From One Lover To Another

These last few weeks have been a time of great upheaval, if not for me personally, then definitely for pretty much everyone I know. It seems every second person I speak to has just been sacked, dumped, hospitalized, evicted, or all of the above. Some blame the moon, some blame the season, some blame just plain old dumb luck and coincidence. I don't blame anything at all. There's no real point in searching for a reason. With the weather the way it is, it's bound to rain shit in my particular neighbourhood sooner or later. What I'm struggling with is the language of sympathy. Words - usually my favoured means of communication - tend to fall jarringly short at times like this, leaving me feeling self-consciously useless. The best I can do is nod my head, offer hugs and hot chocolate, and suggest a Roberta Flack record that really helped last time the shitstorm came down on me. I hope, friends, that this is enough.

Black Water.

Despite the fact that no one else seems to, I listen to The Constantines a lot. And it struck me on the way to work the other day that their albums, in terms of quality, pretty much follow the same order as the Indiana Jones movies. The order, should you die wondering, goes 1 - 3 - 2 - 4. The Constantines could switch one and four, depending on mood. This is not to say that any of them are bad records - or bad movies - but rather that similar problems plague both sequels and consequent records. Evolution, changing circumstances, age... Harrison Ford and Bry Webb really need to get together and chat.

We Can Rely On Each Other.

Leith arrived home from Europe last night and brought with him a whole swag of records, including a belated birthday present for me: The Constantines and Feist 7". Their cover of Islands In The Stream is pretty much the cutest thing I've heard on a little record since The Promise Ring's Best Looking Boys.

You're The Best... Around

Holy shit, the Love Me You're Famous blog is up. Get there, get on board.

You And Me It Contains, My Heart.

I'll Take My Last Ten Bucks Just As Far As It Will Go.

When I was a kid, growing up in Stawell, a bunch of friends and I used to put on shows. In the beginning my participation in the organizing of these shows was pretty minimal, but as the older kids left, younger kids stepped up. Bands would come up from Melbourne, play the show, and usually drive the three hours back to the city. We'd organize a hall, perhaps run a bus from Ararat, convince the local community health centre to give us some money for a PA. I'm not quite sure why we thought it was important. I guess we'd seen Nirvana and Hole filmclips and somehow got the impression that there was something more out there, that we could begin to create our own community - or at least our own sense of community - by bringing to the countryside bands that gave voice to the way we were feeling. And, for the most part, these bands did. And we pretty much behaved in the way the kids in those filmclips behaved, stagediving, moshing, crashing into each other. Sometimes I feel like that was pretty much all there was to it. I certainly don't ever recall ever thinking to myself, "Wow, things are pretty shit up here in Stawell, what with the rednecks and the lack of decent quality existential angst, but at least there are people in Melbourne who know how I feel. Things are ok after all." But I guess I must've internalized it, somehow. There are, even for me now, times when I'll be considering some new concept, and I can tell I'm viewing it through the lens I've been unable to remove since the age of 14, a lens that was shaped by hundreds of shitty shows and conversations about records and poorly photocopied zines. Maybe stagediving and moshing and crashing into each other is enough at that age. Maybe that's all you need. Maybe that's the kind of elementary dumbness that community is based on, and every show and conversation and zine just builds on that.

If You're Hurting, So Am I.

When it comes to winter projects, this is surely the best. My friend Nat is collecting love letters written to Daniel Larusso from Karate Kid 1-3. Not to the actor, to the character. If you're interested in participating, leave your email in the comments. I'll be in touch.

Roots! Rock! Reggae!

I'm going to be a little controversial tonight. When you're in a band and playing shows, I guess your number one aim is to share your art with a bunch of people. If you just wanted to create cool stuff you'd keep it in the bedroom. If you're out and about then your intentions are different, and that's ok. Now, surely you want to share your art with as many people as possible - without compromising it, of course (this isn't a major label / indie label rant. It's not 1995 any more, kids). And, if possible, you'd like to be able to make a living off your music, so you could concentrate completely on making kick ass art. Which is also fair enough. But I'm not sure if it's possible to do this as an indie rock or punk band living in Australia. Hell, as I mentioned before, I know a guy who was in both the Triffids and the Blackeyed Susans, and he still works a day job. Because we're such a small market, it's pretty much impossible to live off your music in Australia. And because we're such a small market, you could tour your ass off year round and still only play to a small bunch of people. So, if your aims are to reach a lot of people and to maybe one day live off your music, then perhaps staying in Australia isn't the right thing to do. Perhaps you should move to the US, see what life is like in a bigger pond, and maybe become the biggest fish you can be.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that maybe this is where the Diamond Sea are at. I mean, in saying this, I don't want to define success for them. I'm writing with the aforementioned assumptions in mind, and they may not apply. But their first record is about to come out, and word on the street (from me) has it that it's unbelievable. Their songs are well-written and constructed, their live shows are engaging and, well, they're tight. I know they've got a bunch of other stuff going on in their lives, and that maybe the band isn't their number one priority, but if they're serious about taking the band as far as they can then they should probably be trying to get someone to release that record in the States, then go over there and tour the hell out of it. They're an amazing band, and at times when I'm watching them I feel like Melbourne - and maybe even Australia - is just a little too small for them.

13 Hours On A Bus

Writing from a cafe, due to no internet at home. This post is likely to be short, due to caffeine-induced jitteriness and low battery life. There are still a few key things I wanted to mention.

The first is that I've been getting my kids to write projects on radicals from the sixties. They have to do some context work first, and one of the questions is, "What kind of music did people listen to in this period?"

One of my kids took umbrage at this. "What do you mean?" He demanded. "They listened to all kinds of music. You know, blues, rock, jazz..."
"Yeah, that's a really good point, but what was popular music like back then?"
"What do you mean? Lots of music was popular back then!"
Eventually I just told him to look up what was number one on the charts for longest. But later that night it struck me. He's never known a world without youtube, myspace and itunes. He's never had to depend on the radio and latenight rage for his information. He therefore has no concept of popular music. And that's a weird notion for me - almost postmodern subculture theory come to life. We no longer have a popular music culture to define ourselves either through or against. The anarchist in me loves this idea, but fuck, it's going to be difficult for a fifteen year old kid to figure out what to rebel against.

The second thing - and it strikes me now that all three of these pressing concerns are at the very least tenuously thematically linked - is that my headphones broke the other day, forcing me to use the crappy free pair that TJ got from work. The strange thing about listening to crappy sound systems is that once you get over the initial kneejerk reaction ("Ugh! This sounds like ass!"), the new sounds highlight some things and de-emphasize others - a different pair of headphones essentially redefine your music. I find myself listening to bands I'd long neglected (world inferno friendship society, anyone?), just because they come off totally killer when the sound is bad.

The third thing is that the music teacher at my highschool was just inducted into the ARIA Hall of Fame. Turns out he was in the Triffids. When I asked him about it he told me it was weird being recognized for a band he started in highschool with some mates back in Perth (especially given his other band - the Blackeyed Susans - played with Johnny Cash). There's a movie being made about them too. The tenuous link between this post and the other two is that it seems like Phil is being defined differently by the public than he would define himself, and I guess will have to, for his own sanity, find somewhere comfortable between the two.

Yep.

Your Anecdotes.

I'm too tired to write a full post, but I want to mention two bands that fucking slayed all comers at the oh deago show last night: Useless Children, straight outta Melbourne and ripping it old school; and Grenadiers, of Adelaide, whose downstroke rock echoes and builds on the Hot Snakes. Jesse from the latter flicked me a copy of their demo cd, and I'm going to listen to it right now.

Settle The Score.

Them And Us.

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.

Just Like Pagliacci Did.

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.

Bottles Of Beer.

100th post.