “Witchi Tai To”: mmmm, lovely.
Bill Fay, “Be Not So Fearful”: if this was a hymn, I would be a regular church-goer. It covers similar sonic, and perhaps thematic, territory to Nilsson’s sublime “All I Think About Is You”. And it may even be as good. (Readers, that is a very big statement.)
Crosby, Stills and Nash, “Dark Star”: David Crosby did some lovely, although sometimes disturbing, minor-key work with the Byrds. He also got very fat. Here, in a minor key again, is another extremely tasteful piece of work, in a kind of jazzy, funky, smoooooth style. Break out the swizzle sticks.
Rättö Ja Lehtisalo, “Valonnopeus”: what drives me to say that this is the musical equivalent of an Aki Kaurismaki film?
Barrington Levy, “Murderer”, “Version”, “Tell Them Nah Ready”: otherwise known as Dub 101. (Not, I hasten to add, Dub For Dummies.) The song, the version, the dub. See how it all fits together. Or, rather, falls apart.
Arthur Russell, “Kiss Me Again”: and finally, my last most recent obsession (my next most recent being Popol Vuh), Arthur Russell. Different versions of his many different songs abound. This claims to be the version from “Disco Not Disco”. It appears to be identical to what is called the “Version” on the b-side of the 12-inch, although with a brief spoken intro. With Arthur Russell, who knows? What is indisputable is that David Byrne scratches his way through the 12 minutes-plus like an agitated madman/genius. I hate that until 2005 I had no idea that this existed. It is perfect in every way.
Marcos Valle, “Garra”: Brazilian music from the late 60s/early 70s is a recent obsession. This is a good example of why. Winter in Canberra serves to make the inherent sunniness of this music more profound.
Would-Be-Goods, “Le Crocodile”: girls singing in French has been a much older obsession. This, again, is another good example of why.
Emiliana Torrini, “Sunny Road”: I thought this might have been a guilty pleasure. Then SFJ gave her a good write-up in the New Yorker. It’s a sure sign of my own inadequacies that I have always been much more comfortable when things I latch on to get endorsed by reputable third parties.
Claudine Longet, “Love Is Blue”: not much I can add here. If the brief had been open ended I would have followed it up with the discofied “Love Is Still Blue” which may or may not have been recorded by Mr Mauriat himself. But we have only 80 minutes, and we must move on.
Paul Mauriat (or perhaps not), “Love Is Still Blue”: a disco-and-harpsichord interpretation of the above. Surely you can’t be serious.
Bobby Hughes Experience, “Season of the Witch”: a funky, electric-piano groove, based on a song that we have previously used in one of these mixes in a much different guise. This song must be endlessly adaptable, like the “Autumn Leaves” (or “Nature Boy”) of the rock’n’roll generation.
The Camberwell Now, “Working Nights”: prog rock rears its no-longer-ugly head. Is this the real thing, or is it just fantasy? (Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.) Or is it a crafty simulacrum of the Camberwell scene, updated to Now?
Sondre Lerche, “Two Way Monologue”: it was a toss-up between this and “On The Tower”. I think if I was doing this now I would have opted the other way. There is something timeless about Sondre Lerche, which is why it sits well in this particular place, between maybe-genuine-maybe-not psych-folk and the real thing.
Harpers Bizarre, “Witchi Tai To”: mmmm, lovely.
Bill Fay, “Be Not So Fearful”: if this was a hymn, I would be a regular church-goer. It covers similar sonic, and perhaps thematic, territory to Nilsson’s sublime “All I Think About Is You”. And it may even be as good. (Readers, that is a very big statement.)
Crosby, Stills and Nash, “Dark Star”: David Crosby did some lovely, although sometimes disturbing, minor-key work with the Byrds. He also got very fat. Here, in a minor key again, is another extremely tasteful piece of work, in a kind of jazzy, funky, smoooooth style. Break out the swizzle sticks.
Rättö Ja Lehtisalo, “Valonnopeus”: what drives me to say that this is the musical equivalent of an Aki Kaurismaki film?
Barrington Levy, “Murderer”, “Version”, “Tell Them Nah Ready”: otherwise known as Dub 101. (Not, I hasten to add, Dub For Dummies.) The song, the version, the dub. See how it all fits together. Or, rather, falls apart.
Arthur Russell, “Kiss Me Again”: and finally, my last most recent obsession (my next most recent being Popol Vuh), Arthur Russell. Different versions of his many different songs abound. This claims to be the version from “Disco Not Disco”. It appears to be identical to what is called the “Version” on the b-side of the 12-inch, although with a brief spoken intro. With Arthur Russell, who knows? What is indisputable is that David Byrne scratches his way through the 12 minutes-plus like an agitated madman/genius. I hate that until 2005 I had no idea that this existed. It is perfect in every way.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
2005: And another thing ...
Obviously, the single of the year is "1 Thing" by Amerie. Oh man, those drums ...
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Ape Mon
I don't remember the context, but it went something like:
Julius: "It's going ape!"
Carl: "It's going more than ape!"
Julius: "It's going super ape!"
At which point the muesli I was eating almost leapt out of my mouth in surprise.
"Super Ape" by Lee "Scratch" Perry is one of the cornerstones of Jamaican dub reggae. Obviously, my efforts to provide the boys with a proper musical education is even more successful than I had hoped. (I thought we hadn't got much further than learning to play Jonathan Richman's "Egyptian Reggae", with one finger, on the piano and/or the melodica.)
Julius: "It's going ape!"
Carl: "It's going more than ape!"
Julius: "It's going super ape!"
At which point the muesli I was eating almost leapt out of my mouth in surprise.
"Super Ape" by Lee "Scratch" Perry is one of the cornerstones of Jamaican dub reggae. Obviously, my efforts to provide the boys with a proper musical education is even more successful than I had hoped. (I thought we hadn't got much further than learning to play Jonathan Richman's "Egyptian Reggae", with one finger, on the piano and/or the melodica.)
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
2005 erratum
Owing to a failure of intelligence (i.e., mine) it appears that Boards of Canada's "The Campfire Headphase" was left off of the previous, somewhat haphazard, run-down of the current year's music.
I would like to know, apropos the blanket of negativity that this record was greeted with, by what definition the phrase "sounds like their previous records, but with guitars" could be a bad thing. (Reminds me of the time several of us huddled around Anthony's Bose speakers circa 1982 and debated whether that was an actual bass guitar being doinked on Kraftwerk's "Tour De France" single, and whether, on the - seemingly misguided - assumption that it was, we would have to thereafter forever abandon our loyalty to Ralf und Florien.) Purism, kids, will get you nowhere. Look at the Americans in Iraq. (Whoops, where did that come from?)
I would like to know, apropos the blanket of negativity that this record was greeted with, by what definition the phrase "sounds like their previous records, but with guitars" could be a bad thing. (Reminds me of the time several of us huddled around Anthony's Bose speakers circa 1982 and debated whether that was an actual bass guitar being doinked on Kraftwerk's "Tour De France" single, and whether, on the - seemingly misguided - assumption that it was, we would have to thereafter forever abandon our loyalty to Ralf und Florien.) Purism, kids, will get you nowhere. Look at the Americans in Iraq. (Whoops, where did that come from?)
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