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.
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Sometimes instant means the same as miracle
I have a coffee machine in my house, it has spider webs on it. I have a jar of instant coffee in my cupboard, it is almost empty. This information will become both more and less relevant once you read Vanessa Berry's most recent post on Vanessa Berry World.
More stupid than you can poke three simultaneous sticks at or Spencer pulls off the most ridiculous birthday idea ever or Spencervision Part I
Spencervision* saw us all reaching spectacular new heights on the peaks of Mt Stupid, but it was also kind of miraculous. I never had any doubt that the idea would work, just about everybody Spencer knows was already itching to write and perform a song about him, which is kind of odd when you think about it. What I didn't know was just how far some people would go, like me for instance.
Thinking it might be best to collaborate with someone I coerced The Walk On By into coming over and working on a song with me. Obviously The Rolling Stones were my first choice but they were all in hospital being reconstructed by German engineers so I settled on The Walk On By who are lovely, despite having an alarming fondness for yelling rude words loudly on stages all over Australia and Europe.
When it came time to actually perform the song I was starting to have a few second thoughts. The other contestants included members of The Holy Soul, The Laurels, Psychonanny and The Babyshakers, Quaoub, Madam Squeeze and about twelve times a crazy amount more. Adalita from Magic Dirt showed up and by that time things were getting a bit wild. Spike performed something he was calling a Mexican Rap entitled Gusolino Got Punched in the Eye-o and the non-Spencer members of The Holy Soul performed something akin to the Wu-Tang Clan, disguised as diamond pandas. Photographer Lyndal Irons installed an astonishing exhibition in the Spencer's lounge room title Spencervision: A photographic exhibition.
The Walk On By and I bravely took our places on the small stage, well I bravely took my place, the others are kind of used to it. The bass player kept pushing the microphone closer to my face which made me unhappy because I was hoping to become not only invisible to the eye but inaudible to the ear. We managed what turned out be an award-winning performance, thanks to Solomon, Leah and Dave being actual musicians despite having me as a temporary imposter in their band.
Spencer drunkenly donned a sombrero for the award ceremony which was just about as shambolic and raucous as an award ceremony can be. I proudly accepted a ballet trophy for coming second, Sol, Leah and Dave were decorated with lovely silver-coloured plastic medals. The overall winner was announced, Madam Squeeze, no surprises there, and then Spencer raised a fist in the air and screamed 'let's get fucked up'. I was deafened by the roar of the crowd, who most diligently and immediately began to follow Spencer's instructions.
The party pressed on into the night with an almost terrifying joyful abandon. Just after midnight there were three of us perched at the top of the stairs, we ventured up to go to the toilet but found ourselves unequal to the task of navigating back down the narrow stairway. Soon enough there were about twelve of us all in the same predicament. It is the first time I have ever waited in an 'after the toilet' line.
Spencer's huge and rambling house was filled to overflowing. Darkness didn't stand a chance against that kind of energetic light. They told themselves they came for all sorts of reasons, to witness the stupid songs, to take a chance to make fun of Spencer in song-form, to drink, dance or just stand in a joyful crowd of friends but I knew why they were there. They came because they love him, in whatever form that takes. Some of us have shared years in his good company, others meet him on King St for coffee every once in a while, some first saw him hollering into a microphone and thought 'who in the hell is that?', but all of us were united by the kind of love usually reserved for funerals. If Spencer ever has any doubts about his place in the world, if he ever catches himself in a moment of unexpected worry about falling into isolation, he can sit down, cross those long legs of his, and remember this night when all of those fears were silenced forever.
*Spencervision: A song for Spencer, you can see already how this might work, just imagine Eurovision on King St Newtown. Spencer decided to celebrate his birthday by judging songs written and performed in his honour. The rules were simple, the song had to be about either Spencer's awesomeness or an awesome Spencer-related topic.
Thinking it might be best to collaborate with someone I coerced The Walk On By into coming over and working on a song with me. Obviously The Rolling Stones were my first choice but they were all in hospital being reconstructed by German engineers so I settled on The Walk On By who are lovely, despite having an alarming fondness for yelling rude words loudly on stages all over Australia and Europe.
When it came time to actually perform the song I was starting to have a few second thoughts. The other contestants included members of The Holy Soul, The Laurels, Psychonanny and The Babyshakers, Quaoub, Madam Squeeze and about twelve times a crazy amount more. Adalita from Magic Dirt showed up and by that time things were getting a bit wild. Spike performed something he was calling a Mexican Rap entitled Gusolino Got Punched in the Eye-o and the non-Spencer members of The Holy Soul performed something akin to the Wu-Tang Clan, disguised as diamond pandas. Photographer Lyndal Irons installed an astonishing exhibition in the Spencer's lounge room title Spencervision: A photographic exhibition.
The Walk On By and I bravely took our places on the small stage, well I bravely took my place, the others are kind of used to it. The bass player kept pushing the microphone closer to my face which made me unhappy because I was hoping to become not only invisible to the eye but inaudible to the ear. We managed what turned out be an award-winning performance, thanks to Solomon, Leah and Dave being actual musicians despite having me as a temporary imposter in their band.
Spencer drunkenly donned a sombrero for the award ceremony which was just about as shambolic and raucous as an award ceremony can be. I proudly accepted a ballet trophy for coming second, Sol, Leah and Dave were decorated with lovely silver-coloured plastic medals. The overall winner was announced, Madam Squeeze, no surprises there, and then Spencer raised a fist in the air and screamed 'let's get fucked up'. I was deafened by the roar of the crowd, who most diligently and immediately began to follow Spencer's instructions.
The party pressed on into the night with an almost terrifying joyful abandon. Just after midnight there were three of us perched at the top of the stairs, we ventured up to go to the toilet but found ourselves unequal to the task of navigating back down the narrow stairway. Soon enough there were about twelve of us all in the same predicament. It is the first time I have ever waited in an 'after the toilet' line.
Spencer's huge and rambling house was filled to overflowing. Darkness didn't stand a chance against that kind of energetic light. They told themselves they came for all sorts of reasons, to witness the stupid songs, to take a chance to make fun of Spencer in song-form, to drink, dance or just stand in a joyful crowd of friends but I knew why they were there. They came because they love him, in whatever form that takes. Some of us have shared years in his good company, others meet him on King St for coffee every once in a while, some first saw him hollering into a microphone and thought 'who in the hell is that?', but all of us were united by the kind of love usually reserved for funerals. If Spencer ever has any doubts about his place in the world, if he ever catches himself in a moment of unexpected worry about falling into isolation, he can sit down, cross those long legs of his, and remember this night when all of those fears were silenced forever.
*Spencervision: A song for Spencer, you can see already how this might work, just imagine Eurovision on King St Newtown. Spencer decided to celebrate his birthday by judging songs written and performed in his honour. The rules were simple, the song had to be about either Spencer's awesomeness or an awesome Spencer-related topic.
A band made out of horses!
If Frankie magazine was a band it would sound like Band of Horses. I’ve never seen or heard anything so indie in my entire life. They were uplifting but ill-defined. Individual songs fell victim to an overriding feel and a wide sound that oscillated between being spacious and hideously overcrowded, with three guitars. They made a big hopeful golden noise that any hopeful melody didn’t stand a chance to hook up over the top of it, in the way that melodies do.
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Wonderfully ill
When the doctor said I was in fact ill and I would feel better in three weeks I nearly fainted with joy. There is nothing better than finding out that you are not crap at operating as a human and failing at the task of approaching each day with energy but are just a bit sick. Am wonderfully ill.
SLAMMATOWN - Any type of happiness will do
 Any type of happiness will do, even the synthetic kind caused by Mexican stairwells and an old white car. The drum kit was a surprise. I'll admit it was the last thing I was expecting to see as the door opened and the light switched on but there it sat tom upon tom like it had always been purple and covered in polka dots. I declare drums to be the very best surprise present ever. My housemates have declared my drum kit to be the very worst thing ever but what would they know, they have no idea how it feels to crawl inside the spine of music. |
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The burden of resting
I want to throw myself early each day into a fury of productivity but in the back of my mind, hoarded and loud as a stolen treasure, is this, 'I must rest, I am tired, I must rest'. This is not an unfamiliar thought, I've come to this place before where every small action is paid for in triplicate with exhaustion.
The question is how to navigate out of these waters. I need someone to physically haul me from bed each morning, point to my clean clothes then push me dressed, brushed and breakfasted into my day. I suppose a butler is out of the question?
Part of this exhaustion is left over virus but the remainder comes from being my own anchor. There is only so far I can submerge in my geomorphometry before losing sight of the surface and the always refrain,'I must rest, I am tired, I must rest'. I think I'm going to need a new submarine.
The question is how to navigate out of these waters. I need someone to physically haul me from bed each morning, point to my clean clothes then push me dressed, brushed and breakfasted into my day. I suppose a butler is out of the question?
Part of this exhaustion is left over virus but the remainder comes from being my own anchor. There is only so far I can submerge in my geomorphometry before losing sight of the surface and the always refrain,'I must rest, I am tired, I must rest'. I think I'm going to need a new submarine.
In a trap there were three things, me, my regret and my poverty or Newtown, the gossamer trap, cuts both ways just like a knife
This morning I find myself sitting square in the centre of a Newtown Trap. I should have gone to bed early to make rising at 6am less painful, but I didn't. I stayed up late performing a series of stupid tasks, reading a short story, watching the last hour of a film, piling jumpers onto an armchair, designing a hovering cat basket, deciding which pantone represented my favourite kind of winter sky. When I turned towards bed something small flipped in my stomach and I became determined to rebel.
Here's how it went this morning; my alarm sounded, I woke and lay there wondering which clothes to wear now, and then nothing. Nothing until Grizelda poked her head in the door at 8am because on a suspicion that I was still asleep instead of at work. She was right. First I got up out of bed and then I got angry, with myself, if there's one place I don't want to be it's here, right now, with a whole day off. This day right here is a beginning symptom of The Newtown Trap.
Yesterday I was talking to a friend about a mutual friend. He said 'we're thinking about extricating him from the Newtown Trap'. I knew exactly what he meant, ever since this guy moved to Newtown he's gone from being witty and slyly rebellious to full-out slacker with little to show for all his 'hard work'.
This is how it begins. Unintentional late nights, accidental sleep-ins, next week's wages are reduced because of the day missed, resentment increases, rebellion intensifies until suddenly all discipline falls out of life and art and all that is left is the talking about or the buried but silent delusion that they are working hard to earn money and working productively on their art when it is obvious to everyone else that they are not. They are free-ranging but broke, full of talk and wonder and anecdote but this is all they consist of. This is the commonest form of the Newtown trap, lack of self-discipline and a failure to manage the basic aspects of life, earning vs spending, sleep/wake cycle and eating vegetables, masquerades as true freedom. It's a bit shit really.
I bounce in and out of my own personal Newtown Trap, the odd late late one, the odd set of unexpected days off. It's more than a person should but less than your standard permanent Newtown-Trap-dwelling citizen does. Tomorrow is my scheduled day off but come Thursday morning I'll be leaving The Peach at an ungodly hour with combed hair, clean clothes on and lunch in my handbag. Not because I want to, not because I like going to work but to stay well clear of The Newtown Trap where all is not what it seems.
Here's how it went this morning; my alarm sounded, I woke and lay there wondering which clothes to wear now, and then nothing. Nothing until Grizelda poked her head in the door at 8am because on a suspicion that I was still asleep instead of at work. She was right. First I got up out of bed and then I got angry, with myself, if there's one place I don't want to be it's here, right now, with a whole day off. This day right here is a beginning symptom of The Newtown Trap.
Yesterday I was talking to a friend about a mutual friend. He said 'we're thinking about extricating him from the Newtown Trap'. I knew exactly what he meant, ever since this guy moved to Newtown he's gone from being witty and slyly rebellious to full-out slacker with little to show for all his 'hard work'.
This is how it begins. Unintentional late nights, accidental sleep-ins, next week's wages are reduced because of the day missed, resentment increases, rebellion intensifies until suddenly all discipline falls out of life and art and all that is left is the talking about or the buried but silent delusion that they are working hard to earn money and working productively on their art when it is obvious to everyone else that they are not. They are free-ranging but broke, full of talk and wonder and anecdote but this is all they consist of. This is the commonest form of the Newtown trap, lack of self-discipline and a failure to manage the basic aspects of life, earning vs spending, sleep/wake cycle and eating vegetables, masquerades as true freedom. It's a bit shit really.
I bounce in and out of my own personal Newtown Trap, the odd late late one, the odd set of unexpected days off. It's more than a person should but less than your standard permanent Newtown-Trap-dwelling citizen does. Tomorrow is my scheduled day off but come Thursday morning I'll be leaving The Peach at an ungodly hour with combed hair, clean clothes on and lunch in my handbag. Not because I want to, not because I like going to work but to stay well clear of The Newtown Trap where all is not what it seems.
The Boring Group
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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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.
Hey look it's Spencer! Sometimes more than one of him at once...
It's The Holy Soul, in case you didn't know. They're playing at the Pan Launch Party + Fundraiser, should be a wild night, I'd get out my diary and pencil it in if I were you...
Recommended viewing snacks for the above music video include licorice allsorts and a nice cup of tea.
Allsorts
Yesterday I was lounging attractively in my club. I was working out a new scheme to ensure my success as sheriff of Area 5 while the clientele ogled me appreciatively, but not without fear, when suddenly. Wait that wasn't me, that was Vampire Eric. Yesterday I was sitting on a bus eating licorice allsorts, the big ones you can pull apart with your teeth when suddenly, well nothing actually. Suddenly nothing. I was sitting on the bus in the pouring rain eating licorice allsorts on my way to the bookshop when nothing happened.
This has been yet another interesting update from Slammatown.
This has been yet another interesting update from Slammatown.
PAN magazine wants YOU. Actually, that’s not quite true. What we’re after is your submissions.
Space is, as always, at a premium. We’ll consider stories up to two thousand words and poetry to fifty lines, although nothing curls our toes like some snappy mini and microfiction. Themes are open. Contemporary short story writers we love include Paddy O’Reilly, Nam Le, Cate Kennedy, Wells Tower, Anthony Doerr and Tom Cho. We admire inventiveness, uncertainty and tension; conversely, we’re wary of didacticism, deus ex machinas and melodrama.
I'm not really sure what an albumarathon is
Sometimes the best way to find out about something is to just close your eyes and do it so here it is, my very first ever albumarathon.
65 Days of Static – We Were Exploding AnywayListening to the nine tracks on this album is like having nine glass splinters and being locked in a tweazerless house.
1/5
Audio Bullys – Higher than the Eiffel
I love this album ten years ago, I want to go back in time. Perfect pop schlock with beats, it is possible I might bring this one back to the future with me.
3/5
Black Gold – Rush
Haven’t heard anything this boring since my neighbour’s grandmother lectured me on the correct method of pegging out socks on the clothesline. This one is for the mainstream people who wash their cars once a week in their driveways.
1/5
Continue reading...
65 Days of Static – We Were Exploding AnywayListening to the nine tracks on this album is like having nine glass splinters and being locked in a tweazerless house.
1/5
Audio Bullys – Higher than the Eiffel
I love this album ten years ago, I want to go back in time. Perfect pop schlock with beats, it is possible I might bring this one back to the future with me.
3/5
Black Gold – Rush
Haven’t heard anything this boring since my neighbour’s grandmother lectured me on the correct method of pegging out socks on the clothesline. This one is for the mainstream people who wash their cars once a week in their driveways.
1/5
Continue reading...
This includes no Venn diagrams
I couldn't pin it down. I tried analysing the air, the temperature, the slant of the sun, my rate of footsteps per minute, none of this data helped. The problem was I was too happy, too happy by far. I was walking down a long hill in the afternoon sunlight crammed-full of contentedness. Everything seemed in order and I was almost enjoying myself when I noticed one big thing - the absence of all problems.
The air was full of bushfire smoke but this reminded me of my youth when a bushfire suspended all ordinary business, the adults all stayed inside (once they had finished plugging up the roof gutters and filling them with water) glued to the television and radio, at the same time. I would wander about the streets marvelling at the dense and luminous orange air.
I was slightly too warm but I was cheered by wearing an electric blue cardigan and knowing if I became any warmer I could take it off and be perfectly comfortable even at a brisk walking pace. I was carrying a bag but it was light and swung contentedly in a perfect arc. I was sure that a random wave of sorrow, anxiety or misfortune would hit at any moment and return the world to order, but it didn't.
Five minutes after arriving at The Peach I was installed on The Peach Deck with tea and toast on a tray, a cat on my lap and a book in my hand but I was still far too happy. I found my book kept lowering itself to allow me to stare dreamily at the sky in a contented way. This is when I became seriously alarmed.
It didn't seem possible for such a heady mix of cheer, goodwill and contentedness to descend on me without some serious repercussions. The extreme sense of wellbeing faded gently into ordinary after sunset but I'm still waiting to hear who died, or blew up or accidentally killed their lover whilst sleepwalking with machete. Come to think of it I had better telephone my mother and make sure she is still alive. Who knows who I could have harmed by holding a whole afternoon of happiness in my hands.
The air was full of bushfire smoke but this reminded me of my youth when a bushfire suspended all ordinary business, the adults all stayed inside (once they had finished plugging up the roof gutters and filling them with water) glued to the television and radio, at the same time. I would wander about the streets marvelling at the dense and luminous orange air.
I was slightly too warm but I was cheered by wearing an electric blue cardigan and knowing if I became any warmer I could take it off and be perfectly comfortable even at a brisk walking pace. I was carrying a bag but it was light and swung contentedly in a perfect arc. I was sure that a random wave of sorrow, anxiety or misfortune would hit at any moment and return the world to order, but it didn't.
Five minutes after arriving at The Peach I was installed on The Peach Deck with tea and toast on a tray, a cat on my lap and a book in my hand but I was still far too happy. I found my book kept lowering itself to allow me to stare dreamily at the sky in a contented way. This is when I became seriously alarmed.
It didn't seem possible for such a heady mix of cheer, goodwill and contentedness to descend on me without some serious repercussions. The extreme sense of wellbeing faded gently into ordinary after sunset but I'm still waiting to hear who died, or blew up or accidentally killed their lover whilst sleepwalking with machete. Come to think of it I had better telephone my mother and make sure she is still alive. Who knows who I could have harmed by holding a whole afternoon of happiness in my hands.
Confession of a horrified cupboard thief and the unexpected cost of barcodes or Empire of The Peach
I was stealing Grizelda's sample packet of Weet-Bix, terrible but true, with a crazed and starved look on my face and a jar of honey in my left hand when the horror first revealed itself. The Weet-Bix was alive! Hiding in the heart of each bick was a wriggling mass of tiny worms*. I've seen the tiny worms before but this is the first time I considered eating them.
You see I've reached a depraved place called 'shall I buy groceries or get a barcode for PAN magazine?'. There are some excellent arguments for both options. If PAN magazine has a barcode then it can be sold properly in shops, just like a real magazine. If I buy groceries then I don't steal worm-ridden Weet-Bix sample packs and consider eating the worms**.
I've seen people eat worms before, in Empire of The Sun, a nifty movie about my paternal grandparents.*** In this movie people are taken from a party to a POW camp and served worm food. They eat the worms because the doctor says there is protein in cupboard worms. If my ancestors could eat cupboard worms then so can I.
And that is the story about how the unexpected cost of barcodes increased the usual amount of protein found in stolen Weet-Bix sample packets in the Empire of The Peach. Now all I have to do is confess my crime to Grizelda.
* The pupal stage of the Evil Cupboard Moth.
** Yes, I know 'worms' is not the correct word but I don't really care. You can blame science if you like.
*** Is actually true.
You see I've reached a depraved place called 'shall I buy groceries or get a barcode for PAN magazine?'. There are some excellent arguments for both options. If PAN magazine has a barcode then it can be sold properly in shops, just like a real magazine. If I buy groceries then I don't steal worm-ridden Weet-Bix sample packs and consider eating the worms**.
I've seen people eat worms before, in Empire of The Sun, a nifty movie about my paternal grandparents.*** In this movie people are taken from a party to a POW camp and served worm food. They eat the worms because the doctor says there is protein in cupboard worms. If my ancestors could eat cupboard worms then so can I.
And that is the story about how the unexpected cost of barcodes increased the usual amount of protein found in stolen Weet-Bix sample packets in the Empire of The Peach. Now all I have to do is confess my crime to Grizelda.
* The pupal stage of the Evil Cupboard Moth.
** Yes, I know 'worms' is not the correct word but I don't really care. You can blame science if you like.
*** Is actually true.
The bastards were all wearing trousers
And now from the interesting world of marching bands comes a Dale Slamma exclusive.
Don’t bother sending me flowers, I am always going to love marching bands more than I love you and I don’t care who knows about it. If there’s one day of the year it is good to be a fan of marching bands it is ANZAC Day. The city goes mad with them, traffic is stopped, old men rock up in suits and nannas drink beer in the gutter. I declare it to be the best day of the year.
Syncopated drumbeats echo off the skyscrapers and everybody is drunk from sunrise. All ordinary business is suspended and the city points itself at the parade like furniture around a television. If there’s something better than rock it’s got to be marching bands. If you ever wondered why music was harnessed as a weapon of war then you’ve never seen a band on parade.
Continue reading....
Don’t bother sending me flowers, I am always going to love marching bands more than I love you and I don’t care who knows about it. If there’s one day of the year it is good to be a fan of marching bands it is ANZAC Day. The city goes mad with them, traffic is stopped, old men rock up in suits and nannas drink beer in the gutter. I declare it to be the best day of the year.
Syncopated drumbeats echo off the skyscrapers and everybody is drunk from sunrise. All ordinary business is suspended and the city points itself at the parade like furniture around a television. If there’s something better than rock it’s got to be marching bands. If you ever wondered why music was harnessed as a weapon of war then you’ve never seen a band on parade.
Continue reading....
Um, please
I'd definitely be doing this if I was any kind of artist, even the bad kind.
Donate an artwork to PAN magazine!
continue reading...
Donate an artwork to PAN magazine!
To donate an Artwork to PAN magazine make us a mind-blowing painting, drawing or sculpture. We’ll
love you for it, I promise... All donated works will be exhibited at PAN magazine’s fundraiser on the 26th of June at The Red Rattler and sold to raise funds to help with printing costs of issue #1.
continue reading...
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.
My own Siamese twin
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.
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.
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...
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...
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...
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.
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...
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.
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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