I locked myself in my wardrobe last night. That's more difficult than it sounds, it has sliding doors. It was, of course an accident, one in a long list of accidents. I threw a garbage bag containing a king size doona onto my head, dropped two fans on my feet and trapped the cat in the shower. I was having one of those uncoordinated days when my ordinary flesh turns into an irresistible disaster-attracting magnet but it was better than the day before when I had to fake something similar.
Spencer said he was having some friends around to have a jam in his band room. I came along to take notes for something I'm working on but ended up happily but ineffectively bashing away at the drums. Something got into Spencer's head and he kept calling out for everybody to swap instruments, which is fine for him because he can just about get away with playing anything, less good for the some of the rest of us, particularly me. I can't play guitar, not at all. I don't want to learn either. I have about as much interest in playing guitar as I do in dropping my hands into a vat of boiling oil. I made some loud electric noises of the atonal variety and didn't really mind not being able to play but then Spencer yelled for another swap and somebody handed me a bass.
I can play bass guitar, but I didn't want to. I haven't wanted to play for twenty years and even before that I wasn't really having a good time with the stupid thing. I used to plod along with one dire band or another, picking out the right notes and following the drummer through rhythm and the guitars through keys but I never liked it. I remember the precise day when I shut my old bass into its case and swore never again.
Two days ago in Spencer's band room I was stranded in the middle of a stupid jam with a damn bass strapped around my neck. Spencer was playing drums like he was falling down stairs, some others were having a go at electric guitar. I thought about it for a second, ran my left hand down the fret board and felt the strings bite at my fingertips but then something took over. I don't even remember making the decision not to play. It was easier than I thought, I half-heartedly plonked out a few tones, out of order, out of rhythm. Muscle memory was screaming at me 'you're doing it wrong, stop doing it wrong', but the more I persisted in not playing the easier it got. I tapped out some random nothings, played non-existent chords, jammed my foot down on a pedal to muddy things up even further and just sat there, making hideous non-rhythmic noises until it was time to swap again.
I can't quite remember what led to the momentous day when I declared, with god as my witness, I will never play the bass again but I do remember the feeling of uncomplicated relief. I suspect it has something to do with writing. There came a point when rehearsals, sound checks, riding stuffed like a sardine from shit town to shit town in the back of someone's borrowed car and playing to people who didn't really give a shit shifted from being kind of fun to nothing more than stolen hours. I just wanted to stay home and write. I know that music isn't my first language like it is for others. I can play some instruments, I can sight read music like a pro, thanks to never practicing enough between piano lessons and wishing to avoid getting yelled at. I can listen to music like most people can't, inhabit it, wear it right in the face, I can sit without embarrassment right in front of a rehearsing beginner or a world class concert pianist but what I can't do is build within myself an innate sense of musicality. You've either got it or you don't. I don't got it and for that I remain truly grateful. I have enough to do here with words.
Toothless and calm
I wish I knew what those clangy metal ball things are called. They are smallish, just small enough to roll two around in one hand at a time. They usually come in small ornamental boxes and make a soothing sort of dull thumpish-clang as they move.
I have the feeling that sorrows can harden into pointed objects that rub, pierce and intrude on everyday moments like sleep, eat, breathe, walk and think. This morning, for the first time, I got the feeling that sometimes a hardened sorrow can become rounded and river-washed, sit tucked up as neat as a bird's feet in midflight.
I took to walking up the road on my way to nowhere in particular except breakfast. I had a good book under my left arm and a new pouch of tobacco in my pocket. I neither desired nor required any company. I walked right underneath a man I once fancied myself besotted with, he had climbed up a ladder and was scooping armfuls of jacaranda petals out of the gutter of a house. I suppose he lives there now, in the house near The Peach where he sometimes climbs to the roof and showers me with petals as I walk beneath his feet. Any reaction but the dread plunging drop in my stomach would have been impossible for such a scenario, last year, but this year I barely thought of him at all, I just laughed in the midst of my delicate purple shower. I neither looked up towards him or deliberately kept my gaze cast down. I found my merry stride unbroken as I heard the first dull thumpish clang.
I wish I knew what those metal balls are called because this morning it occurred to me that I might have some lodged in the middle parts of me, right under the ribcage somewhere between heart and stomach. Don't come racing over with your x-ray machines. I don't think its important to conduct tests to determine whether they are real or imagined. I am quite sure it is just the dull and soothing clang of old sorrows gone toothless and calm.
I have the feeling that sorrows can harden into pointed objects that rub, pierce and intrude on everyday moments like sleep, eat, breathe, walk and think. This morning, for the first time, I got the feeling that sometimes a hardened sorrow can become rounded and river-washed, sit tucked up as neat as a bird's feet in midflight.
I took to walking up the road on my way to nowhere in particular except breakfast. I had a good book under my left arm and a new pouch of tobacco in my pocket. I neither desired nor required any company. I walked right underneath a man I once fancied myself besotted with, he had climbed up a ladder and was scooping armfuls of jacaranda petals out of the gutter of a house. I suppose he lives there now, in the house near The Peach where he sometimes climbs to the roof and showers me with petals as I walk beneath his feet. Any reaction but the dread plunging drop in my stomach would have been impossible for such a scenario, last year, but this year I barely thought of him at all, I just laughed in the midst of my delicate purple shower. I neither looked up towards him or deliberately kept my gaze cast down. I found my merry stride unbroken as I heard the first dull thumpish clang.
I wish I knew what those metal balls are called because this morning it occurred to me that I might have some lodged in the middle parts of me, right under the ribcage somewhere between heart and stomach. Don't come racing over with your x-ray machines. I don't think its important to conduct tests to determine whether they are real or imagined. I am quite sure it is just the dull and soothing clang of old sorrows gone toothless and calm.
SLAMMATOWN - New Dress Syndrome
My new dress is better than amazing. I keep looking at it and thinking ‘oh shit’. More like ‘ooohhhhh shhiiiiiit!’. That’s just how awesome I am in my new dress. I love this dress more than marching bands, teapots and machine guns combined. I want to wear it all the time. Everywhere. So far I have worn it to Annual Goth Day, the dentist, my stupid job, the pub, to bed and in the shower. The bed/shower combination was of course one of those little accidents, could have happened to anyone really.
My dress and I have caught one train, three buses and one taxi cab. We’ve made telephone calls, typed letters, read a book, fed the cat, met seven new people, seen three bands, staggered home late at night, made nine pots of tea and telephoned my mother. Did I mention that I bought the dress three days ago?
My dress and I have caught one train, three buses and one taxi cab. We’ve made telephone calls, typed letters, read a book, fed the cat, met seven new people, seen three bands, staggered home late at night, made nine pots of tea and telephoned my mother. Did I mention that I bought the dress three days ago?
Continue reading on RHUM...
ARIAballs
Shitballs! The ARIAs was a disjointed and discombobulating exercise in waiting around being bored, having no idea what was happening and trying to stay upright in the dense thicket of a champagne-swilling crowd of wannabes eating miniature ice cream cones.
I have no idea who won any of the awards. My night was spent scrambling through the bowels of the Opera House trying to figure out which was the correct hallway to walk down.
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Miniature note about ARIAs
The only interesting thing about the ARIAs was that Lachlan, who plays with Powderfinger, had the shiniest shoes I have ever seen.
Fist City
I had some interesting information from a friend of mine tonight. Originally him and his group of friends were Artboy's classmates at uni. My friend was telling me tonight that he was glad we are friends now, he said he didn't think he would ever be a friend of mine because of what Artboy told him way back when, all those years ago. Apparently Artboy's uni friends thought I was pretty awesome when they first met me and they told Artboy so but here's the interesting part.
Artboy told his friends that he was surprised I even talked to them, that I was prepared to be polite to them but I'd never let any of them in, not really. I think its time for some rule breaking, seeing as I am The Captain of What I Do and also it is three in the morning and I have just arrived home from The Townie (no one tell my mother).
Fuck you Artboy. Retrospectively fuck you.
Just as a side note I have discovered a new way to dry my hands with those loud air-blaster thingy-whatsits they have in public toilets. A foolproof method for actual hand dry-making rather than just standing in an unpleasantly loud and gusty place for twenty seconds but leaving with wet hands despite best efforts. All things considered this evening was triumphant.
Artboy told his friends that he was surprised I even talked to them, that I was prepared to be polite to them but I'd never let any of them in, not really. I think its time for some rule breaking, seeing as I am The Captain of What I Do and also it is three in the morning and I have just arrived home from The Townie (no one tell my mother).
Fuck you Artboy. Retrospectively fuck you.
Just as a side note I have discovered a new way to dry my hands with those loud air-blaster thingy-whatsits they have in public toilets. A foolproof method for actual hand dry-making rather than just standing in an unpleasantly loud and gusty place for twenty seconds but leaving with wet hands despite best efforts. All things considered this evening was triumphant.
Le Noise
There are moments when Le Noise hovers, suspending a single sound apart from its song just long enough to reveal the anatomy of rock and roll. Now that’s what I call the perfect mix of science and love. Le Noise is as wide as the horizon and as intimate the inside of your underpants. It’s not brand new territory; others have been here before but perhaps none so openly as Neil. At the age of sixty-four he’s still singing straight out of that blow-hole in the centre of his chest.
Continue reading on RHUM...
Too many reviews - clearly the editors are slavedriving bastards
Swanlights - Antony & His Johnsons
Antony & The Johnsons is a sometimes-food, unless you are chronically suicidal or just have a penchant for making yourself miserable. Antony & The Johnsons are depressing, as depressing as Jandek or Townes Van Zandt, who is like Hank Williams only sadder.
Swanlights has an operatic sweep to it but can feel a little monotonous until the last three songs, when suddenly it sets like a triumphant tower of berry-studded chocolate mousse and everything begins to make sense.
Continue reading on RHUM...
He Will Have His Way: The songs of Neil and Tim Finn
I once had an argument with an alcoholic in rehab - he was in rehab not me - about which Neil was ‘The Neil’, Neil Young or Neil Finn. Nobody won. Tim is the superior Finn, Rehab Man started drinking again and I went back to listening to Neil Young albums. That little story has precisely one thing to do with He Will Have His Way: The Songs of Tim and Neil Finn but I’m not going to tell you about it
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The Very Very Best of Crowded House
Crowded House sound better in your head than they do on your stereo. Inside my head Crowded House are frickin’ amazeballs. Classic melodies, good times and sunshine distilled into song. On my stereo they are insipid and boring. You can hear the years stacked between you and the day the melody was first written.
Continue reading on RHUM...
Antony & The Johnsons is a sometimes-food, unless you are chronically suicidal or just have a penchant for making yourself miserable. Antony & The Johnsons are depressing, as depressing as Jandek or Townes Van Zandt, who is like Hank Williams only sadder.
Swanlights has an operatic sweep to it but can feel a little monotonous until the last three songs, when suddenly it sets like a triumphant tower of berry-studded chocolate mousse and everything begins to make sense.
Continue reading on RHUM...
He Will Have His Way: The songs of Neil and Tim Finn
I once had an argument with an alcoholic in rehab - he was in rehab not me - about which Neil was ‘The Neil’, Neil Young or Neil Finn. Nobody won. Tim is the superior Finn, Rehab Man started drinking again and I went back to listening to Neil Young albums. That little story has precisely one thing to do with He Will Have His Way: The Songs of Tim and Neil Finn but I’m not going to tell you about it
Continue reading on RHUM...
The Very Very Best of Crowded House
Crowded House sound better in your head than they do on your stereo. Inside my head Crowded House are frickin’ amazeballs. Classic melodies, good times and sunshine distilled into song. On my stereo they are insipid and boring. You can hear the years stacked between you and the day the melody was first written.
Continue reading on RHUM...
SLAMMATOWN: Annual Goth Day
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Step One - for bringing back dinosaurs
Read 'In the time of the dinosaur' by Elliot Perlman. It will definitely help.
Oh shit
The ARIA awards gave me media accreditation. Now I have to come up with a way to get to Balmain to collect the pass, something to wear, a device for carrying spare pens and a grand plan. A plan grander than any other plan. So far I've got this - I am going to interview Richard Wilkins about his hair.
Some Peachettes like paints
 | ||
| Zebsicle - spray paint, poscas and burners |
Check out the aMBUSH Gallery website for details.
Now let's talk about K2. K2 is young, swinging and like a breath of fresh air. She shares my penchant for creative pursuits, rock and roll music, shooting inanimate objects with water pistols and drinking beer. Life is sweet at The Peach. To your right is an unauthorised photograph of K2 readying her painting paraphernalia. I have no idea what burners are but
I do know that you need a bed sheet in the front yard to make them work properly.
Slamma makes a telephone call
Sometimes a Slamma will telephone a Spencer.
S: Hello! What! [sound of fifty men having a singalong in background]
DS: What on earth are you doing?
S: Having a singalong.
DS: Where?
S: Courty. You coming?
DS: Nope.
S: What?
DS: Nope.
S: Wait I'm going to lie down on the floor so I can hear you better.
DS: How will that help?
S: It will. Hang on. See?
DS: Nope. Did you say you were at the pub?
S: Yep.
DS: Maybe don't lie on the floor at the pub. You'll get kicked out.
S: I won't get kicked out. They can see I'm on the telephone.
DS: Why does that help.
S: Don't be stupid. Did you see you were coming to the pub?
DS: Nope.
S:What?
DS: Nope.
S. I thought you said yes.
DS: No, it was no.
S: I'm on the floor now under the table.
S: Hello! What! [sound of fifty men having a singalong in background]
DS: What on earth are you doing?
S: Having a singalong.
DS: Where?
S: Courty. You coming?
DS: Nope.
S: What?
DS: Nope.
S: Wait I'm going to lie down on the floor so I can hear you better.
DS: How will that help?
S: It will. Hang on. See?
DS: Nope. Did you say you were at the pub?
S: Yep.
DS: Maybe don't lie on the floor at the pub. You'll get kicked out.
S: I won't get kicked out. They can see I'm on the telephone.
DS: Why does that help.
S: Don't be stupid. Did you see you were coming to the pub?
DS: Nope.
S:What?
DS: Nope.
S. I thought you said yes.
DS: No, it was no.
S: I'm on the floor now under the table.
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