My new red bicycle and the landlord of doom

Flying, pain, transportation.

The constantly deflating tyre.

My new red bicycle and the landlord of doom

Cataclysmic but slowly and not without joy

We were up to our necks in love. Well that's what it felt like to me as I danced across the kitchen and down the hallway while about a dozen people sang their hearts out in my lounge room. 

The idea was simple. I wanted to drink some and sing a little. Gemma had the bright idea of throwing a singing party at The Peach, so I did. 

The night was dark and stormy (I have always wanted to write that and mean it). Some guests arrived drenched and shivering, clutching a guitar under one arm and a six pack under the other. Some swanned in shaking out umbrellas holding bottles of wine and one or two appeared in the kitchen as though teleportation was possible.

The singing began slowly but the chorus swelled until we were delirious and not one person was silent in the house. We had three people with guitars, Spencer, P. Street and Jeremy Smith, Robert on the floor with a tambourine and a snare and enthusiastic singing from no less than one dozen people at any one time. We wandered recklessly through musical history and modes of good taste, anyone got a go, anyone from Samantha Fox, David Bowie and Robyn Hitchcock to The Pixies and even Counting Crows. No one was more surprised than me to realise that all of us, without exception, knew all the words to Mr Jones.

Someone started up a Neil Young song so Spencer grabbed his bag and tipped eight harmonicas onto the ground, testing them drunkenly one by one to find the right one, he emerged from the floor in the nick of time to perform a note perfect solo. Wild applause erupted from the kitchen where some were making mulled wine and others danced as they poured chips into bowls and piled baklava onto plates.

The weather, jetlag and tour dates kept us to a small and merry band. From time to time one of us would look up and around the room and get a little misty because while we were singing just for the hell of it we were also saying goodbye. At midnight I gave a toast to The Peach and all who have sailed in her because Grizelda and I are moving out, for good.

Mr Oddweird the landlord has gone and done it this time. He has defaulted on his mortgage and The Peach is being repossessed by the bank. I have lived in fear of the day we would be forced, by one disaster or another, to leave this house but when the day arrived I surprised myself. I don't really mind. 

When I first came to The Peach I'd been most thoroughly shredded by the tragic end of a long and dramatic relationship. I wasn't sure it was possible to feel worse than I did, perhaps not even possible to feel like I did and stay alive for a whole day at a time but I did. It hasn't always been easy here in The Peach but I have loved it, every difficult, horrible, euphoric moment of it since I first walked through the door carrying nothing but a game of boggle and a plastic bottle full of water. 

Its been almost seven years since I signed the lease and handed over all of my savings for bond and two weeks rent in advance. The cat and I were both astonished by the light and noise of what we call the city when we first moved in. The cat spent the first fortnight in my wardrobe refusing to come out for anything but to use the litter tray or take a small drink of water. Now the cat roams the house freely and I can sleep through just about anything.

Mr Oddweird has let me down as a landlord over the years. The water has been turned off three times because he didn't pay the bill, he took off with the inside front door handle four years ago and never brought it back. The back door has never had a lock on it and he failed entirely to make any repairs to the bathroom after the mirrored cabinet crashed to the ground and smashed about six years ago.  Last year he began renovating the flat underneath The Peach (which has been vacant the entire time I have lived here) by removing the floors, walls, kitchen and bathroom and digging large holes in the now dirt floor. But this time I suspect he has mostly failed himself.

It seems strange to me that I am almost looking forward to the move. I'm ready for a new adventure. Grizelda and I are headed just three suburbs away but around here that's like a whole new country. We'll be setting up shop in a beautiful little house with polished floorboards, a dishwasher in the kitchen and a neat little courtyard out the back where I can plant strawberries and herbs. Sylvia the cat and Grizelda's new pain in the arse kitten Oscar will be making the move with us as will Edith the gold fish and most of our stuff.

I've been giving away belongings, throwing things out, selling furniture I've carried with me from relationship to relationship. Junking all the built-up useless things and jettisoning the ballast. When I pack my bags and make my way to the new house I'll probably be carrying a few little heartaches and a head full of memories but I'm going to put my teapot in the cupboard anyway and see what happens next.

Roger Daltrey is a centaur!

No further words required.

SLAMMATOWN - Tex Perkins and the unwashed floor

A sticky floor gives you something to hold on to, with your feet, when five drunk men knock you sideways as they muscle past carrying six beers each. It holds you, like a subterranean lover, enabling you to bend, wobble, flex and lean. Stuck fast you can hang on to your hard-won position, not too far from the bar, with a good view of the band. Everything will be beautiful but nothing lasts forever, when floors become too sticky two separate yet equally horrible disasters may occur.

Disaster One; feet stay put when the rest of you moves, embarrassingly bruising consequences ensue. Disaster Two; feet slip out of shoes, bare soles touch the raw horror of foul floor and convulsive shivers invade all modes of thought, forever. Here now is a sorry tale of how Disaster One defeated the universe and Tex Perkins was lost to me forever.

Continue reading...

Take me down to testosterone city

If there is a god he was man-shaped and multiple and standing at the bar. The Duke of Edinburgh is a tidal pub towed by the almighty whim of the Enmore Theatre booker. Tonight it was Jane's Addiction, I didn't have a ticket, I wasn't the least interested in that band until I ran smack bang into the wall-to-wall testosterone factory filling every inch of space at The Duke.

The joint was crammed with men, real men. Craggity rock'n'roll semi-drunk testosterone-fueled men. Hallelujah. There was so much testosterone in there I think I got an erection, I certainly had the urge to wee standing up on a fence post before making rough Cowboy punch-love.

My friend, let's call her K2, didn't seem at all impresed, if anything she showed regulation level annoyance at our local once again being disturbed by a one-night-only fan crowd but I think she was just showing her age. K2 is young, young enough to follow an indie boy across a room with one secretly interested eye. I couldn't care less about indie boys, for a start they're boys and all they care about is their hair. I don't know when this Peter Pan fad became de rigueur for all male humans under thirty but I am the fuck sick of it. Grow up, organise your shelves, invest in cologne for occasional use and for goodness sake get a tea pot and learn how to provide for yourself. Growing tomatoes in pots and thinking about what you might cook to take to Christmas lunch could also help.

I still don't like Jane's Addiction but I just might become a fan of their fans because like I said, if there is a god he was man-shaped and multiple and standing at the bar.

Let's get drunk and drive or The Holy Soul's narrow escape from a suicide ride

There’s no turning back on a suicide ride. David Thomas is an arsehole and a genius. Sydney band The Holy Soul already knew this. Bassist Sam Worrad has been hassling the Sydney Festival for years to invite David Thomas to perform, this year it finally happened. The Holy Soul saw their chance and offered to be Thomas’s backing band in a side show.

The Holy Soul are either monumentally brave or recklessly suicidal.

Thomas has been terrifying audiences, musicians and readers with his band Pere Ubu since 1975. Last night he terrified me, petrified me to the point of unbearable tension. I wanted to flee but I was pinned like a butterfly in a point of light. Thomas berated The Holy Soul, stopped the song ‘Vacuum In My Head’ three times before abandoning it, made them play ‘Clouds Of You’ all the way through, twice and stared so menacingly at Worrad during ‘Perfume’ that I thought he might cry, or spontaneously combust. Thomas was so fierce that even I, sitting in the upstairs gallery, was coursing with unwanted adrenalin.

Control, in the hands of a genius, yields magnificent results. The Holy Soul were electric, all molecules in their beings irreversibly honed on Thomas’s every sound, look and gesture. I have never witnessed four people focus with such intensity. Thomas picked up his miniature accordion for ‘Bus Called Happiness’, sound pulsed through the air as though the universe hung, note for note, suspended on this song and the will of one man. This performance was memorable not only for the terror but the beauty.

Pere Ubu, Thomas’s band, have been described as avant garage and the ‘world’s only expressionist Rock’n’Roll band’, but that was by Thomas himself.  Sure it sounds like Rock’n’Roll but there is more to it than that. Calling Pere Ubu Rock’n’Roll is like calling the sun a bit warm.

Last year The Holy Soul’s second album Damn You, Ra was released to critical acclaim. Dropping their whole sound and repertoire to work with Thomas is one of the things that makes this band great, and brave, but it wasn’t the first time. As well as working with David Thomas they have previously shed their songs to improvise with the legendary Damo Suzuki. Thomas understood the power and genius of his backing band. He released their full might in ‘30 Seconds Over Tokyo’, he stepped away from the mic as The Holy Soul let fly. He stood there motionless, with his head bowed and his right arm paused half way through lifting a glass to his lips, just this once relinquishing control as the noise unfolded around him.

Intense was the word of the night, after it was done the audience staggered out onto Enmore Rd. They looked like newly released hostages. They shuffled in silence forming small circles for safety and then it began. It was the kind of debriefing I’d expect after the apocalypse or the funeral of a person on the cusp of adulthood. One woman, with her hand on her heart said, ‘It was gruesome and beautiful but it was also so human. He spoke some kind of truth up there but I don’t think I could have taken any more.’ And we all agreed that it was magnificent but we were glad it was over.

Photo by Lyndal Irons © 2010

Review also appears in RHUM.

So why are they saying this isn't true?

Two seconds at The Hopetoun

I don't believe this is the end. There is a big grief behind this denial. I don't suppose I've talked about it before but The Hopetoun is one of the places where I suddenly looked down and found that my feet were standing just precisely where I always hoped they'd be. The other moment I don't talk about is the two seconds where one turned back birthed a god.


They come out of the crowd at The Hopetoun, the one standing next to you suddenly stops at the end of your sentence to look up at the stage. They might make a vague gesture with their head or nod at someone already scrambling onstage. There's always this moment; they breathe unaware of the accordion push of their lungs. They'll stare then at walls or the stage or their last chance to run for the green backlit EXIT. Here's the part that breaks my heart, the first step after they pivot and leave you standing in the crowd.  Barely head and shoulders above us but it's enough to get a clear idea of where they're coming from and just where we're likely to send them. It's how we spread our legs and birth our gods, forty centimetres off the floor.

There is a rumour

That The Hopetoun is shutting down. It might be best to panic after I find out if it is true or not, and not before.

Damn You, Ra

I kept staring at Rusty from You Am I not for any other reason than he is a man that knows Tim Rogers. Spencer told me to stop it then I realised that Spencer is also a man that knows Tim Rogers, not as well as Rusty but still there you go. Next time I might stare at Spencer. I was jammed into Repressed Records like a sunburnt sardine with Newtown's finest unwashed. Today was the first day in Spencer's album launch juggernaut. It was an instore album launch, Spencer and Mr Hunter worked out that if they continued to sell records at the rate they sold during the instore gig then they would be earning 36 million dollars a month. I double checked their calculations, they are correct but the likelihood of this happening is just about the same as me returning to my international modeling career. If it does come true then Spencer can start paying for my coffee. To help my free coffee dreams come true go and buy the album.


For those people who like information the album is called "Damn You, Ra" by The Holy Soul.


Did I mention that I am on this album?

Bloody hell

Spencer P Jones, fresh coconut (sugar with a wood aftertaste), Dave Graney, brass birds, giant cakes. So far, so good.

Free(lance) at last

There is a difficulty of delicacy and balance. Those who live by the sword. I have been writing words. Not the happy slap blurting of the words in this place but planned and purposed words strung together in a recipe to make my daily bread. It taxes me. It's not like the magic of fishes and loaves.

It is a stupid bravery; standing still with your insides typed out and palms up waiting for the nod and the miracle digital handshake but I would not do anything else.

My other discovery is that of wordless noise and the vision of myself as an aging rocker. Unconscious harmonic movement of limbs, sometimes. To steal a line from Spencer I "drum like I'm falling down stairs", but that works just fine for me. Sarah, the magnificent drummer from Whores, has given me ample drunken instruction on the art of drumming to allow me for one moment to forget everything I ever thought of.

I felt like a moving beast with multiple pulsing hearts. Each thrash of a semi-coordinated limb marking out time territorially, pushing back everything except wordless sound. Moment to moment I fell in and out with the guitar. I moved from general creator of cacophony to originator of rhythm then seamlessly out back into the world of general noise. I lay down my sticks for a moment and grinned at Grizelda who looked ever so slightly shocked to find herself in a velvet draped, fully equipped and smoke hazed rehearsal space. She grinned and said 'keep going you're doing it', I collected my sticks, found a hole in the guitar sound and slipped back into that wordless place. Five minutes later I shook the sweat from my hair, raised my gaze above the ride cymbal and found that my limbs were moving of their own accord. Phil the guitarist looked across at me, nodded and mouthed the word 'yes'.

Big black boxes, cheap hotels and an ordinary job

By Spencer (Rock Laureate of Slammatown)

Part I

There are certain clichés that go along with being an indie rock star. Drugs, groupies, money, big shiny cars...

The truth of the matter is that only the very few get to live such lifestyles, while the rest of this strange breed of person have to be contented with being a rock star at the weekend while working a day job the rest of the week. Even on these special rock star days, the indie rock star has to deal with an array of disgruntled promoters, hung over sound technicians, irritable owners and managers of the seedy corner pubs in which the indie rock star is going to do his or her 'art'. Even the seemingly simple taste of getting one's friends 'on the door list' becomes a tiresome task for the indie rock star – they all expect to get their 'cut' of the door and ticket sales - the door list becomes a monument to lost profits (a read of Stuart Coupe's book 'The Promoters' tells more of their story). However there is definitely a positive side to getting into such a ridiculous game such as this. Andy Moore, drum maestro from Melbourne based bands Kamikaze Trio and Digger And The Pussycats, said "I wouldn't trade playing in a band for the world, but it's not all private jets and sex with groupies. Touring usually means endless hours stuffed into a van full of equipment, constant sleep depravation, losing money and generally pushing your body to the upper limits of self-abuse. It’s great."

The struggle for an aspiring indie rock star to create original art and then get that art accepted by venue bookers is immense. The major problem is that of the unknown - hiring a covers band (one that only plays other people's material - generally the certified 'hits') or DJ (one that plays the original recordings of other people's 'hits') for the night is more likely to draw the 'common people' crowd, where an original band or artist is going to be unpredictable – they might bring friends and a regular following but might also perform something that is different or weird and who wants that while sinking a few beers?

In time, the indie rock star's weird factor can turn into an indie rock star's 'Thing'. Suddenly the unknown becomes known, and the indie rock star is allowed to do their Thing in more public places (as long as they keep to their Thing and don't change that Thing). The small crowd they drew at the start are the people who 'saw them back in the day' and an indie rock star becomes a successful indie rock star. They may then have the opportunity to haul their belongings up and down the Hume Highway or fly between Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane, with the occasional trip to Adelaide, and if particularly keen, Perth. The more remote and rural areas are generally left to former indie rock stars that have hit the big time and are now keen to 'get back to their roots'. Others just move to European countries.


So who are some of these Indie Rock Stars? Find out in Part II




Part II

The institution known as Nick Cave, a Melbourne raised private school lad, made his appearance as one of The Boys Next Door, attracted attention in The Birthday Party and then made a solo career as Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. The common threads that run through Cave's work are the usage of traditions of American blues and
folk musics that are altered through a blending with large doses of the more extreme work of Captain Beefheart, Leonard Cohen and Elvis Presley. What comes out the other side is a dark yet humorous style that ranges from the monstrous demented and twisted experiments of The Birthday Party to the quiet beauty of songs such as "Sad Waters" and "Into My Arms".


Ed Kuepper began his journey as the guitarist and songwriter of The Saints. He was there from 1974 until 1978 for their 'classic period' that gave the world the "(I'm) Stranded" single and album plus many other early Australian punk rock classics. From 1979 to 1984 he was the head of the messed up jazz rock thing that was The Laughing Clowns. From 1985 to now he has existed as a solo artist.

The Saints first single "(I'm) Stranded" was released on their own record label because no other Australian label would release it, something many an Indie
musician would be familiar with. Much of Kuepper's later solo work is in the singer/songwriter tradition, similarly with Nick Cave. At the end of the madness,
it is still the song that wins.


Just as some Indie stars reach the mainstream, many mainstream stars go on to find their place in the Indie world. Don Walker, the guy that wrote "Khe Sanh" and
played in Oz pub rock superstars Cold Chisel, has spent time since the band broke up pursuing a solo career, his current focus being on the Tex, Don & Charlie project.

Rob Hirst, drummer for Midnight Oil, has led a similar existence. In recent times his work, aside from playing in The Backsliders, has been with Ghostwriters, a band created in order to play Hirst's songs that don't make the Oils' final cut.

The Scientists made the trip from Perth to Sydney, taking with them their sound of buzzing guitars that played Elvis Presley and Link Wray riffs in unusual
time signatures (they liked to count to five instead of four).

The Johnnys stayed in Sydney to play a beer-fuelled country music that took a wrong turn into loud rock music. Their shows featured duel on-stage bar fridges and hay bails that were thrown over the audience.

The Sunnyboys, who also resided in Sydney, mixed the pop sensibilities of The Beatles, The Kinks, and many other 1960s pop pioneers with the ideals and power of
the artists of the new wave such as Elvis Costello & The Attractions and The Clash.

Indie rock icons sometimes move in tribes. Others congregate in darkened bar rooms. Perhaps the Australian Indie scene's Travelling Wilburys, the monster that is known as The Beasts Of Bourbon is a collaboration of a number of Indie icons, principle
players being maestro Tex Perkins (the Cruel Sea guy, or Greg as his mum calls him), Spencer P. Jones (lead Johnny of The Johnnys), Kim Salmon (head Scientist), and Brian Hooper (he plays with everyone, now is working on his solo career). When Salmon went upstream, his replacement was and has been Charlie Owens (a later member of The Divinyls, also as Charlie of Tex, Don & Charlie, the Australian Indie version of CSN&Y). What The Beasts deliver captures a lot of what the whole rock thing is about - loudness, obnoxious couldn't-care-less attitudes, and well-written songs at the base of it all.


Crow are an obvious candidate. Based around Peter Fenton's songs (and later some from Peter Archer), the band existed from 1988 until 1998, producing a rock style that saw the songs shift from one focus to another in a gloriously ugly fashion that created its own beauty.

The Perth Indie scene in 1988 saw the birth of The Gutterville Splendour Six, a band heard by few but lauded by those who did - the late English radio personality John Peel was in the 'those that did' category. What made the band was the sense that every
word and noise was essential in expressing an urgency and desperation. The music is loud, messy and sludge-like because there is no other choice - an
emotional response. The story goes that the band ceased when some of its members left Perth for Sydney (a common thread in the Australian Indie rock story).
What is left are the products of the various members of the band, the main ones being The Drones, Lowdorados, and The Kill Devil Hills. The urgency was passed along to The Drones. They have a similar fundamental sound. This music is uncomfortable the
first few times around but becomes vital once properly digested.

But what happened next? Find out in Part III



Part III

AFTERTHOUGHT
I wrote this article in 2005 and never really finished it. It is now 2009 and not much has changed except perhaps for the following:

-Digger And The Pussycats played their last show, Andy moved to Germany. Game off. Then he moved back to Australia. Game back on.

-Nick Cave grew a moustache, started a band called Grinderman, did more shows with the Bad Seeds then Mick Harvey left the Bad Seeds.

-Ed Kuepper regrouped The Saints and Laughing Clowns and is now Mick Harvey's replacement in The Bad Seeds.

-Scientists, The Johnnys, Crow and The Beasts Of Bourbon continue to reform and break up and reform and break up and reform.

-Tex Perkins released an intentionally awful covers album. It sold poorly, Dale bought a copy.

-Kill Devil Hills and The Drones continue their rise to greatness. The Drones have new albums and sold out shows in abundance.

The current state of affairs is there is a new band born every other week, a new gang of people looking to do their "thing", those needing and willing to do the hard yards stick it out, others fall by the wayside.

David Thomas of Pere Ubu said it best
"Rock music is about moving big black boxes from one side of town to the other in the back of your car."

If this is true, in the words of Neil Young
"Long may you run".

Or perhaps I should end with the words of an Australian? Or at least a New Zealander who has been in Australia long enough to be considered Australian…

I checked into a cheap motel
I liked the look, I liked the smell
It was like a dive and bell from inside
I had a gig that day I guess
I never had the time to rest
Caught 5 minutes more or less before the show
Suddenly i see success
Success is dead, long live the rest
I'm lucky to be living through
whatever I say, whatever I do

from memory, Spencer P. Jones said that, or something quite like it.

Exaltation is not the word I'm looking for but I sure like the sound of it

I'm fairly certain that Keith Richards lives inside his guitar. Music is always there, he's just pointing out the obvious with particular movements of his hands like a child holding up an arm to a sky and a rainbow.

Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.

I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.

Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.

The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.

The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.

Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.

Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.

Stop the press: Ratcat was just in my car

Last night I woke underneath a blurred ball of howling fiends. The Mean Cat had broken into the house and was fighting my cat right on top of me. I thought I had been deported to the pits of hell. I yelled and the cats disappeared leaving me lacerated and bleeding from head to foot. This was not an omen of things to come.

The plan was to meet Superman for a night of poetry then maybe have a coffee, talk about the poetry and head home to pick out my most boring tie for the office tomorrow. Instead Superman was late and missed the poetry altogether. He arrived just in time to dive in my car and be sped away to Marrickville.

During the course of the afternoon I received a text message cordially inviting me to spend a few listening to The Cruel Sea get their groove on in preparation for their big gig tomorrow night. It is not sensible to suggest that this invitation required thought or consideration.

The room was small and tropical. Superman and I lounged on an enormous red bench seat that ringed the room, companionably close to Spencer and Madam Squeeze. Tex Perkins roamed the space microphone stand in tow singing every damn thing from Black Stick to a quite unexpected and calm Bohemian Rhapsody. The band was tight despite the odd dropped ball befitting the relaxed atmosphere. The bass player, who looks remarkably like Tim Rogers, has an elastic physicality to his playing that leaves nothing to be desired.

I think its the way Tex stands. The earth isn't made from rock for nothing. He draws it up through the flat booted soles of his feet until it gathers force and he lets rip. His presence wound its way around the room eating air and climbing walls until there wasn't a still molecule amongst us. Tex Perkins is frightening like he has more edges than middle.

Superman was grinning from ear to ear, I don't suppose he could believe his luck. I know I couldn't. He tried to pull a Tex Perkins face but the grin wouldn't disappear. I kept commanding "Stop grinning!" but of course he couldn't and this lead to the question "Does my grin look wolfish?". Hell yeah is what I thought, I don't think a grin could get more wolfish but I didn't think it would be polite so I said no then modified it to maybe just a little bit.

Superman decided that Tex Perkins did not look very tall. This necessitated a strategic walk by and an independent judge. Madam Squeeze declared Superman to be about a hand taller than Tex Perkins. This was a revelation for all involved, except maybe Tex Perkins who had no idea what we were doing.

My my, whoever has tickets for the Metro tomorrow night is in for a hell of a show despite the relative height of Mr Perkins.

I gave Simon from Ratcat a lift into Newtown. He is shortish, aging and fond of wearing leather caps. I used to want to marry him when I was in high school, don't tell anyone. Later that night Superman sent this message: Ratcat was in your car!

Yes indeed. Ratcat was in my car.

Brilliant idea: Large print fantales

No need for wearing glasses, excellent large print fantales solve all your lolly wrapper reading needs. I haven't had fantales since I spent three days in a film festival eating nothing but fantales because that is all the food I had in my bag, except for once when there was a peanut butter sandwich.

I drank some terrible wine, I left the bottle in the sun for a while, about a week or so and then I put it in the fridge. This is the way to make wine terrible. I've been sitting on The Peach Deck in the moonlight drinking terrible wine and talking with The Peachettes. Grizelda has a boy that did not show up, The Spatula's one was sick. They got them from the internet. I personally prefer the library.

I don't like the idea of ordering an internet man. I'd much prefer to run around and look at things and stop and think about the things than to worry about stinky boys. If my mother was not already a lesbian I might consider a less stinky girl but it would just be a bit like copying really.

I am thinking about buying myself presents tomorrow. All this buying of presents for other people is no good. I want presents. I am also considering purchasing a terrible Christmas candle for placing on the table at my Mother's house. I like the idea of insisting on burning some foul smelling tacky neon bright reindeer contraption in amongst the silver and crystal.

Just a small word of advice about dishwashers. You cannot place bone handled silver knives in the dishwasher and then make the dishwasher go without your mother yelling. It is better to vaguely stack plates and then race out to bags the hammock in the chestnut tree. The other thing is about toilets. It is not an excellent idea to have a large picture window in your toilet, without curtains, that directly faces the bocce court. These are things you need to know if you are going either visiting my Mother or have gone back in time as my Mother and are talking to the architect about placing large curtainless windows into the house.

The other thing you might like to do is wear socks with little grippy rubber bits on the bottom. When you are walking between rugs on the floor of my Mother's house you would do well to take care as the floorboards are rather slippery. Horatio the Great Dane takes full advantage of this and runs very fast and then slides. He is a large dog and can quite easily knock over both Dale and her brother without noticing, if he is sliding. He never seems to break anything which is nice.

It is better not to eat seven fantales very quickly and then go to bed. You should eat them one at a time, chewing and swallowing each one before unwrapping the next then have a glass of water and go and brush your teeth, even if drunk.

I have moved my birthday by one month and one day, instead of January it will be in February and my party is going to be excellent. It is guaranteed. Even if I am the only person who goes it will be excellent because it is at Spencer's gig with Damo Suzuki and Tex Perkins. Spencer will be there, and the others in the band and Tex Perkins will be there too. Spencer said that Tex Perkins is a bit mean so I will stare at him from a distance instead of racing up to him and telling him that he is on my list of aging rockers.

I do not want to have a glass of water. I would rather hydrate alternatively but I don't think that's been invented yet, except for in hospitals where they can drill a hole in you and pipe the stuff straight in. If you are ever in hospital it is better to ask for extra blankets straight away or else you might get cold and nurses are mean and won't bring you more blankets. This happened to me once. I vomited for three whole days. I would go to sleep and wake up in a different outfit. I like to be The Captain of which outift I wake up in. To be fair this was in 1981 and things may have improved in hospitals since then.

I am suspicious of nurses. Why would you be a nurse when you could just be a doctor? Same thing with legal secretaries. Why would you be a legal secretary and not a lawyer? Its just not sensible. Anyone can be a lawyer, you simply need to enrol in the university of your choice, complete the course and huzzah six years later instant lawyer. Perhaps I will buy a cardigan in the morning.

From the phone of Madam Squeeze springs more than I ever imagined

I bring you The Two Spencers. Spencer and Spencer P Jones (guest appearance by Madam Squeeze's thumb).

Spencer requested that this photo be made public in order to commemorate a Spencetastic moment in the life of Spencer. Spencer and Madam Squeeze walked into a bar in Melbourne, Spencer P Jones was halfway through a song when he spied Spencer in his Television t-shirt walk in holding a guitar. He stopped playing and said "That's the best t-shirt I've seen in ages, you've got a guitar do you want to come and play?". Spencer could not have been more pleased. Afterwards they went to a tequila bar but they could not afford any of the tequila.

Last night I spent an evening in The Townie with Spencer and Madam Squeeze. They are the opposite of hollow people, they are the antidote. Sometimes an evening can fall into philosophy and the necessary torture of artistic pursuits in such a way that you wake up and feel your locked and narrow path is exactly the right one. You can wake up with the intention of spending a whole day typing and typing your manuscript and feel, for once, surrounded in your isolation. Its ok to be a person that pays attention.

Eliza Donnithorne's got nothing on me

Aeon, cereal, eye, gnome, hour, knife, pseudonym, xanadu. These are all words that sound like they start with a different letter. By the end of the evening I aim to have an entire alphabet. I should point out that I stole this idea, Robert was telling me that his brother was talking about it but hadn't yet done it. I am going to beat him. I will probably never meet him but I still want to beat him. My alphabet will be first.

Tim Rogers walked past Gemma today. This is clearly very unfair as she does not share my views on aging rockers. Boli sent me a text today saying that he is getting married in one month. It is a family only wedding. I am not invited and this makes me inexplicably teary. I do not wish to talk about it in fact I have not even phoned him.

I understand that it is his wedding and if he wants to have a very small family only wedding then I should be saying things like "That's fine. Its your wedding, you should do whatever you want". I am sick of saying that. It is a lie.

I want to go to Boli's wedding so much that I cried. This is unusual behaviour. Weddings are ordinarily very boring and you have to eat horrible things and wear stupid clothes and sit around in a room painted peach being polite to fucktards for hours on end. The only real benefit of weddings is wedding cake icing. You can generally smuggle several pieces over to your table and peel off the icing. The unwanted yucky cake can then be neatly wrapped in a napkin and placed on a dirty plate or in an extreme situation in a handily concealed plant.

I always lie about weddings and end up saying things like " I am happy to wear the maroon lace sack of crap and then pose for photographs" or "Why on earth would I mind that you invited my ex from high school to your wedding? I don't care at all that once he had non-consensual sex with me". Lies, lies and more lies. I am a compulsive wedding liar but worse than that is I plan to continue being a wedding liar. I can't see any way around it, people become odd about their weddings.

I know eight people that are getting married in the next few months. They are all younger than me. I am officially a spinster. Left on the shelf. Crazy cat lady. Reject of society. Wild, lonely and free.

I am spending the evening writing an alphabet of words that sound like they start with different letters than they do. Pneumatic.

Arise Sir Rockin'

I declare Ben Mendelsohn to be an honorary Aging Rocker. Arise Ben Mendelsohn.

This is indeed a high honour and will not be bestowed often. Ben Mendelsohn is on the Not Instant No list. This is a very short list. So far it only has Ben Mendelsohn on it. Robert thought he might have found me a Not Instant No man on you tube the other day but he was wrong. It was instant no followed by a small period of reflection where I moved him up to the Ten Seconds list.

Hangover cure?

Obsession with aging rockers increasing as hangover worsens. Am living dead, pig definitely shat in head only light in blurry darkness is thought of ripping tie off aging rocker before diving in for rather vigorous, um, actually haven't got to part after riping tie off. Maybe entire fantasy is to just rip tie off aging rocker? That's odd.

I saw one of the boys from the party in the supermarket on Enmore Rd, he squished past me as I was walking out the door with my shopping. I thought oh no, that's the one that I described as practicing aloof. I scared him by staring straight into his face and saying Hello Tom while he was still trying to work out if he recognised me or not. I didn't wait for his response, I had already turned my back and was walking down Enmore Rd by the time he said Hello. Ha! Take that Mr Aloof the knobtard.