The Beautiful Girls make music for tanned people. I say take it to the beach and leave it there. Some things need to be shat on by seagulls.
Never before have I felt the urge to scream the name of a record label but I have tell you, ‘Die!Boredom’ was definitely on my mind. When frontman Mat McHugh started singing My Mind is an Echo Chamber, I thought what a coincidence, so is mine, this is the effect you are having on me. The complete absence of engaging music provided me with ample opportunity to focus on other things, like the large number of pork pie hats perched on audience members and how DJ Dizzy D has lovely bouncing hair that ripples like a field of barley when he dances.
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Not really anything at all due to a genuine sensation of tiredness
The very best state in which to receive a fierce and well thought out critique of your magazine is hungover and sleep deprived to the point of a new kind of clarity. You'll probably just have to take my word for it.
Bindings
Finally violence has made a comeback in the Inner West! I was beginning to think we had all been gentrified into a state of polite distaste. There have been three acts of violence in Slammatown this week. One friend was bopped in the head during a poker match for making a thoughtless remark, another attacked inside a kebab shop for no reason whatsoever and one stranger was thumped in the head quite forcefully by a passing homeless woman outside of The Duke. I welcome these acts of violence. Hang on a minute while I try and qualify that remark.
Turns out I don't welcome those acts of violence after all, particularly not the random attacking of my friend who was nothing more than drunk and hungry and waiting for a kebab. The thoughtless remark in a tense situation and the disordered mind of the homeless woman are at least a way into determining, not excusing, possible causes for the physical acts that followed.
What I do welcome is violence of thought. We need a bit more of that around this joint which is why I am developing my own miniature, contemporary and hypothetical Baader-Meinhof complex. I will escalate and bind my thoughts as grenades.
Turns out I don't welcome those acts of violence after all, particularly not the random attacking of my friend who was nothing more than drunk and hungry and waiting for a kebab. The thoughtless remark in a tense situation and the disordered mind of the homeless woman are at least a way into determining, not excusing, possible causes for the physical acts that followed.
What I do welcome is violence of thought. We need a bit more of that around this joint which is why I am developing my own miniature, contemporary and hypothetical Baader-Meinhof complex. I will escalate and bind my thoughts as grenades.
SLAMMATOWN - now an actual thing outside of my head and on someone else's website or hello RHUM
I have a column. I am allowing myself exactly half an hour to be excited by this followed by precisely two hours of fervent hoping that Sonia Zadro will never read it.
SLAMMATOWN: Sink a belle down a mineshaft and see what she sounds like; an excerpt with link
Sonia was crouched on a milk crate and howling through a detached gramophone horn outside Newtown station. She looked like the opposite of a bombshell, like something beautiful exploded and she walked out of the cloud of dust. Her voice sounds like a bell sunk down a mineshaft.
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Dolly bomb
His name was Tom, still is I suppose but that's beside the point. I told him straight up I wanted a cross between Dolly Parton circa 1968 and Joan Jett anytime. He kept running his fingers through my hair and staring at me intently in the mirror. He said 'It might be useful if you offered a little bit more of an explanation'. I told him it was more about the vibe than anything else, vibe and volume, no way anyone could say there was a Dolly Parton influence without some height on the hair.
An hour later I walked out of there a whole lot happier. It is impossible to be morose when your hair is a cross between Dolly Parton circa 1968 and Joan Jett anytime which is handy because I've been morose for about a fortnight now. I got to the point where I either had to do a Brian Wilson and take to my bed properly for a number of years while house becomes overrun with bastards or I had to get the fuck out of my bedroom and go kick some stuff on the street, like garbage bins, small children and seed pods.
I was struck down by some kind virus and I was already on holidays with the specific intent of laying around and doing fuck all but still, I found continuous complete inaction was a path not to bliss but to morosetown. Fortunately I am clever enough to have made the following astonishing discovery. The only cure for virus/holiday continuous and complete inaction is a Dolly Parton/Joan Jett haircut. This is a discovery science will not soon forget.
It is much easier to be a columnist than I had initially suspected
My editor asked me to send her six columns. I hope these will do...
Doric
Tuscan
Ionic
Corinthian
Composite
Solomonic
Doric
Tuscan
Ionic
Corinthian
Composite
Solomonic
Sham civilian drinks free beer with the band then writes a boring post about it or Gareth Liddiard might be something more than an ordinary man but I'm not quite sure about that yet
Image by Chris Familton
The other night I was sitting as a civilian at The Annandale watching bands and rubbing at the stamp on my wrist. It's been a while since I bothered to go to a gig I had to pay for. I pulled out my notebook out of habit, taking down the sentences music pushes through my head when I realised the whole rock'n'roll civilian feeling was a sham. Sure I paid like everyone else to get in to the venue but that's where the similarities ended.
I'm pretty sure most people don't make notes at gigs. I made a lap of the venue and spotted exactly no other notebooks so I gave up the sham and walked over to Gareth Liddiard to say hello. He said, "Come on Dale let's go upstairs for a durry". We were talking about taxes, new songs he's writing for his solo album and knock knock jokes when Spencer walked through the band room and out to the balcony where we were all sitting. He threw himself across a lounge. I kept hitting at the side of my head hoping to shake whatever was plaguing my ears out of my head. There was meandering and pointless conversation, free beer, I solved the mystery of The Faz* and of course there's always a photographer trying to get photos of Gareth sitting out on the balcony. Spencer is the only man I know who'll walk towards whoever is trying to take a shot to make it easier for them.
There was a formal party happening upstairs so we pushed our way down the hallway to get downstairs to watch Gareth do his solo set. I wanted to be standing right there, side of stage so I could watch to see if I could spot the moment this time. I've been trying to work out what happens when someone walks on stage and settles in front of the microphone. In between the time they turn their back on me and place one foot at the bottom of the stairs to go onstage and when they open their mouth to let the first sung syllable out something happens. I've seen it happen to Spencer hundreds, possibly thousands of times. I used to wonder if he'd come back, if it would be my friend that descended the stairs back down to ordinary floor space or if he'd remain transformed.
I've never seen anyone more transformed than Gareth Liddiard but it's not as simple as it sounds. He'll talk, tell stories, make jokes and then drop suddenly into song as though the devil got hold of him and every person standing in the room knows they're witnessing something more than music. I saw the moment again and again as he switched between banter and song. He was dropping in and out of his ordinary being without any hint of effort. I tried making notes, watching closer then closing my eyes but I came no closer to solving the riddle.
After the gig I was sitting over a cheeseburger with Spencer across the road from The Annandale. I could see the others still up on the balcony talking and drinking beer like nothing just happened. On reflection I suppose it's just the state of reverie made visible. This is the advantage that musicians, real ones and not just people who play music, have over the rest of us writers. It's just not very interesting to watch somebody type.
* All night Spencer and Worrad had been talking about 'The Faz' as though he was a mystical being but they refused to tell me who he was. When Luke from The Laurels came into the room I asked him if he was The Faz and he said yes. Not very interesting to read about but still I am pleased that I managed to solve the riddle so easily.
Click here to read one of my reviews of The Drones, if you can be bothered...
Well, you know, sometimes a splash of colour is not unhelpful. The large pot of water I am boiling for pasta has most likely boiled dry by now but I'm concerned about it. I suppose the worst thing would be if The Peach burned down but I'm fairly sure that won't happen, not straight away, not without me noticing some smoke and telephoning the fire brigade first. I assume the cat would have enough sense to leave the building if it were on fire.
I'm hiding in my bedroom. I have been here all day, with the exception of short missions to forage for food in the kitchen or stand gratefully under hot jets of water in the shower. I've been trying to have a day like this all week. I kept getting sidetracked by things that needed doing or phone calls to return or yet another dreaded trip to the post office carting a box full of magazines to post but not today. Today I stayed determinedly in my Eyeore pyjamas reading a second-hand copy of The English Patient. It took six hours but I have fallen firmly in love with Michael Ondaatje. Three more days of this I might just be ready to reemerge into the world.
I'm hiding in my bedroom. I have been here all day, with the exception of short missions to forage for food in the kitchen or stand gratefully under hot jets of water in the shower. I've been trying to have a day like this all week. I kept getting sidetracked by things that needed doing or phone calls to return or yet another dreaded trip to the post office carting a box full of magazines to post but not today. Today I stayed determinedly in my Eyeore pyjamas reading a second-hand copy of The English Patient. It took six hours but I have fallen firmly in love with Michael Ondaatje. Three more days of this I might just be ready to reemerge into the world.
The stupid stink of impending success and a distinct absence of actual reasons
Oh man I've got the stupid stink of impending success fouling up my nostril hair. Like Spencer said, 'welcome to the small time', or maybe I said that, don't suppose it matters really. The point is I'm doing a crapload more press stuff than I thought I'd have to. Interviews, radio stuff live on air, email interviews, questions, meetings, blah blah puke sick blather. I even had to interview myself. It's good really, I mean I couldn't be more pleased that people seem to like the mag. I'm excessively excited about it, to the detriment of my friends, who may wish to kill me just a little but there is one big problem.
It seems that everybody wants to know what was the driving idea behind making a new magazine. I keep saying things that are not untrue but aren't the whole truth either. The real story is I drank too much beer at The Annandale one night, stood in three inches of beer swill in a state akin to awe while The Kill Devil Hills* played and suddenly thought, 'I'm going to make my own magazine'. So I did. I just did each step as it needed doing until suddenly it's welcome to the small time and hello massively large financial risk.
I don't really know what I was thinking or why I was doing it, it felt like I needed to, in the same way I'll get up in the middle of the night and write about something I only newly imagined, or sometimes just to do a wee. I'd pay about $5 for a can of instant articulate right now.
Oh and about the radio thing. Holy shit. They said I'll be talking to them for twenty minutes. That is way too long, bound to say at least twelve hundred stupid and embarrassing things in twenty minutes.
* I think it was during the song 'Drinkin Too Much'.
It seems that everybody wants to know what was the driving idea behind making a new magazine. I keep saying things that are not untrue but aren't the whole truth either. The real story is I drank too much beer at The Annandale one night, stood in three inches of beer swill in a state akin to awe while The Kill Devil Hills* played and suddenly thought, 'I'm going to make my own magazine'. So I did. I just did each step as it needed doing until suddenly it's welcome to the small time and hello massively large financial risk.
I don't really know what I was thinking or why I was doing it, it felt like I needed to, in the same way I'll get up in the middle of the night and write about something I only newly imagined, or sometimes just to do a wee. I'd pay about $5 for a can of instant articulate right now.
Oh and about the radio thing. Holy shit. They said I'll be talking to them for twenty minutes. That is way too long, bound to say at least twelve hundred stupid and embarrassing things in twenty minutes.
* I think it was during the song 'Drinkin Too Much'.
For sure
I've just spent the last two hours trying to interview myself. I found myself to be uncooperative. Not only did I not think of any questions I was unable to come up with any answers. If this is an elaborate hoax now would be the time to jump out from my cupboard and yell surprise. When the excellent editor of RHUM suggested that I pretend to be interviewed by someone else I very stupidly announced that I would in fact just interview myself. She liked the idea, we said goodbye and hung up our telephones. I spent the next two hours drinking tea and scribbling 'feck' on pieces of paper then rubbing it out again. I love erasable pens.
I took a short break to collect my trousers from the trouser repair lady (an unfortunate incident with a fork, a bottle of wine and gravestone resulted in the need for major repair work) and to buy frozen yoghurt. I am sad to report there is not frozen yoghurt in Slammatown. None. Not even the apricot kind which we all know is the inferior time warp stuck in the 80's froghurt and is therefore no good.
In my quest for the answer to how to interview myself I turned to the most likely source of wisdom, Oprah. Turns out Oprah mostly interviews other people but she does seem to ask everybody to answer a 'what I know for sure' question, so here goes.
What I Know For Sure - in list form:
I do not like dog poo
There is no frozen yoghurt within two kilometres of my house
Oprah has a very big website
It has now been another hour, The Peachettes have blown the fusebox twice by having two heaters on at once and I have pretty much given up on interviewing myself. I phoned Spencer and he offered to interview me for me. That ought to simplify things.
I took a short break to collect my trousers from the trouser repair lady (an unfortunate incident with a fork, a bottle of wine and gravestone resulted in the need for major repair work) and to buy frozen yoghurt. I am sad to report there is not frozen yoghurt in Slammatown. None. Not even the apricot kind which we all know is the inferior time warp stuck in the 80's froghurt and is therefore no good.
In my quest for the answer to how to interview myself I turned to the most likely source of wisdom, Oprah. Turns out Oprah mostly interviews other people but she does seem to ask everybody to answer a 'what I know for sure' question, so here goes.
What I Know For Sure - in list form:
I do not like dog poo
There is no frozen yoghurt within two kilometres of my house
Oprah has a very big website
It has now been another hour, The Peachettes have blown the fusebox twice by having two heaters on at once and I have pretty much given up on interviewing myself. I phoned Spencer and he offered to interview me for me. That ought to simplify things.
Launch it + fund it
Come on down! I might be drunk or wearing a tie or doing a dance or all three at once.
RSVP to the Fspazbook event here.
For media and publicity enquiries, please contact:
Rebecca Lee Williams, Publicist, PAN magazine | e: rebecca@panmagazine.com
Dead reckoning
Lately I've been feeling a lot like an optimistic but failing meringue. The kind of meringue where the sugar goes in before peaks form., this is probably why I've been experimenting with navigation.
Determining longitude by comparing local apparent noon to noon GMT is more tricky than it sounds when you feel like an optimistic but failing meringue. I've never tried to make a magazine before and its left me feeling the useful kind of lost. Not lost like 'oh what shall become of me I need a brand new hobby', more like, 'I have a backpack full of important war documents that will save the Allies. I've parachuted into this foreign forest now all I need to do is get out my compass and tiny pencil* and make my way to the hidden Special Captain of War Things and everyone will be saved'. That kind of lost.
Yesterday I tied a stick to a piece of string and cast it over The Peach Deck to determine how far I'd traveled since I last fixed my position on a map. Today I will be staring at the sun using a stick. I am quite sure this is going to help.
*Always use tiny pencils in an on-foot navigation situation.
Determining longitude by comparing local apparent noon to noon GMT is more tricky than it sounds when you feel like an optimistic but failing meringue. I've never tried to make a magazine before and its left me feeling the useful kind of lost. Not lost like 'oh what shall become of me I need a brand new hobby', more like, 'I have a backpack full of important war documents that will save the Allies. I've parachuted into this foreign forest now all I need to do is get out my compass and tiny pencil* and make my way to the hidden Special Captain of War Things and everyone will be saved'. That kind of lost.
Yesterday I tied a stick to a piece of string and cast it over The Peach Deck to determine how far I'd traveled since I last fixed my position on a map. Today I will be staring at the sun using a stick. I am quite sure this is going to help.
*Always use tiny pencils in an on-foot navigation situation.
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