So, Leith's auntie or cousin or something calls him up the other day and says "Hey, I was going to give you this cd a while ago. These guys gave it to me when I lived in the states. It's loud music. You should like it."
Leith is hesitant, thinking it would be some nu-metal band or something. But when she eventually hands it over he has a closer look, then sees Al Burian's name on it. Apparently this relative lived in Chapel Hill when all those kids did, and knew Al personally.
So Leith calls me up and tells me he has a cd of Al's pre-milemarker band. I get a little excited.
"Is it fucking hellbender?"
"Uh, yeah, that's right."
"You fucking cunt!"
All of the hellbender cds have, of course, been out of print for some time. Some may disagree, but I'd put the US ebay price of that cd somewhere around 75 bucks.
We listened to it tonight. It's pretty good.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
The Less I See, The Closer I Feel.
The Diamond Sea, Quebec, Majorca, My Disco and Ampere at Brunswick Arts Space, 24-05-08.
Tash and I had been hanging out all day, drinking coffee and entertaining a revolving cast of drop-ins and swing-bys. A pretty pleasant way to spend the afternoon, but kinda tiring. So when I made it home at around 4.30 I figured that it was time for a disco nap (you know, the nap you have so you won't get tired later in the evening). Bad idea.
When I woke it was around 6, and I was groggy as all hell. Biked up to Brunswick to find pretty much no-one there. Didn't really feel like making polite conversation, so wandered off to Tiba's to find some food. Called my ma on the phone. Sat and ate by myself, listening to Public Enemy on the ipod. Grumpy.
I wandered back to the show as the Diamond Sea were setting up, though at first I barely recognised them, due to an influx of new and amazing hairstyles. While I was disappointed to hear that Alicia didn't actually use a bowl to acquire hers, no one could even dare suggest that it's not a totally awesome 'do. Perhaps the new style has emboldened her, because she's doing a lot more backup vocals these days, and it totally, totally works for them. To be encouraged.
While they were playing I realised my feet were going numb. Fucking concrete floor. It would be a problem I would encounter all night. Should have worn two pairs of socks. And perhaps two pairs of pants. And a beanie.
Quebec were up next and were plagued by PA problems. For the most of their set I stood outside and talked to Riva about the Bill Henson fiasco, which was extremely pleasant. Don't be knocking pleasant in my company - it's highly underrated. I think I went searching for a coffee at this point, eventually finding one - strong, black and sweet - at some Greek cake shop which was playing the football. The Bombers were down by nine. Things are ok.
Majorca played and seemed emboldened by the presence of the American band. Tara holds the mic like it's an ice-cream cone and barrels backwards into the crowd. The new songs have a punkier edge and come off really well. I'm standing next to Zac and he's stoked on them. They play their Portraits of Past cover and everyone goes nuts. After their set I see the bassplayer from Ampere nodding approval at their guitarist, obviously impressed. Bet you didn't see that, did you, TJ.
My Disco start setting up and the place is suddenly crowded. I find it strange that this My Disco era - when they're perhaps the least sonically accessible they've ever been, all minimal and funk-tinged and obviously more influenced by French and German electronica than the Triple J rock they get lumped in with - is their most popular. Strange or not, it's true, and the kids get right into it, bouncing around with difficulty as the changing time signatures throw them out. Ben Andrews seems to be listening more to the rest of the band today, and there is less guitar wankery between songs. It's one of the best shows I've seen from them lately.
I had thought the crowd would thin out once the Disco had finished, but I was wrong - aside from Budge, who was apparently trying to catch Grover's set at the After Dark. They pushed forwards for Ampere, word about their impressive sets obviously spreading. And tonight they really ripped it apart, hurling themselves into things with reckless and often punishing abandon. Stephen crowdsurfs in the first song and gets poked in the eye for his trouble. I see TJ floating above the crowd at one point, reward for all the work and anxiety she put into this tour. The 'pit' is full of kids, and for once I'm not mildly irritated, but kinda stoked. The guitarist is doing guitarjumps and swinging his SG like it's a hammer, belting railway spikes into hardwood. They finish up but are convinced to play two more. As much as I'm totally stoked on it, I kinda want them to finish, as my feet are freezing and I too am keen to catch Grover's set. But some things are just not to be.
I meet up with Tash again later and we wander in to Meyer's Place. I'm still a little grumpy, but the night has mellowed me. We sit at the bar and I drink coffee. She talks to me about physics and I listen and try to understand. Leith texts from a wedding and tells us he's not going to make it. At around two we head back into the cold and go our separate ways. An early night.
Tash and I had been hanging out all day, drinking coffee and entertaining a revolving cast of drop-ins and swing-bys. A pretty pleasant way to spend the afternoon, but kinda tiring. So when I made it home at around 4.30 I figured that it was time for a disco nap (you know, the nap you have so you won't get tired later in the evening). Bad idea.
When I woke it was around 6, and I was groggy as all hell. Biked up to Brunswick to find pretty much no-one there. Didn't really feel like making polite conversation, so wandered off to Tiba's to find some food. Called my ma on the phone. Sat and ate by myself, listening to Public Enemy on the ipod. Grumpy.
I wandered back to the show as the Diamond Sea were setting up, though at first I barely recognised them, due to an influx of new and amazing hairstyles. While I was disappointed to hear that Alicia didn't actually use a bowl to acquire hers, no one could even dare suggest that it's not a totally awesome 'do. Perhaps the new style has emboldened her, because she's doing a lot more backup vocals these days, and it totally, totally works for them. To be encouraged.
While they were playing I realised my feet were going numb. Fucking concrete floor. It would be a problem I would encounter all night. Should have worn two pairs of socks. And perhaps two pairs of pants. And a beanie.
Quebec were up next and were plagued by PA problems. For the most of their set I stood outside and talked to Riva about the Bill Henson fiasco, which was extremely pleasant. Don't be knocking pleasant in my company - it's highly underrated. I think I went searching for a coffee at this point, eventually finding one - strong, black and sweet - at some Greek cake shop which was playing the football. The Bombers were down by nine. Things are ok.
Majorca played and seemed emboldened by the presence of the American band. Tara holds the mic like it's an ice-cream cone and barrels backwards into the crowd. The new songs have a punkier edge and come off really well. I'm standing next to Zac and he's stoked on them. They play their Portraits of Past cover and everyone goes nuts. After their set I see the bassplayer from Ampere nodding approval at their guitarist, obviously impressed. Bet you didn't see that, did you, TJ.
My Disco start setting up and the place is suddenly crowded. I find it strange that this My Disco era - when they're perhaps the least sonically accessible they've ever been, all minimal and funk-tinged and obviously more influenced by French and German electronica than the Triple J rock they get lumped in with - is their most popular. Strange or not, it's true, and the kids get right into it, bouncing around with difficulty as the changing time signatures throw them out. Ben Andrews seems to be listening more to the rest of the band today, and there is less guitar wankery between songs. It's one of the best shows I've seen from them lately.
I had thought the crowd would thin out once the Disco had finished, but I was wrong - aside from Budge, who was apparently trying to catch Grover's set at the After Dark. They pushed forwards for Ampere, word about their impressive sets obviously spreading. And tonight they really ripped it apart, hurling themselves into things with reckless and often punishing abandon. Stephen crowdsurfs in the first song and gets poked in the eye for his trouble. I see TJ floating above the crowd at one point, reward for all the work and anxiety she put into this tour. The 'pit' is full of kids, and for once I'm not mildly irritated, but kinda stoked. The guitarist is doing guitarjumps and swinging his SG like it's a hammer, belting railway spikes into hardwood. They finish up but are convinced to play two more. As much as I'm totally stoked on it, I kinda want them to finish, as my feet are freezing and I too am keen to catch Grover's set. But some things are just not to be.
I meet up with Tash again later and we wander in to Meyer's Place. I'm still a little grumpy, but the night has mellowed me. We sit at the bar and I drink coffee. She talks to me about physics and I listen and try to understand. Leith texts from a wedding and tells us he's not going to make it. At around two we head back into the cold and go our separate ways. An early night.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Rats On Your Tail.
It also struck me, in my exile from the blogosphere, that I was being altogether too posi of late. So, in the interests of fair and balanced blogging, let me explain exactly why I thought Pathetic Human sucked: because they're a fashion-centric intelligence-deprived hipster band who will break up and be forgotten the day after the resident drug dealer in their lineup gets run out of town for facilitating an overdose. There.
Down By The Schoolyard.
And we're back. I go see a lot of bands, for a variety of different reasons. When I'm feeling angry and self-righteous, I go see punk rock bands. When I'm feeling cerebral and esoteric, I go see noise bands. But when I'm feeling fun, I go see I Heart Hiroshima. Ahh, if only they lived in Melbourne. What's so great about Brisbane anyway?
It's also a shame that IHH always play with such fucking terrible bands. On Saturday night it was Rocket Science, who for some reason have such a legion of taste-challenged fans that the show was sold out. In order to see IHH I was reduced to doing something which I fucking hate doing: asking for a door spot. Don't get me wrong, I love to get in for free, but asking for it feels dirty and wrong. After my pride was sufficiently swallowed and door spot wrangled I skipped straight up the front. A quick exhortation from Susie to "make it 8/10" and they lauch into things.
It's immediately apparent that they have exceeded Susie's expectations. They are playing so well that even they notice, claiming that the version of one song was "the best they ever played". Now, in my forced absence I dwelt long on this blog and its purpose, and couldn't really think of anything. But I did notice that lately I've been avoiding actually describing bands. So here's my attempt at explaining why IHH were rocking it so goddamn hard last night.
A lot of their songs are mid-paced, allowing for optimum head-nodding. Lyrics are mystical, but with an undercurrent of melancholy that makes them seem, you know, meaningful. The guitar interplay builds pressure which is eventually released (indeed, the restraint shown by IHH is an underrated quality) in fully fledged rocking out. They have different amps and different guitar sounds - indeed, one guitar sounds so springy that I'm almost convinced he has broken rubber bands instead of springs, whereas the other guitar is sharp and more traditional. The two - and, on Saturday, sometimes three - voices creates a nice juxtaposition. Their natural focal point sits up high above the drums, cracking jokes, posing out and generally being hilarious and naturally good at life. There's very little pretension here - it's a stripped down sound, with space being as important as notes (like the poets say). That's what they're like. Poppy, angular and sharp. Yep.
So, after IHH finish I split, and eventually end up dancing to Etta James at Gimme Shelter. Which was nice.
It's also a shame that IHH always play with such fucking terrible bands. On Saturday night it was Rocket Science, who for some reason have such a legion of taste-challenged fans that the show was sold out. In order to see IHH I was reduced to doing something which I fucking hate doing: asking for a door spot. Don't get me wrong, I love to get in for free, but asking for it feels dirty and wrong. After my pride was sufficiently swallowed and door spot wrangled I skipped straight up the front. A quick exhortation from Susie to "make it 8/10" and they lauch into things.
It's immediately apparent that they have exceeded Susie's expectations. They are playing so well that even they notice, claiming that the version of one song was "the best they ever played". Now, in my forced absence I dwelt long on this blog and its purpose, and couldn't really think of anything. But I did notice that lately I've been avoiding actually describing bands. So here's my attempt at explaining why IHH were rocking it so goddamn hard last night.
A lot of their songs are mid-paced, allowing for optimum head-nodding. Lyrics are mystical, but with an undercurrent of melancholy that makes them seem, you know, meaningful. The guitar interplay builds pressure which is eventually released (indeed, the restraint shown by IHH is an underrated quality) in fully fledged rocking out. They have different amps and different guitar sounds - indeed, one guitar sounds so springy that I'm almost convinced he has broken rubber bands instead of springs, whereas the other guitar is sharp and more traditional. The two - and, on Saturday, sometimes three - voices creates a nice juxtaposition. Their natural focal point sits up high above the drums, cracking jokes, posing out and generally being hilarious and naturally good at life. There's very little pretension here - it's a stripped down sound, with space being as important as notes (like the poets say). That's what they're like. Poppy, angular and sharp. Yep.
So, after IHH finish I split, and eventually end up dancing to Etta James at Gimme Shelter. Which was nice.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Broken Hearts Want Broken Necks.
No posts for a while, on account of typing with one hand being fucking annoying.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Monster Trucks.
Sometime in 2002 I accompanied my friends to a piano bar in Boston. It was right near Fenway Park, which I thought was pretty cool, but overall I was pretty skeptical about the evening. Little was I to know that the three or four hours I spent there would leave an indelible impression on me in the form of "Homegirl, Ya Wicked Awesome", an ode to the girls of South Boston (aka 'Southie', for those of you who haven't seen Good Will Hunting). It's the catchiest fucking song ever, but other than that night with Jake Ivory, I haven't heard it since. Until now. Apologies for the footage in this link, but the song comes through strong. Go look at facebook while it's playing. The campfire tales surrounding the origins of the song are nicely coalesced here.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Become Good Friends
A few random ideas while watching Neighbors:
When Didge tackles Riley in the opening credits, it is clearly a push in the back. If an umpire came out, blew their whistle and stopped the show from starting, it would rule.
Neighbors, like life in general, needs way more pop culture references. Their mining of the movie Ghost World was truly plagiaristic brilliance, and should be repeated (for those who missed it, when Skye was introduced she was a blatant rip-off of the Enid character. Wacky hair, a taste for Bollywood, and even following creepy old guys around. A few months later, however, Boyd approached Skye and accused her of copping all of her moves from Ghost World. Imagine plagiarising a movie, then detailing to everyone exactly which parts you shamelessly bit! The chutzpah of those writers is unbelievable).
It strikes me that the real lives of Neighbors actors is often more interesting than their characters; Doctor Karl is president of the Media and Entertainment Arts Alliance (the actors union), Susan is an out and proud lesbian, Joe Scully was a coke addict. Where possible, these real life dramas should overlap with Neighbors storylines.
Ads during Neighbors should be screened for age appropriateness. I don't need to see that teflon pots ad with the old lady's fully sick tribal tattoo while I'm indulging in my early-evening soap. That's not making me want to buy pots. That's mocking me.
And, whenever there is a TV playing in the background, it should be playing old episodes of Neighbors. This would be especially awesome if Paul was filmed watching TV and the barely-audible background audio featured him.
When Didge tackles Riley in the opening credits, it is clearly a push in the back. If an umpire came out, blew their whistle and stopped the show from starting, it would rule.
Neighbors, like life in general, needs way more pop culture references. Their mining of the movie Ghost World was truly plagiaristic brilliance, and should be repeated (for those who missed it, when Skye was introduced she was a blatant rip-off of the Enid character. Wacky hair, a taste for Bollywood, and even following creepy old guys around. A few months later, however, Boyd approached Skye and accused her of copping all of her moves from Ghost World. Imagine plagiarising a movie, then detailing to everyone exactly which parts you shamelessly bit! The chutzpah of those writers is unbelievable).
It strikes me that the real lives of Neighbors actors is often more interesting than their characters; Doctor Karl is president of the Media and Entertainment Arts Alliance (the actors union), Susan is an out and proud lesbian, Joe Scully was a coke addict. Where possible, these real life dramas should overlap with Neighbors storylines.
Ads during Neighbors should be screened for age appropriateness. I don't need to see that teflon pots ad with the old lady's fully sick tribal tattoo while I'm indulging in my early-evening soap. That's not making me want to buy pots. That's mocking me.
And, whenever there is a TV playing in the background, it should be playing old episodes of Neighbors. This would be especially awesome if Paul was filmed watching TV and the barely-audible background audio featured him.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
Where It Belongs.
Holy shit! Conation are going to finally release their final EP! I don't want to be the one starting rumors or anything, but surely this means they'll play some shows...
Sunday, April 6, 2008
I'm Going To Tell God.
Last Saturday night, as the previous post mentions, I went to ShitTown. For those out of the loop, it's a fucking shitty fucking hipster bar in a stairwell next to St Jerome's in the city. At one point in the evening I found myself bemoaning the location with my friend Tash. "It's like some bar from Sex and the City that those women just had to be at the opening of." I whined. "Yes," she replied, "but full of eighteen year olds that you can't hit on because they used to be your students." Although technically, according to the letter of the law, I can hit on them, I took her point. Which isn't my point. My point is that the perfect antidote to a night in a place that features significantly in "what's hot" lists everywhere is Collapsed Toilet Vietnam.
They were playing Horse Bazaar on Wednesday night, and were alleged to be starting at 9.40. I didn't know this until 9.30, and was comfortably on the couch watching House when TJ worded me up. So I roared down St Kilda Rd, skidded into oncoming traffic on Little Lon, and made my way into the venue. CTV were just setting up. It kinda looked like all hell was breaking loose. There was gaffer tape plastered everywhere, connecting drums and amps and mic stands and - midway through the set - members of the band to the audience. There seemed to be stuff everywhere. They'd brought along their own PA, which add to the clutter, but which made perfect sense as soon as they started. When you're as deliberately loud and obnoxious as CTV, it pays to bring your own PA. I was surprised to see some other dude standing up there next to Petie Hyde, with some bamboo sticks and a metal bar. But when they started playing he joined in, whacking the sticks against the bar, then pressing the bar against his neck and screaming, the added bass and percussion pushing in and out of the wall of noise. CTV are the band I want appear out of nowhere when I'm at some shitty wedding or presentation night, to scare off everyone but the true believers. A band made up of fucking awesome musicians - whose collected ears for abrasive sound production are some of the finest around - making music that mums, trendy scenesters, authority figures and TV soundtrack scouts would fucking hate. Their sets are a little longer now, and some of the new songs are a little slower, but fuck me if they're not the best fucking band in town.
They were playing Horse Bazaar on Wednesday night, and were alleged to be starting at 9.40. I didn't know this until 9.30, and was comfortably on the couch watching House when TJ worded me up. So I roared down St Kilda Rd, skidded into oncoming traffic on Little Lon, and made my way into the venue. CTV were just setting up. It kinda looked like all hell was breaking loose. There was gaffer tape plastered everywhere, connecting drums and amps and mic stands and - midway through the set - members of the band to the audience. There seemed to be stuff everywhere. They'd brought along their own PA, which add to the clutter, but which made perfect sense as soon as they started. When you're as deliberately loud and obnoxious as CTV, it pays to bring your own PA. I was surprised to see some other dude standing up there next to Petie Hyde, with some bamboo sticks and a metal bar. But when they started playing he joined in, whacking the sticks against the bar, then pressing the bar against his neck and screaming, the added bass and percussion pushing in and out of the wall of noise. CTV are the band I want appear out of nowhere when I'm at some shitty wedding or presentation night, to scare off everyone but the true believers. A band made up of fucking awesome musicians - whose collected ears for abrasive sound production are some of the finest around - making music that mums, trendy scenesters, authority figures and TV soundtrack scouts would fucking hate. Their sets are a little longer now, and some of the new songs are a little slower, but fuck me if they're not the best fucking band in town.
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