Dale Slamma

Um, please

I'd definitely be doing this if I was any kind of artist, even the bad kind.

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Oh I've been out walking

There are places with the power to haul you across them.

Blue drink

We all fell off our pedestals -
some with exhaustion

Kate is my cool thing of the day

Not only has she mastered the art of Science she has also discovered a secondary use for cows.

What if you only get five lit points of grief or regret? One home, one child, one partner, one horse, one friend. What if the two day contents of your head get dramatised in hospital form on a Tuesday night?

I've been scaring myself with imaginary knives. Two days ago we were sitting in the cafe when he said, 'maybe you don't want to write those kind of things'. I suppose it was a candid moment, one friend asking another to be a little careful with published thoughts but I jumped straight to what wasn't happening, straight to the part where I had to choose between a friend and words.

One good Peachette taped a hospital drama for me to watch on my late return. I sat down with one of those bowls of muesli and pressed play. Unfolding in blue scrubs was the two day contents of my head. Surgeons asking each other if they had to choose between surgery and love.

I have lost track of my point because it is contradictory. My imaginary knives would cut out any part that would say do not write. I do not care if the writing is good, if it is a stupid blog post, a contractual obligation album review, a dismally worded review or one story that stacks higher than the rest of my existence. I do not believe in the death of the author, those words are all mine and I will have them. But my knives are imaginary and my feet would walk you in no other direction than towards a friend.

Ample make this blog

The dramatic failure of my newspaper remedy came as something of a shock

He is a tall problem with teeth and hands but he conducts himself with grace.

The John Entwistle School of Standing Very Still

Once upon a time I was being driven across town in some guy's van, a drunk drummer was rolling around in the back behind a cage, like a dog. He hit the side of the van with a thump but I didn't care, I was having an idea. Tonight my idea came to fruition. Introducing my very own band The John Entwistle School of Standing Very Still. There are two of us in this band, me and Leah Keramea from The Walk On By, we both play drums because that's the whole idea. We reinterpret rock classics on only drums. Welcome to the world of 'difficult musics'.

Not yet an Antarctic submarine captain

I'm working on something over here. Maybe go listen to this instead of reading what I've got to say.

A definite line in the sand

I have a definite streak of the ridiculous running through me. I’m prone to bouts joyful uncoordinated dancing in public places, like supermarkets or cafes, I enjoy the occasional listen to Van Halen but I 'm drawing the line at Har Mar Superstar.

Har Mar Superstar used to vaguely amusing and even a little bit good, in his own special way, but not this time. Dark Touches is a shambolic mess of a pastiche. It wanders through strange territory from tasteless dance music for the masses to early Jackson Five with just a touch of Gloria Estefan.

Spencer once saw Har Mar Superstar have a tantrum and storm off stage, in his underpants. Spencer says it was hilarious and well worth watching but if you take a moment to think about it it’s really not ideal when the best thing about a show is watching the artist leave the stage earlier than he should.

Continue reading...

Fall

It was supposed to be the summer of my disco tent but a consonant dropped in out of nowhere.

New Young Pony Club has shockingly little to do with ponies - Dale Slamma reports her disappointment at this news

If you want to know what I think about The Optimist then you are going to have to ask me in twenty years time. Right now my opinion is oscillating wildly. Taken in isolation New Young Pony Club now sound like an acceptable blend of post-punk pop and the new new wave. Their sound is mildly pleasant with a dark pop sensibility. It is interesting at first listen and in no way offensive but if you think about the album in context with the world my opinion begins to change. We all know the UK is suffering from a bad bout of Joy Divisionitis, I believe this can be traced back to the death of Ian Curtis via one movie and a couple of good albums.

There's a saddle in my library!

Thursday night Spencer, Madam Squeeze and I will be filming the pilot episode of our top secret television series in The Peach Library. Grizelda and I wandered in there this evening to have a look, partially to prepare for filming and partially to imagine how the corners of the room will look once The Spatula moves all her crap out. We were in there for ages imagining how strange it will be when The Library transforms into an uncluttered room of tranquility, the way we had always imagined it should be. It seems an eternity since I have seen a corner of a room without a pile of crap in it, I wonder if I might have some kind of shocking and unexpected reaction.

Pavement - not the kind you walk on

I walked in halfway through the first song to find a joyful crowd shaking their manes like horses. There were pockets of genuine dancing all over the Enmore Theatre. I like those original Indie boys − silly, gentle artistic souls in t-shirts who threw off the shackles and redefined what it was to be a man. They’re all grown up now but they’re still tall, angular and dangerous. They seemed always to dance with their elbows pointed in my direction.

Continue reading...

The Big Pink Stink or Dale Slamma spends a night at The Metro

Brisbane indie duo An Horse are competent, pleasant and just a tiny bit boring. Kate Cooper has an orange guitar with interesting red stripes and Damon Cox has clean sticking patterns, they harmonise well and sound distinctly like music that might be played during a poignant moment in a television show. Despite the tinge of boring An Horse are infinitely preferable to the band they were supporting, The Big Pink.

The Big Pink think they are awesome, in fact I would say they rate themselves quite highly. I watched with a mixture of horror and amusement as they played track after track of bog standard contemporary rock with added synth drones, seriousness and posing.

Frontman Robbie Furze looks like he was beamed out of an Oz Rock film clip from the 80’s, there’s no possible way I could take seriously a man who appears on stage to Cypress Hill, jumps straight on the foldback before tossing off his jacket to reveal a Metallica tattoo. You have to earn the right to jump on the foldback and take charge of the crowd, it’s not an endearing first move. The crowd looked sceptical, for a little while, but one by one most of them fell victim to The Big Pink’s terribly serious indie fake doom rock. Shame on them.

The Big Pink make underground music for a mainstream crowd. Their sound is grandiose, overblown and made for commercial radio. Have a listen to Dominos or Count Backwards From Ten, kids with emo tendencies and a love of anthems are going to lap this up. Imagine a U2 covers band playing an unfamiliar mashup of Placebo and Nine Inch Nails, now you’re getting close to what The Big Pink sounds like and I can tell you it’s not good.

The keyboard player looked like a smacked-out Cousin It impersonator, his constant posing took a turn for the hilarious when it appeared as though he was dusting the keys with his hair. Drummer Akiko Matsuura looks incredible and drums with an admirably inefficient and theatrical style. Overall they played a polished and competent set, they nailed every song. Good band, shame about the music.

The Big Pink are going to be huge, with or without my good opinion. If you want to say you were listening to them way back when then now is the time, jump on board or you’ll be just another face in the crowd.

Let's bite the hand that feeds, hard

I haven't laughed that hard in ages, at first I kind of spluttered out of a grin into strange noises but before I knew it Madam Squeeze and I were holding our bellies and laughing as hard as we could. We were laughing at The Big Pink. They stormed the stage and proceeded, very seriously, to stand on the foldback with fists in the air. They tried to be serious rock stars but they failed. They are the worst band I've seen in ages, even the stupid banjo busker guy from outside the Enmore IGA is better than The Big Pink and I really hate that guy.

I was at The Metro laughing at The Big Pink on behalf of RHUM, who sent me to write a review of the show. I was thinking, this is a gift, a band hasn't given me so many outstanding and hilarious bad points in a very long time. I was thinking that until I got home and noticed that the RHUM website is covered in 'RHUM loves The Big Pink' hype. This is going to be interesting.

Note:
The excellent editor of RHUM has in no way ever tried to influence my reviews, not ever.

Goddamnit Maverick Slamma fails to step up to the plate...

I was tired, I was rushed, but those are stupid excuses. Unless David Young has lost his mind and submits his review in wingdings I suspect I am going to lose the 'review off'. Come on David Young, if you were ever going to lose your mind and submit a review written in wingdings today is the day. Read my probably losing review entry below:

Stop Speaking In Tongues

It’s official, Gareth Liddiard has become incomprehensible. It’s been coming on for a while now and it’s a damn shame. Liddiard’s songs are great stories, or they used to be until it all turned into one long ocker snarl with rhythmic pauses for breathing and noise.

Continue reading on RHUM...

Fake rock journalist breaks solo streak by busting in on The Drones

The life of a fake rock journalist is lonely sometimes. I've been rattling from gig to gig alone, just me, my cigarettes and my notebook but not tonight. By the time Pavement came out for their encore I'd had enough of solo time so I split, flagged down a taxi and made it over to The Annandale in time to see the end of The Drones' set. I didn't have a ticket so I just marched straight through the doors, around the bar and through the black curtain to side of stage. Spencer was standing there leaning against a partition and grinning like a goon. Lyndal was shooting the band and The rest of The Holy Soul were standing in line nodding their heads in unison, Madam Squeeze was out dancing with the crowd.

Spencer cheered when he saw me, held up his arms and made room for me beside him. I don't think I would have gotten away with such a spectacular level of sneaking in if Spencer hadn't just played support for The Drones about an hour ago. Luke from The Laurels was there and Loene Carmen looked like she had just snuck in too. I stuffed my earplugs back into my ears and let my eyes wander over the crowd. The Drones were cranking out their new version of stadium rock and the crowd was going just a little mental right down at front of stage. The huge speaker stacks were moving the air in my lungs for me and for the first time in months I thought now this is really something. After the show we all headed upstairs to drink, smoke, talk and watch that crazy old man named Doc stand on his head in front of a giant mirror. I forget sometimes how unbelievably lucky I am not just to see all these bands but to be there, right there, side of stage, front of stage, backstage, just there.

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Bank lady in conversation with Dale Slamma

BL: Why do you only have a part-time job?
DS: I have other jobs but they are sporadic and somtimes I don't get paid.
BL: What are the job titles of these 'other jobs'?
DS: Writer, freelance music journalist, arts reviewer, columnist, magazine editor, portrait model and twitterer.
BL: Do you think you should be doing that? I don't understand how being a twit is a job.
DS: Well you just have to write very short sentences then press publish.
BL: What do you mean writer?
DS: I write things.
BL: Like books?
DS: Yes, I have a manuscript in progress.
BL: Where do you write this 'manuscript'?
DS: In my bedroom but sometimes I need to walk around or sit in a cafe and see if that helps.
BL: I see. What about portrait model? How do you do that?
DS: That's easy, you just have to sit very still and sometimes have knitting needles in your hair.
BL: Why do you do that?
DS: The artist thinks I'm interesting looking and offered to pay me money.
BL: No, I meant the knitting needles.
DS: I'm not sure really, I think she likes painting them.
BL: I see. What about music journalist? What does that entail?
DS: I go see bands and then write about them.
BL: Do you mean rock music? In pubs?
DS: Yes. Rock music. In pubs.
BL: I see. What about magazine edior?
DS: I am the editor of a new independent magzine.
BL: What is your income from editing the magazine?
DS: Nothing yet, it's my magazine and we haven't launched issue #1 yet. It's possible that it may not earn any money.
BL: How many hours a week do you work on the magazine?
DS: About sixty.
BL: Why do you do that?
DS: Well the magazine isn't going to edit itself.
BL: I see. So what you are telling me is that you work one hundred hours a week, get paid for twenty hours a week and sometime for a couple of hours on top of that, sporadically. Your workplaces include your house, pubs, artist studio, the footpath and cafes.
DS: Yes.
BL: I see. Are you married?
DS: No.
BL: We will not be able to process your application at this time. It is more usual in these cases for a person like you to have a husband earning a reliable income.
DS: But..
BL: You might like to think about getting a proper job.
DS: I don't think...
BL: In fact you might like to think about what you are doing in general.
DS: It's not your...
BL: Sometimes a person has to go out and make an effort to fit in and have more normal activities otherwise ....
DS: [hangs up phone, turns on kettle, has a lovely cup of tea and a little sit down]

Dive dive dive

Most of the time I am imagining I am the captain of a submarine on an Antarctic mission. The rest of the time I am being insanely jealous of Geoff Lemon and his unimaginary Antarctic adventures, damn you to hell Geoff Lemon, all the way to hell.

Pass me my safari slippers I'm feeling zoological

There was definitely a looming sense of pressure to feel moved and come up with something profound to say when coming face to face with all the animals of the world but I think I'd rather hit it from a different angle. Visiting Taronga Zoological Park has confirmed my long held suspicion that I would be an excellent person for a jungle safari scientist to marry.

In the day he would go off in a jeep to shoot lions, tigers or gorillas with dart guns. In the morning I would ride my horse across the plains. After lunch I would retire to our library to work on my manuscript. We would wire messages to each in morse code. In the evenings we would listen to jungle noises and drink gin with tonic. Tomorrow I will write to Taronga Zoological Park and ask them to add this information to their guide books.

I want you, we want you, they want you, so why don't you?

PAN magazine wants your submissions of poetry, short fiction or essays for issue #2.

More information on the PAN website.

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.

Everyone needs a hero

My big wet writers' crush on Mark Mordue continues. I'd like to have a drink with this man. I'd like to pour whiskey down my throat and just listen to him for a while. Mordue's essay 'Towards Love: another vision of The Road' needs to be read, now.

It's on

And so it has begun. David Young and I will both be reviewing The Drones at The Annandale in a grudge match gig review challenge.

Yawntastic

Oh why don't you just bore me until I am dead. The boring thing I am talking about here is a review of The Holy Soul and The Kill Devil Hills. 'Respectful applause', I mean is that really something you want to read in a gig review?

Here's the part where I start making sense. The reviewer, David Young, clearly knows how to put a sentence together. He has a fluid journalistic style but his review is boring to read. Boring. Come on David Young this music is wild, this gig was transcendent in places and raucous in others. I walked around pretending to be a gunslinger for three full days after this gig, surely you can do better than 'respectful applause'.

The reason that music journalism has gone to hell in this country is because music journalists need to lift their game, I'm not excluding myself from this. Consider this a challenge. David Young if you happen upon this post contact me. I've got a proposition for you and it goes a little something like this. Let's coordinate reviewing the same gig. I challenge you to a 'review off'.

Sandwich yelling gives way to more generalised slouching or let me explain about Radio Man

Radio Man happened upon Spencer and I sitting in one of our usual cafes drinking our usual coffees. I didn't notice that he was drunk until he had stopped for a quick chat, left and then come back again saying that he wanted to explain. His explanation was that his band went to Japan this morning, for a gig. I was trying to work out if that was possible given that it was still morning. I was developing a theory about the possibility of time travel as a freak occurrence when he said he'd been in the lounge and not heard the boarding announcement. He missed the flight. Tomorrow morning he's headed back to the airport for take two. He will land just in time to make the gig but in the meantime instead of drinking on a plane he's going to be drinking at home and pretending that he's on a plane. Seems like a fine plan to me. Maybe tomorrow I'm going to pretend to be on a plane.

And now for my newest genre - album review revenge

If I have to write album reviews then I am going to use them for revenge. Payback's a bitch. Sure they could say the review is poorly written and critically nonsensical but, you know, that's kind of how I roll.

Saturday - Ocean Colour Scene

Critically, you could say Ocean Colour Scene are not obviously doing anything musically wrong, it’s just that they have no taste or respect for genuine artistic endeavours. I do not like any part of this album. I don’t ever want to hear it again. I will never go and see this band play live, I will never recommend them for anything other than being shot into space and I sincerely wish they would stop stealing melodies.

Continue reading...

End Times - Eels

I used to know a man who wanted to be this album, he turned out to be a jerk. Some albums you have to turn yourself down to listen to. Some albums have an inbuilt pointed device that silences you so the music can take over. This album does not.

Continue reading...

I told you, don't make me walk like a gunslinger

It's no secret I've always wanted to be a cowboy. People tell me I'll never be a cowboy wearing floral dresses and drinking cups of tea but I'm pretty sure there's more to it than outfits and refreshments...

Don't make me walk like a gunslinger

It was one of those big old country pubs, two stories high and wrapped in iron lace. Somebody thought to paint the pressed tin ceiling a pearlescent cream and I can't say the effect was unpleasant. It seems like forever since I drove South through the high scrub and all that sedimentary rock until I found the ocean in a new place. I didn't see much of the ocean last night, everything was obscured by fog and the rain that turned itself from high to low then back up again.

Spencer picked me up in his big old car, it was full of friends, with beer. We drank beer (except for Spencer), ate chocolate bars, sang along to the stereo. There's nothing quite like a road trip.

I walked in out of the rain lugging a bass guitar in a hard case. I ran straight into Brendon Humphries, the singer from The Kill Devil Hills. He held out his hand and introduced himself, it was a small conversation but I was struck by something odd. It seemed to me that he was kind and open, unguarded in a genuine sort of way. It might be ten thousand years since I have met a person who will just stand like that on the floor and hold out their hand to greet a stranger. Maybe living in the city does have its downside.

I've seen the Kill Devil Hills before, even reviewed them but this gig was by far the best. The crowd was older, more sedate, satisfied to sit at their tables taking long swallows of beer while the band stood up on the stage. For part of the show I moved outside to the long verandah. I sat on an old leather couch watching the torrential rain pour over the ocean while the sound moved through the windows behind me. I'm thinking that moment might have been ideal.

I've written about The Kill Devil Hills before, I think I said there's something of the horizon in their music and I'm not about to change my mind now. Everybody needs a bit of horizon projected by a band of hillbilly pirates once in a while. If you're in the mountains today head up to Hotel Gearin, buy yourself beer, shake the rain out of your hair and just listen. The band will do everything else.

He says that he's tired of singing this song but I don't think I'm tired of listening to him sing it. It's not fair but if I had my way drummer Steve Gibson will be singing 'Drinking Too Much' as often as possible until the day he dies.

Oh you know, just walking around a little before undressing in a surprise disco

After we got kicked out of The Duke, well politely told by Victor that the beer garden was shutting and to please move inside, I was all set to walk home but Spencer, Skywalker and The French One had other plans. As we walked past The Enmore I wanted to explain to Spencer that I was tired and drunk and needed to go home but the only thing I could manage to say was 'I am too drunk to have this block of cheese in my handbag. Do you think it will be all right?' Spencer rarely looks baffled but he was approaching something quite like it as he enquired as to why I had a block of cheese in my handbag. I wanted to explain how the aging process of cheese effects lactose levels but all I could think of was that I had bought it at the same time as black shoelaces, a box of matches and a roll-on deodorant and that a very tall man had been in front of me in the queue for the checkout. Once I might have diligently explained all of these things but I have decided to cultivate an air of mystery.

It's been seven hours and sixteen days, since my bedroom light became possessed by a poltergeist. The light works when it wants to, flashes on and off when it wants to and sometimes doesn't work at all. I didn't really mind until I came home drunk with a block of cheese in my handbag and found myself undressing inside a surprise disco.

There were other strange parts to my day, free Grolsch at an art gallery, free review copy of Avatar, free chocolate sorbet in Newtown, spending five hours arranging and rearranging the articles for issue #1 of PAN magazine and of course being interviewed by a journalist for Cleo magazine. It can't all be just swanning around drunk with cheese.

When you go down Dixon don't order a special wife

We ordered the Special Wife Cake because it was called Special Wife Cake. Madam Squeeze tore it carefully in half, pausing mid operation to ensure the halves were even in size. The cake was tiny, flat and round like a raised biscuit made of pastry but in the centre something was lurking. At first glance the cake appeared to be filled with reconstituted apple-flavoured squid or half-dried superglue but it tasted much worse than either of those two things combined.

We tried turning it into a game, animal, mineral or vegetable but my mouth would not decipher the taste. The pastry flaked but tasted short and emitted a malodorous vapour detectable only once mastication had commenced. Madam Squeeze tried dipping her half in jasmine tea but claimed it did not in any way improve the flavour. I tried leaning back in my plastic chair and smoking a cigarette but that also had no effect.

I almost made it through my half of the Special Wife Cake, almost but not quite. Three bites worth of cake lay listless on the white square plate on the table between us. It felt important to me that we finish the cake because of its special and possibly mystical name. Try as I might I could not finish my half. Madam Squeeze, in an act of selfless bravery, attempted to finish my half of the cake but could not in the end stomach it.

I'm not sure that I want to be anyone's special wife but as I walked away that minuscule piece of cake taunted me, saying 'This will be the reason you rattle through the world alone'. Madam Squeeze asked me 'Who do you want to believe, rational thought or the imagined voice of an undelicious cake?' I said 'rational thought' but I was thinking 'cake'.

I will fight you on the beaches

In 2007 I performed a Home Hitler Self-Test by attempting to grow a moustache and burn books in the fireplace in the library. Tomorrow I will perform a Home Churchill Self-Test by eating breakfast in bed, running the nation's war efforts from the bathtub, taking a nice walk, drinking cocktails before, during and after dinner before retiring to bed chamber by 11pm. Wish me luck.

Some days are like houses

Some projects are long term, the kind that unfold as you age and become as essential as breathing. This project, my Safe As Houses project is like that. It us unhurried but permanent. Two days ago I remembered a house I once tried to forget, except for the part where Elliot and I got a horse truck stuck on the front lawn. We climbed things holding six-foot crowbars, we were sure this would help.

Two days ago Ben Rumble had a story about this house published in THE GROUP online magazine and I remembered that it is not easy to forget.

And now back to the studio

Well I don't suppose it's everyday you get to run off into studio 2 at Albert's and play Harry Vanda's guitar whilst drinking one of Daniel Johnston's mountain dews. Words about this, to come later, for now please enjoy my terrible photography.

Above is Daniel Johnston and Old Man River doing live recording thinger in next studio. Think was being filmed by JJJ.

Above is Spence recording guitar for Belle Phoenix. Didn't want to turn on the flash and distract him.

Above is Daniel Johnston and Belle Phoenix with Spencer in background.

Above is me playing Harry Vanda's guitar with Madam Squeeze having a nice cup of tea. Harry Vanda, from The Easy Beats, donated the guitar to the studio.

Spencer recording some more.

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.

Review also appears in RHUM.

Turn it down, turn it off or here is my press kit

I am listening to 'End Times' by Eels and I don't want to be. My great desire for silence has resurfaced, when I need to listen more than ever.

A wave of stupidity must have been awash in my brain when I agreed to review albums as well as gigs. I can roll out a gig review as good as any hack but my terrible secret is I never write about the music. Being able to write about music is a crucial part of reviewing an album, or so it seems from where I sit, in my bedroom with a blank piece of paper and a half chewed-to-hell ballpoint pen I stole from a man with terrible underpants. The other problem is the editor at RHUM telling me I'm brilliant. It's just like the time Spencer's thesis supervisor told him he was a genius so he hung up his thinking hat and found his laurels real comfortable, at least for a little while. Nobody should ever tell me I'm brilliant, it's guaranteed to ruin everything I attempt for three weeks.

In addition to reviewing 'End Times' I also have to review 'Saturday' by Ocean Colour Scene and David Thomas with The Holy Soul but what I desire is silence. It should be one of those days when I focus on nothing except the movement of light across the floor and the rhythmic breathing of the sleeping cat.

The press kit for 'End Times' says:

The eighth EELS studio album, END TIMES, is the sound of an artist growing older in uncertain times. An artist who has lost his great love while struggling with his faith in an increasingly hostile world teetering on self-destruction.

Yawn. I call that waking up in the morning. I call that making the decision to put on clean underpants and hurtle myself out into the day. I call that the everyday of everyday. Maybe I should make a press kit:

Dale Slamma is the sound of an artist growing older in uncertain times. An artist who has lost her great love. An artist who is without faith in an increasingly hostile world teetering on self-destruction. Dale Slamma continues to put on clean underpants and hurtle out into the world despite her conviction that it is probably a mistake to do so. She has contributed to one studio album and has an urgent rising desire for silence.
fun fun fun
Slamma is a mono Beach Boys record
her heart breaks

like surf.

We don't really like what you do. We don't think anyone ever will.

Everywhere tarmac and concrete, not one flower in sight. I don't know why they call it Darlinghurst, doesn't look like anyone's darling to me. I was standing on a hillside looking down on a crowd of two hundred people so that put an end my theory about the world going flat again. There were so many people he sang in the street like a busker.

People around were smiling or crying or turning to each other and saying 'I didn't think it would be this moving', as he made it to the corner with his little green plastic folder tucked under his left arm. He shuffles more than walks, awkward body awkwardly controlled. *He sang two songs, made a hundred people cry then walked off around the corner and was gone.

It was one of those stupid Sydney moments where the heat lifts moment to moment as the storm starts breaking into a sunset. Nobody does a sunset storm at a gutter party like Sydney but I didn't really care. A friend was sharing her big old bottle of beer with me, I had just met Everett True but I could have been listening to white noise on my ipod for all it mattered to me. I suppose I was moved in that whatever is inhabiting me today took off its hat and bowed its head when it first saw Daniel Johnston shuffle up there in front everyone Newtown, Surry Hills and Chippendale could spare tonight. I suppose that was me sitting in The Falconer eating dinner and drinking wine and writing in a notebook but I could have been watching a movie of me on my ipod for all I care. I suppose it is good that in the movie of me eating dinner I chose to eat somewhere that looks atmospheric. I would apologise for not making sense and for not being poetic about it if I cared, but I don't. Go borrow a book from the library.

*Daniel Johnston.

The teaches of Peaches

The skill of Peaches is transcending personal musical taste so that what you thought you liked no longer matters. In the face of a Peaches show there’s only room in your head for her, only her and whatever she is doing right in front of you, which could be almost anything.

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He might just be a rascal but he sure can run on the spot

I love having seven jobs either that or I'm just overtired due to Big (stupid) Day Out and Peaches. I'm now writing for RHUM as well as Liveguide, PAN etc.

My Big (stupid) Day Out

I felt like an egg in an outdoor paint commercial, if I stood in the sun for one more second I was going to drop to the ground and fry like somebody’s breakfast. The heat made the whole day feel mediated and distant, even standing in the moshpit at The Mars Volta I felt like I was watching a band on television from the inside of an oven.

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They even flush

Today is my birthday. Today I received a letter from the organisers of the Big Day Out informing me that I am a guest of the festival and if I go the guest booth and get a special wrist band I will be able to access the guests of the festival bar where there are 'real toilets'.

Real toilets! My what a special birthday present that was. I can safely say I have never before in my life received a letter telling me I am allowed to access real toilets but wait there was another first. I was also the proud recipient of a special birthday cake made entirely out of chocolate mousse. A whole cake made out of dairy products that I can not digest. Another first but to be fair The Spatula was not aware of the contents of the cake, she thought it was a cake cake and not a mousse pretending to be a cake.

Today was supposed to be my unbirthday. I was determined to spend the day in solitary reflection. For the most part I managed. I trawled bookshops, saw a movie, walked up and down King St admiring the blue cloudlessness and general brightness of the upper atmosphere. One small coffee stop with Spencer where I announced my contentedness with my decision to spend a day moving from moment to moment with no reference points except my own desire for a cup of tea or to look at a flower or think about the concept of zero or the Australian Antarctic Division.

The Peachettes rather ignored my instructions and cooked a roast dinner, proffered presents and presented a cake, it was a small and unadorned affair on the Peach Deck. It was kind of them to do so but it did rather put a stop to the whole unbirthday project.

M Frankenstein I think I understand now

Plunging my head face first into the over salted ocean in pursuit of the mysteries of the deep I felt a keen sense of comradeship with all those who went before me. Captain Nemo, that 70's guy on a boat with that bikini woman, Captain Zissou, Horatio Hornblower, Charles Darwin. There was a strong and undeniable sense of cartographical freedom until I saw a fish up close and magnified by the miracle of my plastic mask. Mr Frankenstein himself could not have recoiled with as much shock and panic from the very creature he gave his health and sanity to create as I did from the very fish I gave three minutes idle flippering to with idea of having a bit of a look at it.

There are two lessons here:
1. Fish are more alarming than you think they are.
2. If you create a monster it might kill everyone you love and cause you to travel across ice floes until you perish in the company of a vain and idiotic Englishman who is clearly in love with his sister.

I should be more sure about these things

A list of things I think my mother likes:

Tea - Kwazulu and Yorkshire Gold, never green or mint. She will not take Earl Grey but I do not think she is opposed to Lady Grey.

Custard

Lamb chops

Christmas pudding

Sausages from Bathurst

Blueberries

Chopping wood - with a small axe

Knitting - but not sewing together the finished pieces

Remembering her mother - without revealing how she feels about the memory

Reading novels - never poetry

Knowing how long it takes her to walk up the big hill

Hanging clean washing on the line - I am unsure but it seems to me as though there is a satisfaction in this chore more than in the others

It is not a daydream if it happens at night

I had my back against the garden wall but was slipping downwards with gravity and the knowledge of useless feet. Three times I had raised the pistol and shot myself in the heart only my heart kept jumping out of the way so I now had all these holes in my chest for no good reason at all. I telephoned for an ambulance thinking these people will know where the heart is. These people can help me.

Terra Nullius

I have a strong desire to set fire to my house just so I can see which single one of my stupid objects will be found unburned and intact, lying face down in the ashes.

Excuse my poor photography

Artist Alice Amsel floats my boat. I suppose that's why we'll be running a profile on her in issue #1 of PAN magazine this year. Don't worry, a real photographer was on hand to take photos for PAN.

Come on Mister, sure I can write a short story and do all of that other stuff all at once, just let me finish this paragraph then I'll come and talk to you about it

You know those days when you wake up with a head full of sentences but the day, the whole day, has been indentured to a person that pays you to do something other than write? Those days are not ideal days.

So much better now that some of the lame has been deleted

I have found a new pleasure in deleting albums from my itunes. Gone, gone, gone are the boring, the lame, the unamusingly stupid and poor old Ginsberg who these days does nothing but tire me.

A partial list of the deliberately departed:
Belle & Sebastian
Tunng
Wilco
Ginsberg
Joe Frank
Christian Fennesz
Tim Hecker
Triosk
Jose Gonzalez
Micah P Hinson
Mogwai
Jens Lekman
Death Cab For Cutie
Dragonforce
Mountain Goat
Mazarin

A partial list of those who were almost deleted:
Throbbing Gristle
Super Numeri
Art Brut
The Triffids
Cat Power
Ray LaMontagne
Seu George

This will be my year of deliberate misrepresentation, where there is livestock there is dead stock

There is an overwhelming desire to express without being understood. Every night as I lay cursing the dark for not being dark enough the same thought enters my head. I want to yell at people in French, or Latin or Estonian. I do not want my words to be understood, I want only the fact that I am speaking them with force and conviction to be conveyed.

I have not been saying what I mean. I have said 'yes' when I meant no, 'no' when I meant yes and 'that is fine' when I meant you are a bloody drongo and I think you just cracked the marble-filled jam jar I've been using for a heart. I haven't been lying on purpose, for most of last year I was remarkably honest until I hit November and performed an involuntary retreat into polite responses and expected conversation and then of course I picked up my own jam jar and smashed it into whatever I could find and the marbles got loose and rolled into my eye sockets and lodged under my tongue.

I spent the first hour of the new year lying drunk in a gutter in Chippendale listening to all the happy chatter happen around me. It wasn't a bad place to be, almost everyone was there, sitting, standing or lying in the road. I could have sat up and joined in the conversation but I found that I was comfortable with my hip on the road, my head on my handbag on the curb, content with my thoughts distinctly my own.

I have been philosophical about my insides. Last year I developed a grudging respect for the vast team of doctors assigned to examine my brain. I even formed a fondness for the young neurologist who delighted in hitting various parts of me with his tiny and delicate hammer. I grew used to the robotic hum of scanners and lying very still in that mechanical tube while nurses counted down the remaining seconds. I made good use of all my limbs, making long lists of things I wanted to do before my gross motor skills took an irreversible turn for the worse and investing in ramps became a priority. I started drumming, moved a piano into the library and impersonated Little Richard, I painted scores of terrible paintings and sketched every small object I could see. I walked everywhere, took up running until a tendon gave out and put a stop to the whole idea and I danced in houses, on streets, in bars, on my bed and I climbed no less than seven separate trees. When the official results came in and I was in fact given the mostly all clear I wasn't really surprised, despite the lists and the activities I had been unable to properly imagine a world where I couldn't walk or wave my arms about on a whim.

This year I have been reexamining my notes on bioethics from law school but they have been unable to explain how I could be so happy to swallow pills to play god but so distressed at the idea of the small life snuffing its own self out for no reason at all.

This year will be my year of deliberate interpersonal misrepresentation. If I meet you on the street I am going to tell you I like tomato juice and I am happy to be here. I am going to be impersonal and polite and offer vague and general descriptions of streetscapes and landscapes and a flat pack idea of being pleased to meet someone like you. I am not going to tell you how I feel. There will of course be exceptions, the people who already know what I'm about, people like Spencer and Gemma and the cast of usual suspects and the hard black letters of written words. I suppose I'm talking about acquaintances and strangers and the inevitable people at parties and gigs, I suppose this a broader affair.

Dear World,

Due to the behaviour of your chosen representatives I find I have no inclination to further our friendship. There is no room for new friends in here. My replacement marble-filled-jam-jar heart has shattered and that was the final object I had saved for installing in the ticking part that should beat. These rattling disconsolate marbles now control my in-flight interaction system and they only steady into a gentle rolling flicker in the presence of genuine friends. I am neither hopeless nor depressed. I am simply drawing a line in your stupid sand. This will be your year of leaving me alone.

Regards
Dale R Slamma