It's the wrong side of midnight and I have to be up at 7, I left before the band finished playing but I'm not happy about it. I started the night out as a civilian but as soon as I discovered that The Annandale has installed soap dispensers in the ladies' toilets I decided to turn my notes into a review (which will theoretically be published sometime soon). I think I'm starting to love The Annandale, I used to think it was adequate with periods of shithouse sound but tonight there was soap and a chair with wheels. I managed to suffer only one mild disgrace when talking to members of bands such as Crow and The Mess Hall. I have a feeling The Annandale has taken pity on me, spread her beer-stained legs and offered me some shelter. I had nothing to do with the poor woman who tripped and fell down the stairs and lord knows if I was going to trip over anyone it would have been a Fenton or two. I had an awkward but passable conversation with John Fenton about kitchen stools and family photographs. He is using a scanner from 2001 but his computer is fairly new. I muttered strangely at Jed Kurzel who was interrupting my note-taking, I had to stuff my pen into the pockets of my jeans to shake his hand. I have no idea what he was saying to me, I was trying to grab the tail of a sentence as it flew through my head. I didn't manage to catch that sentence and I've been mourning its loss ever since. I suppose I should console myself with the fact that both he and I were rocking the double denim but mine slightly more stylish because I had made the addition of a silk tie.
Oh yes and the bands were quite good too.
For those people that like information the bands were:
Loene Carmen (solo)
The Holy Soul
The Kill Devil Hills
Showing posts with label Mashwoman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mashwoman. Show all posts
Purple reign
He was wearing a unitard in ideal purple and I couldn't stop staring. Ever since listerine started advertising their new pruple listerine I have wanted nothing more than be the precise same shade of purple. Standing next to purple unitard man was a woman wearing a dress made out of playing cards but the next woman over, white unitard and swimming cap, was talking to Paul Mac. I stepped carefully down off the wooden pontoon and walked away. Paul Mac was the most famous in the room and if the past is anything to go by then he was in horrible danger of being mildly injured in an unlikely incident caused by me. He wasn't even wearing anything remotely interesting, except for sunglasses, at night. I walked carefully over to Spencer and Madam Squeeze, matching cowboy outfits, and watched the purple unitard man through the small gap in between their giant cowboy hats.
I once performed an awkward intellectual swan dive into purple, covering every spare space in daubed patches of mixed pigments trying to create the perfect purple. I interviewed everyone from colour consultants and historians to church curates in an attempt to understand the historical significance of the colour. Years later I sat spellbound while Tony Robinson smashed molluscs and watched it ferment into a stinking dye. He had a more difficult time than I did with my pots of blue and red pigments sitting precious as gemstones in neat rows on my studio floor. I had forgotten about that strange and experimental month until I found myself greedily eyeing advertisements for listerine. Tony Robison came closer than listerine did to my long forgotten ideal hue but it seems my personal ideal purple is subject to change.
Trotting home from the shops with my new bottle of ideal purple made me indescribably happy. The bottle was sitting on top of my other shopping (underpants and plums) inside a purple shopping bag. It took me two days to break the seal on the bottle. On the third day I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, climbed into my new purple underpants then ripped off the plastic seal and measured out the correct amount in a medicine glass. As I swished the strange burning but pleasantly minty liquid around my mouth I experienced the incredible sensation that if this is as good as it gets then I couldn't be happier.
I once performed an awkward intellectual swan dive into purple, covering every spare space in daubed patches of mixed pigments trying to create the perfect purple. I interviewed everyone from colour consultants and historians to church curates in an attempt to understand the historical significance of the colour. Years later I sat spellbound while Tony Robinson smashed molluscs and watched it ferment into a stinking dye. He had a more difficult time than I did with my pots of blue and red pigments sitting precious as gemstones in neat rows on my studio floor. I had forgotten about that strange and experimental month until I found myself greedily eyeing advertisements for listerine. Tony Robison came closer than listerine did to my long forgotten ideal hue but it seems my personal ideal purple is subject to change.
Trotting home from the shops with my new bottle of ideal purple made me indescribably happy. The bottle was sitting on top of my other shopping (underpants and plums) inside a purple shopping bag. It took me two days to break the seal on the bottle. On the third day I scrubbed myself clean, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, climbed into my new purple underpants then ripped off the plastic seal and measured out the correct amount in a medicine glass. As I swished the strange burning but pleasantly minty liquid around my mouth I experienced the incredible sensation that if this is as good as it gets then I couldn't be happier.
Cock punch
Everybody is obsessed with saying 'cock punch'. I find this disturbing. It seems that generally people are saying it with reference to their own cocks, ladies included. I am assuming that the ladies are referring to their metaphorical cocks. Yesterday I overheard this example:
Man in red shirt: The sound was so shit I wanted to punch myself in the cock.
Man in blue shirt: Yeah. Cock punch.
Man in red shirt: Yeah, definitely cock punch. They are the shittest band in the world.
Man in blue shirt: Cock punch.
Man in red shirt: Sweet as. Cock punch.
What in the hell is going on?
A month or so ago some friends of mine had a band meeting. At the meeting they passed the resolution to 'not be shit'. It was a unanimous decision. If a person in the band decided that the band was beginning to sound shit they would mime a 'cock punch' thus alerting the rest of the band to a potential problem. How they thought that miming a 'cock punch' would go unnoticed by the crowd I do not know. I have since seen several people I don't know miming a 'cock punch' on the street.
All this miming of and talking about cock punches is well and good but I am a woman of action so I punched Brain Campeau* in what I suspect was his special man area.
I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing with my arms. I was quite excited and not a little elated after just witnessing something astonishing on a small stage on top of a mountain. I was performing an involuntary dance of happiness when my knuckles came into sudden contact with something hard. That's when Brian Campeau staggered forward into my field of vision and it became clear that he was the hard thing I had hit. He said something to me, I know not what, embarrassment has a muffling effect on my ears. He staggered forward clutching at the lower parts of himself and performing a strange little sort of hop.
I excitedly asked Brian if he was going to die. He proclaimed that he would live. I explained that I was sorry but also excited at the possibility of becoming a sudden murderer. He said "There are knives in the kitchen if you really want to kill me". Of course the entire exchange was witnessed by the two musicians I had come to review.
I was mortified at not only punching him in what I suspect was his 'area' but then telling him I was excited about murdering, in between prolific apologies. I thought about telling him that not only was it not personal but fairly inevitable because I am a Mashwoman but I think that would have increased rather than decreased my mortification.
The next day my knuckles were red and speckled with tiny grazes caused, I suspect, by the zipper on Brian Campeau's jeans.
* It is well worth stopping for a small moment to listen to his song Montreal by clicking here.
** It is also worth listening to the last song Falling live on FBI. You can hear someone laughing with astonishment at the end of the introduction, this is not an unusual response on first seeing Brian play his guitar live. What people don't know is that while his guitar playing appears to be impossible, it can sound like two guitars being played at once, is that his voice is huge, warm and frequently sublime.
Man in red shirt: The sound was so shit I wanted to punch myself in the cock.
Man in blue shirt: Yeah. Cock punch.
Man in red shirt: Yeah, definitely cock punch. They are the shittest band in the world.
Man in blue shirt: Cock punch.
Man in red shirt: Sweet as. Cock punch.
What in the hell is going on?
A month or so ago some friends of mine had a band meeting. At the meeting they passed the resolution to 'not be shit'. It was a unanimous decision. If a person in the band decided that the band was beginning to sound shit they would mime a 'cock punch' thus alerting the rest of the band to a potential problem. How they thought that miming a 'cock punch' would go unnoticed by the crowd I do not know. I have since seen several people I don't know miming a 'cock punch' on the street.
All this miming of and talking about cock punches is well and good but I am a woman of action so I punched Brain Campeau* in what I suspect was his special man area.
I wasn't paying attention to what I was doing with my arms. I was quite excited and not a little elated after just witnessing something astonishing on a small stage on top of a mountain. I was performing an involuntary dance of happiness when my knuckles came into sudden contact with something hard. That's when Brian Campeau staggered forward into my field of vision and it became clear that he was the hard thing I had hit. He said something to me, I know not what, embarrassment has a muffling effect on my ears. He staggered forward clutching at the lower parts of himself and performing a strange little sort of hop.
I excitedly asked Brian if he was going to die. He proclaimed that he would live. I explained that I was sorry but also excited at the possibility of becoming a sudden murderer. He said "There are knives in the kitchen if you really want to kill me". Of course the entire exchange was witnessed by the two musicians I had come to review.
I was mortified at not only punching him in what I suspect was his 'area' but then telling him I was excited about murdering, in between prolific apologies. I thought about telling him that not only was it not personal but fairly inevitable because I am a Mashwoman but I think that would have increased rather than decreased my mortification.
The next day my knuckles were red and speckled with tiny grazes caused, I suspect, by the zipper on Brian Campeau's jeans.
* It is well worth stopping for a small moment to listen to his song Montreal by clicking here.
** It is also worth listening to the last song Falling live on FBI. You can hear someone laughing with astonishment at the end of the introduction, this is not an unusual response on first seeing Brian play his guitar live. What people don't know is that while his guitar playing appears to be impossible, it can sound like two guitars being played at once, is that his voice is huge, warm and frequently sublime.
I am a mashwoman
I seem to have a habit of accidentally injuring famous people. The latest installment to my List Of Embarrassing Incidents happened in a doorway at The Annandale. I wasn't watching where I was going. I was talking to Spencer over my right shoulder as we squeezed through the narrow side of stage passage to go out the back. I'm not sure what I was going to say as I was distracted by the incredible stench coming from the men's toilets. What in the hell do they do in there? My best guess is that they wee into jars then stick the jars in microwaves to heat the wee before pouring hot wee into bain maries to further encourage the stench. There might also be poo involved but if there is then it is rancid poo. See, I am still distracted by the stench. I personally smelled like cigarettes and nannas but I did this on purpose by smoking cigarettes, applying a nanna perfume called "Safari" and wearing a red lipstick that smells like lipstick.
Did I mention that I haven't slept for four days? I am sure that insomnia caused my sore feet. Well it was either insomnia or the incessant walking I am doing in a bid to tire myself out. Ah yes, the celebrity mashing. I was squishing sideways through the doorway at the same time as a tall man but I was bumped and mashed into him. It was the sort of full frontal contact that usually occurs immediately before sex or even during but in this case I had my dress on, also jeans and underpants and socks and shoes. I looked up and croaked an embarrassed 'sorry'. He looked slightly puzzled but uttered 'that's cool' and continued on his way. It took a moment but when I realised who he was I turned around to look again but found only Spencer jumping up and down with excitement and yelling "That was Peter Buck!".
Beats the hell out of the time I headbutted Paul Mac but I really should mention that I have never smelled a more fragrant man than Paul Mac. There is the exception of Tex Perkins but that's a different kind of smell altogether because in the immortal words of Helen Razer "Tex is sex" and he smells like it, in a good way.
Did I mention that I haven't slept for four days? I am sure that insomnia caused my sore feet. Well it was either insomnia or the incessant walking I am doing in a bid to tire myself out. Ah yes, the celebrity mashing. I was squishing sideways through the doorway at the same time as a tall man but I was bumped and mashed into him. It was the sort of full frontal contact that usually occurs immediately before sex or even during but in this case I had my dress on, also jeans and underpants and socks and shoes. I looked up and croaked an embarrassed 'sorry'. He looked slightly puzzled but uttered 'that's cool' and continued on his way. It took a moment but when I realised who he was I turned around to look again but found only Spencer jumping up and down with excitement and yelling "That was Peter Buck!".
Beats the hell out of the time I headbutted Paul Mac but I really should mention that I have never smelled a more fragrant man than Paul Mac. There is the exception of Tex Perkins but that's a different kind of smell altogether because in the immortal words of Helen Razer "Tex is sex" and he smells like it, in a good way.
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