FOOD FOR THOUGHT

You may have done one or more of the folllowing in the last five months off studies; scarred your liver, spent more time in airport terminals than you did calling your folks, developed an excessive relationship with facebook, admitted yourself to the intensive care burns unit after intentionally refusing to apply sunscreen at the beach, standing in front of the fridge like a moron forgetting what you wanted to eat, so on and so forth.

I can see the first day of March playing out like a movie scene, with the dreaded 'SO WHAT DID YOU DO THIS SUMMER?'. I can already hear the crickets and tumbleweed in the background. So, in resolution to this plight I've been forcefeeding my cranium with many philosophy books, trying to change the world one TED video at a time, scoping design magazines, collecting records that sound like 'thinking music' and basically making a mental list of how many ideas I can rip off when second year of my Advertising degree comes around.

So if you are creatively inclined, thirsty for some inspiration or just need something else to justify the last few months being a slob, you may like to check these out.

W E D N E S D A Y !

Andrew Ashton, founder of of boutique communications agency STUDIO PIP & CO is speaking at the monthly JUNIOR event tomorrow. Ashton's a member of Alliance Graphique Internationale (AGI), has snagged up some serious industry awards including two Australian Graphic Design Pinnacles and a Silver Pencil at the Australian Writers and Art Directors Awards, and regularly sits on design awards panels in Australia and abroad.

Details of the event are below.

Some of STUDIO PIP & CO's work:

T H U R S D A Y !

Also, one of my work mates from the Basement, Rick Mereki is part of this exhibition - make sure you check out opening night!

Usually scattered to the four corners of the globe, Homecoming is the bringing together of three of Melbourne’s most prolific young creatives. Independently they span the fields of film, art, design, music and fashion. They have produced work for David Bowie, The Temper Trap, Claude Maus and some of the worlds leading contemporary visual artists. Their award winning projects are continually featured in major International art and fashion publications, which has allowed them to sound like real dicks at dinner party’s.

LEE GINGOLD lives, works and plays in London, Melbourne and New York. In the last year he has worked on film projects for The Beatles, David Bowie, and Louis Armstrong. When he is not writing a script or developing visuals for anticipated film and tv projects, you can find him in a random street taking photos of the things you thought you had lost forever.

If not designing and art directing International art and fashion based publication projects, JASON MILDREN can be found in places such as London, Japan, Europe and Aotearoa taking cheeky snaps of all things odd, intimate, beautiful, inspiring and bizarre.

Music video director, and DJ RICK MEREKI (better known in art circles as SCWINT) drawings of tiny villages on pieces of wood can be found everywhere from San Francisco to some of the finest share houses in Brunswick.

All three have recently returned from there respective journey and No Vacancy has invited these artists to take over the space for a limited one-off show of photography and illustration'.

NO VACANCY GALLERY (NEW ADDRESS)

34–40 Jane Bell Lane, QV

Melbourne.

Opening night: Thursday 11th February: 6:00pm ‐ 9:00pm

Exhibition: 9th February – 14th February 2010

JUNIOR: www.lifeatthebottom.com

STUDIO PIP & CO : www.peoplethings.com

HOMECOMING EXHIBITION:

www.no-vacancy.com.au/homecoming.html

I CAN TALK

TWO DOOR CINEMA CLUB from Northern Ireland have only been jamming for a two or so years, but already have a mass following on their hands. They've put out two singles and an EP on hip label Kitsune and have been working on their debut with Phillipe Zdar, who's known for his role in Cassius as well as producing Phoenix's latest offering. TDCC's sound is a lot like the We Are Scientists earlier material with the harmonic drifts of the Mystery Jets and the Wombats' frenetic pace. The album drops next month, and looks promising.

find out more here

(日 本 語 が わ か り ま せ ん) FOR RELAXING TIMES, MAKE IT SUNTORI TIME.

I took piano lessons for close to fourteen years. Stringent in marking a pathway for their six year old as the token asian overachiever, my parents were adamant in persuading me that language school, piano lessons, viola lessons, clarinet lessons, dance lessons and swimming lessons were all necessary ventures. I was bundled off at 9am every Saturday morning to a modest brick house in Tullamarine for Bflat chromatic scales and serious Sonata workouts. Harumi was a gentle lady with a delicate frame and a thick shoulder length bob, who had a penchant for nodding her head whenever she said 'yes'. She would put on concerts for all her students at the start of every school holidays. At the end of these concerts, we'd all receive goodie bags filled with kitschy Japanese wares; nauseatingly cute hampster shaped stationery, small porcelain Astroboy figurines and Japanese candy.

The big vivid japanese print, cartoon pencil ends, attempts at spelling English words, everything about photographer Yasumasa Yonehara's home in Tokyo (shot by Tom Selby) reminded me terribly of all the little eccentric novelties I recieved from my piano teacher a long time ago. It's interesting to see how much you can discover about a person just by taking a look into their personal space. You can imagine how enthralled I was to be lying on my ex's bed for the first time and having a cardiac discovering topless zoo mag pinups all over the back of the bedroom door, but needless to say, personal spaces speak volumes.

Yonehara makes a living taking photos of women in slightly degrading positions. He's shot for Diesel, has been ripped off by American Apparel, exhibits and shoots regularly for street mags across the globe. Lately there seems to be a jump in the whole business of perverted pubescent males shooting candids of females out of their league and adopting the whole ' if Terry Richardson can do it, so can I!'

Take note of the religious paraphanelia on the rangehood, plastic ice cream, the spongebob alarm, the gay barbies, the extensive cap collection, the magazine page which in this case I'll title, 'heads down bums up' - and you'll see that Yonehara hasn't aged a day past seventeen.

And while I admit that I can spend countless hours on The Selby voyeuring into the bedrooms of creatives and famous people, once private places become public galleries they start to loose their mystique (35,000 global bloggers could do without knowledge of the rotting contents of my fridge, notes I've kept from boys I stalked in high school and my extensive postcard collection). So without the assumption from my readers that I'm encountering some sort of a quarter life crisis in a stray dog housing hub and enjoying dwelling in nostalgia amongst the glory of my hoardings, I do not plan on posting any images of my personal space any time soon.

(all photographs from THE SELBY ARCHIVE, view more here)

CATCALL INTERVIEW

The effervescent CATCALL, aka Catherine Kelleher caught our attention a few years ago with her fresh brand of 'hip-pop' filtering through her hit 'Bad Move Baby'. Although Catcall's been likened to everyone from Macromantics to M.I.A, her bold live stints are proof that comparisons are unnecessary. Kelleher has shared sweaty mics with The Gossip, Deerhoof, Architecture in Helsinki, and Macromantics, as well as the main support slot for Phoenix and La Roux on their recent tours. After recently being handpicked by the hipsters at Ivy League, Catcall will release her debut record later on this year. Primary Colours talks to Catcall about Kiosk, Beth Ditto and Lady Gaga warm ups...

Catcall has been described as everything from ‘fractured hip hop’ to a ‘multi layered, electronic dream’. How would you describe Catcall’s real guise, Catherine Kelleher?

Passionate, honest and little bit mad.

You seem to dig your fair share of shoulderpads, glitter, and purple eyelashes. What fad from the past would you like to see brought back to light?

Tencel Jeans.

When you sit down to write, what jumps out at you first – the melody or the lyrics?

The melody comes out first and the vibe of the vocal line usually informs what the song is going to be about lyrically. It’s always quite personal.

You could say that Catcall’s relatively tamer compared to your role in Kiosk. How/when did you meet Jack and Angela?

I met Ang and Jack at the end of 2003 when they were playing in this rad Indie pop band “When yr Dead yr Dead Forever”. They opened for Red Riders and Dappled Cities at the Hopetoun. I had started talking to Ang on the internet a bit before that because I wanted to start a band that sounded like Blonde Redhead and Confusion is Sex era Sonic Youth…she wanted to join so I went to meet her in the flesh and that’s how Kiosk was born. I had no friends who were into the bands I was into so the internet was how I could connect with like minded people while I was in high school.

Were you in the music clique at high school?

Not at all really. Most of the kids at school weren’t really getting into the stuff I was into. I just floated around in high school and music was something that I experienced in this solitary way. I mainly talked about music with people on the internet until I finished school and met Jack and Ang who opened my world up.

What’s the most important thing to you when making music?

That I’m honest in my lyrics and sounds and that nothing is forced or not true. I think audiences can see through the bullshit anyway.

What sort of albums/artists did you grow up listening to?

I grew up initially listening to bands like Sonic Youth, Fugazi, Shellac, Bikini Kill, Nirvana, Murder City Devil, and At the Drive-In. Then stuff like Black Flag, The Germs, The Go Gos and The Stooges.

It’s Friday night and you’re home alone. What record do you put on in preparation for some copious booty shaking?

Beyonce’s I am Sasha Fierce….

Men in spandex – hit or shit?

Hit.

If a higher power was to smite your house right now, what record would you save from the flames?

My Germs Forming 7”, it has a special place in my heart.

Which artist/band would you most like to collaborate with?

Joseph Mount from Metronomy. I’d love to do some girl/boy duets with him like Ike and Tina, Iggy Pop and Kate Pierson, John and Yoko or Lee Hazlewood and Nancy Sinatra.

Tell us about the most wacked out gig you’ve ever played.

Kiosk played this sweaty basement show in Brooklyn, NY back in the summer of 2006. It was packed and I was standing on the drum kit, bashing my hands on the roof singing to this packed room of kids who were all going crazy. One of the best live shows I’ve ever been a part of.

You supported the Gossip a while ago. Is Beth Ditto’s real personality as generous as her stage persona?

Yes. She’s super adorable and hilarious.

I also read somewhere that Ditto’s a professed fan of your work with Kiosk. Who’s your fave female muso?

That is SO hard…but right now I would have to say Christine Mcvie from Fleetwood Mac.

Longest amount of time you’ve gone without a shower on tour?

Not longer than a day. I need my showers. I’d lose it if I couldn’t shower.

Any rituals to amp yourself up before a gig?

I sing some mainstream pop…at the moment it moves between Beyonce’s Sweat Dreams and Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance. But really right before a show I’m usually found pacing back and forth with nervous energy because I can’t wait to play. Someone in my band is usually trying to chill me out, they’re all super relaxed. I’m mad.

Name your poison.

Soy flat white. Can’t live without.

Jack and Ange are busy with Circle Pit now, is Kiosk still in the works?

Not at the moment…I feel like we’re all making the music we’re meant to make right now…but you never know. Kiosk is more of a relationship than a band. Jack and Ange are two of my best friends and we learnt everything from being in that band. One day we’ll totally play again….it will be a spur of the moment thing though!

The solo project seems to be a popular jaunt for a lot of bands now. Do you prefer the independence of doing your own thing with Catcall, or do you miss the dynamics of being in a band?

I do miss it a lot, I miss writing music with a group of people…(I’m trying to start an all girl band that rips of Tom Tom Club and ESG to satisfy that part of me again)…but also I love writing solo because I inject so much personal expression in the lyrics. I work better when I’m creatively driving a project but I think music always needs to be collaborative in some way, and I really love working with the beat producers….they bring their sounds to me, and then I turn it into a story. I’m absolutely loving performing with musicians for the live show.

You’ve toured with Pheonix and La Roux and played most of the big name festivals this summer, what’s ahead for Catcall in ’10?

FINALLY releasing the album that I’ve been working on for the last year and a half…I can’t wait.

Catcall plays the 2010 Big Day Out.

www.myspace.com/catcallmusic

PAPER PLANE PROJECT

(this post is for MIDORI ADORES FEBRUARY)



For the bulk of us who don’t live on the sunny outskirts of the coast, the month of February is a final boarding call. In the harsh confines of the ruthless metropolitan jungle, Feb isn’t just an urgent reminder, it’s Naomi Campbell hurling a telephone at your face.

Summer is coming to a close and reality bites - your inbox is expanding more rapidly than your waistline, your tan looks more like leprosy than a ‘golden glow’, the small umbrella that once graced your Mojito is now hastily fasted to your work PC with bluetack, and your holiday fling just broke the news that he’s married to a hooker and has three kids under the age of two. Yeah, life sucks.

Fortunately you can live out summer (or whatever’s left of it) vicariously through the sounds of Paper Plane Project. Perth duo Mason Kimber and Nick Bennett are the brains behind the appetising palate of sounds. Following the release of their EP on local label Cardboard City Records in 2008, Mason and Bennett bid bon voyage to WA for Brooklyn, New York on a quest for musical enlightenment. The wunderkind producers are well aware that music is greater in numbers, having enlisted members of Def Jux Record's funk band Chin Chin to provide bass, guitars and horn sections on some tracks, to collaborating with Raasaan Ahmad of Crown City Rockers and London based singer Lucinda Slim of 90’s group Zap Mama.

Following a pit stop in Rio Di Janero, the pair met and collaborated with local samba musicians, and you’ll hear that influence on tracks like ‘You Can Feel’ and ‘Welcome To Brazil’ which glimmer with fervent trumpet parts, fiery drumming, the occasional whistle and bunch of happy Brazilians all singing ‘La La La La!’, which I assume is Portuguese for ‘Pra Caramba, Dançamos!’, which is English for ‘HOLY CRAP, LETS BOOGIE!’

It’s too easy these days for music producers to get caught up in the hype – all you need is to cover up every corner of fertile musical potential with digi synthesizers, autotune and whack a south American with a big behind in your music video. What strikes me about Paper Plane Project is their ability to fuse together a multitude of genres and sounds that will please the masses, while still maintaining a sound that has depth and a broad understanding of music from a world perspective. These guys keep it real. Paper Plane Project could get a grin from the most emotionally unstable metal head and make them flail their hands in the air.

‘What You Want’ is a three minute, twenty second block party that throws in an infectious array of chilled out keyboard hooks, substantial funk back beats and shoulder bustin’ grooves glazed over with the inclusion of slick vocals from Raashan Ahmad (Crown City Rockers).

If the Fresh Prince threw a Sunday afternoon rooftop party with topless Brazilian chicks, a brass section and set up a giant inflatable pool filled with Malibu, this is what it would sound like.

'What You Want'

Their fresh sound is a breeding ground for some widespread airplay, so don’t be surprised if you hear a lot more from them in the coming year. They just supported Grandmaster Flash at the Capitol in Perth a few days ago, so make sure you keep an eye and ear out for any upcoming shows.

Paper Plane Project will blow out your brains with deadly contagious fusion of Latino inspired hip hop/jazz/soul/funk and will continue to shake, groove, and samba the remains until there’s nothing but a hollow cranium left. Get on to it.

click here to download 'What You Want ft. Raashan Ahmad'

www.myspace.com/paperplaneproject

ADNATE EXHIBITION @ NO VACANCY

Attention Melbourne dwellers and seekers of visual delight:

My friend Bobby who works for one of the sponsors have me the heads up on this one.

'Don’t Ban The Can' is proud to announce "DEMAND ATTENTION", a solo exhibition from ADNATE.

Adnate's work pushes the boundaries between street and fine art

and is exhibiting at NO VACANCY Gallery at QV until the 7th of Febuary.

OPENING NIGHT

WHEN: 6:00 FRIDAY 22nd JAN

WHERE: NO VACANCY GALLERY

34-40 Jane Bell Lane, QV.

EXHIBITING UNTIL: 7TH FEB 2010

So if you like exhibitions with a kick and your alchohol flowing (yes, free!), tell your friends.

www.demandattention.com.au

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THREE REASONS WHY I HATE EURASIANS.

John Saffran dedicated a TV series to sniffing their underwear. Muse retitled the States (via song) after them. Don't count on them to make noise to call attention. Just count how many of them have pushed in front of you in the line at the bar. They make babies with the global elite. The universe is well aware of their propensity for being compotent at everything. In the golden age of globalisation (latte complexions, satay burgers, long surnames, indians making fucking good gourmet pizzas) - fusion is de rigeur. A strong word hate may be, but trying to hold down the big, green monster at a Eurasian is like poking a big English steak with a chopstick.

They don't court normal activites (walking the dog, watching tv, friday night poker). Neither do they entertain the occassional bout of acne, general people skills or reasonably average looks. Humans certainly were not created equal. Now my nan is a mixed bag, so my vexation must stop somewhere. But as for my folks migrating to this sparse land of Aus - yes I'm pointing the angry finger at you - surpassing many opportunities to get chummy with ultimate breeding potential lying in tall, tanned, winsome golden haired suitors, bequeaths all common sense.

It's not my fault that my gene whirlpool denied me the priviledges of an exotic mother from an uncharted island where they roll their 'R's', ride buffallo, eat alien looking fruit, frolick barefoot around jungles and own pet monkeys named Yusuf Islam - breeding with a strapping blond Anglo who was school prefect, captained the football team and who now has a high fledging position in corporate finance, and a 40sqm office overlooking the CBD in which he plays golf on his lunch breaks with his socks off. The lottery of the universe did not see appropriate to my case, so thus I was predestined to slither along the cruel scorn of the earth with the rest of the commoners of society.

They've taken my taxis, stolen my men, cut in front me in supermarket queues and and now this.

Chelsea Wheatley, better known as one third of Melbourne pop punk outfit The Gingers (or for the less musically inclined, from that Libra ad) has gone solo. Of late, it seems customary for acts to bid von boyage to their members in favour of the good old solo jaunt (Jonathan Boulet, Adrian Deutsch, Wally De Backer, Catherine Kelleher, Pip Brown I'm looking at you) and there is much evidence that all this DIY craft going on in bedrooms has spawned wonderful things.


Wheatley's new venture B E L L S caterpaults onto a new tangent, leaving the apt mouth pop punk catcalls of Ginger territory far behind for smooth lo-fi grooves and arresting hi-fi beats. Driven by handclap rhythms, musky synth cameraderie, chugging guitar hooks, Bells still manages to stamp subtle melodic charm all over.







'Full Moon' is a fitting post-party antidote to broken furniture, empty goon boxes, ashtray hair and 4am dishwasher tongue. Complete with wavering sexual tension, swinging saturday night fever-esque hooks, perky vox and electro tidbits with embellished with shiny New Young Pony Club giftwrap, it will have you coughing up sequins, glitter and various other vivid craft supplies in the early hours of the morning. The other single up on Bells myspace 'Make Oh', offloads typical Rosin Murphy bass crawls and breathy Bananarama vox in an shimmering guise.

There are many things that should have died with the end of the 80s - Danni Minogue, mullets, men over 50 rocking spandex and the clap. Being born into an era of atrocious music and aerobics gear as an excuse for fashion, otherwise know as THE 90's, I may not have earned Calvin Harris' love but I am well old enough to comprehend that this whole 80's come 90's freakbeat come bleach-my-hair and-dyke-hack-it- come I-wear-srunchies-and-big-shouldered-blazers-with-Ken Done yacht-print, revivalist scheme is what all the cool kids are doing anyway.


Even though Bells may have arrived four years too late to the party, and for what some tracks lack in lyrical dimension, Wheatley's ability to swing on the 80's undercurrent and make it pull together with effortless swagger is notable. 'Prime Time Crime' is one of those tracks that pulls up its sequinned dungarees and syncopated freakbeats and roars at the big local dj's to be remixed accordingly and if done, has the potential to be a hit on the dancefloor with the kids who don Patrick Woolfe 'dos and dance like Le Tigre (see below).




So in all, would it be wise to ship off all Eurasians to an obscure island (Tasmania perhaps) where they can all co-exist with their species, bask in the presence of other ridiculously good looking primates and host fancy soirees to parade their talent within confines of their hilly little island retreat so the rest of the dismal population (aka you and I) wont have to compete? Possibly.

I won't dutifully be stroking their already inflated egos, but might just, by a fraction of an inch, agree to shake my booty to their bedroom generated tunes.

www.myspace.com/hearthebells

BULFRAGE JOINS THOM BROWNE

N E W S !



Well wishes and confetti and champagne all around!
Huge congratulations to a gorgeous wunderkind, my lovely friend Emily Collins aka Edwina Bulfrage who's just landed a spot working for none other than THE minute man, New York menswear extraordinairre, THOM BROWNE himself.

We're all so proud of you Em - and awaiting all wonderful New York stories upon your return (if you ever decide to come back!)




Do yourself a favour and view her blog/designs at

www.edwinabulfrage.blogspot.com

& more about Thom Browne here.

HOW TO DEMOLISH AN ENTIRE CIVILISATION AND STILL FEEL GOOD ABOUT YOURSELF IN THE MORNING

It has been brought to my attention by a number of readers that my blog keeps redirecting you to some Zshare audio website. I'm not impressed that the bountiful grounds of the world wide web has decided to shirk my posts in favour of a Twighlight soundtrack number. A little puzzled as to why this is happening ( no hackers on the cards, fingies crossed) but I'm trying fix it as soon as I can.

Right now, I'm sitting on a squeaky leather chair in my room, fan turned to the third notch (primitive yes, but these are the due consequences of reassuring your folks that airconditioning generates a larger means of depleting black balloons and smokey substances that go into the big piece of glad wrap harbouring the planet, so that melting into your bedsheets in forty degree heat is partially justified, so on and so forth.)

As you may imagine my attempt at trying to type, blow away craft feathers getting in my mouth from the remains of last week's Falls headdress and hold down airbourne cd booklets generated by the small scale hurricane in my room are proving not quite the success despite entitlements to multitasking savoir faire in my youthful dexterity.

The book I'm reading at the moment is by Julian Bagginni and Jeremy Stangroom - a insightful compilation of discussions and critiques on ideas from authors, intellectuals and philosophers such as Pirsig, Zizkek, Foot, Williams and Letwin to name a few. Here is an interesting exerpt from childrens author Phillip Pullman;

"Allegory is terribly dull. Because this means that, only that and nothing else. It depends on what I am coming to think of as a political truth about reading, which is that it differs from writing, painting or whatever, is essentially despotic and autocratic in nature, beacuse it's the work of one mind and one mind alone, which has the power of life or death over this sentence or that phrase or whatever it is.

Reading on the other hand; interpretation is inherently, intrinsically democratic, because it is fundamentally a process of negotiation between mind and text, between the expectations you bring to it and the satisfactions and disappointments you take away from it.

It's a bad idea to impose one single reading on a text; this, and this only, is what it means."

Reading this reminded me of a conversation I interrupted between two work colleagues a few weeks ago.

One said to the other,

"You can explain EVERYTHING. If you can't see something with your own eyes, it's ain't real dude."

Sensibility on my behalf would have let the obvious nature of the conversation fizzle out into silence and let the both of them go back onto whatever they were doing, but unfortunately the nonchalance of it all spurred up and outward.

Then how do you explain how old that the giant big wrecking ball of ash and fire and volcanic acid burning in the sky? Why is the earth just one giant mass floating in black abyss? Who's holding it up? And how about the millions and millions of other universes out there? And how do you explain ghosts? You believe in love don't you? You can't see either. And for fuck's sake the earth probably isn't round after all. Our good friend Marco Polo is turning in his grave. Why were you born on that specific date to those parents and why does your heat suddenly stop on that particular day and time? And are you really ascertained to the belief that after the span of upteenth light years evolution went into labour and popped out a premature embro to which billions of atomic particles descended on this giant expanse of blue and green which is known to us as PLANET EARTH? No apology. I refuse to accept the Dawinian abstraction that my existence has been spawned on the basis of inbred chimps.

Now this was all bubbling inside the cauldron of my cerebral cortex for approximately two fifths of a second. In turn, the only interruptive contribution on my behalf to the conversation was the speckled distribution of a frustrated "UUURRRRGHHH!!!!!!" slight crescendo on the finish, indicating the extent of irritation towards some narrow minded ideals that the vast majority of the population seem to hold dear.

"When people thought the Earth was flat, they were wrong. When people thought the Earth was spherical they were wrong. But if you think that thinking the Earth is spherical is just as wrong as thinking the Earth is flat, then your view is wronger than both of them put together." (Isaac Asimov)

Love is a fractal phenomenon. Multiculturalism is a fractal phenomenon. Truth is a fractal phenomenon. All of these show the same patterns no matter which way you view it from. All of these and beyond, our human attempts at reason and concrete judgement can't grasp. Dismantling reason for reasons and truth for many truths may satisfy the breadth of human endeavour as intellectuals on top of the food chain, BUT there are limits to morality. The beauty of life exists in it's mystery. And by that I refer to the mystery of hope, the mystery of expectation, what we have not seen and what exists further than the present.

Children encompass a concrete awareness of the depths and currents of feelings, and the presence of more powerful things they do not have the ability to understand yet (Pullman)

People have forgotten the subtleties of understanding. Far too often we tend to blur the lines of difference between mythos (meaning and analogy) and logos (dealing with literal description) - where political correctness seems to be getting the better of most and where we interpret things with our own discretion, rather than grasping the wonder and beauty of things just as they are.

“It is not the answer that enlightens, but the question.”– Decouvertes.

* * * * * * *

And as I slowly come to the awareness that this post has rapidly passed the 1000 word mark, and that I've been thown in and out (one needs to eat) of the vacuum of my ramblings and passing thoughts - it is five o clock already, the dog needs to be feed, and there are many, many answers with questions brewing on the parallel.

See you on the flip side.

FALLS FESTIVAL: A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS.

Falls Festival episode two. A music festival wouldn't be one without a little....chaos.


The sun was merciless, the food poisoning up a notch, the lineup utterly disappointing and our campsite adjacent to the footpath. Believe me, you wouldn't spare the hissy fit either if courteous passers by continually pissed one metre away from your bed.

Note, if you're going to attend a music fest, go with people that will go enjoy the sunshine and live music, not sit around the campsite and vegetate their skin to a state of leather. Having given up soon after my persuasive efforts failed, I ended up seeing the remainder of bands I hadn't missed already, by myself. Doing you a favour and sparing you of the usual review laden with adjective overuse, doting chord changes, musical comparisons and twisted genre placement - here is a drive by rundown of some of the acts I saw;


oh mercy: white pants were cool in '95

dappled cities: who doesn't love a lead who wears hawaiian shorts.

art vs. science: eternally responsible for robbing french society of their language.

temper trap: dougie, dougie, falsetto finesse.

jordie lane: good. very very good.

kid sam: will serenade me on our honeymoon.

yeah yeah yeahs: brian chase and nick skinner? yes! they do exist!

yves klein blue: irritating. the lead, billy zane. really.

moby/hilltop hoods: fat bald men shouldn't make music.

grizzly bear: back into hibernation, all of you.

john steel singers: i would like to join this band.

rodrigo y gabriela: mindblowing.

jamie t: should have left the weather at home

the view : subtitles required.

Not even our good friend Xavier Rudd and his yi yi hippie hippie aye compatriates could save me from the series of unfortunate events that was to follow.

I originally bidding at the hope of running away into forest with an attractive long blonde paisley wearing festival patron who'd take me to his makeshift tepee where we'd feed each other grapes and talk about Syd Barrett and philosophy and which then he'd introduce me to his his four other extremely attractive friends with interesting haircuts and we'd all get high and sing Credence Clearwater choruses and swim naked in the river and making sweet love at midnight beforfe running off into the wilderness and passing out and waking up in birthday suit attire next to the main stage on new years day.

Instead of the extravagant events I had planned to reel in the new decade, the doting elements of a bogan breeding ground plummeted me into the warmest, hairiest embrace possible.

Our neighbours left us a thoughtful new years present - look guys, if you want to turd in a Nutri Grain box then for the love of Zeus please move it out of the footpath where an unexpecting passer by won't tread on your excretement of goods. (*see image below)

(yes, that is turd in a box. refer to paragraph above.)

(waking up to rave music from the car stereo at 7am. love thy neighbours.)

And much like the sweaty ubiquitous blue yob singlet, much of my non existent NYE was stained with B.O. (not my own) and warm Carlton Draught (also not my own).

Failed attempts at unsobriety, and to add to assault - trying to break up punch ons between mates, babysitting duties after a friend decided to drown grog with prescript meds, lcd, acid before collapsing six times and dragging me also bum first into the mud. Drugs are bad kids.

It's midnight, I've lost everybody, I get caught out singing all the wrong lyrics to Miami Horror and some jerk to my left is touching my bum.

Thank God Denise appears out of nowhere. It's raining, drunk people are trying to steal my headdress, and I'm close to sweeping my hair into a greasy emo side fringe and hanging myself with the nearest tent rope. At this stage, food is the obvious salvation, so we decide to some sort of soggy dough and flour and banana-nutella concoction. There are about three people making food to serve a line of forty, and at one point the guy drops the dough on the floor and picks it up but we're all too tired and hungry and really don't give a fuck if paying nine bucks for a ball of dirt and dough soaked in grease is the death of us.

After twenty minutes in line, the man tells me they are sold out. I go ape shit, lose Denise again but Erica Stevens comes to the rescue. We spend the first four hours of the new year eating crepes in the rain, conversing with a bunch of geezers from the UK and a Frenchman who claims to speak Uzbekistan, getting hit in the head with inflatable rings and other large objects at the rave in the tent, trying to fend off customary "hey how are ya, hey how are ya"/cherokee catcalls and wading through the sea of rubbish in front of the main stage. Items we found - ponchos, beer cans, thongs, rotting heschen, sunglasses lenses, some bodies (body parts?), deflated pool rings, art vs. science drummer lying the mud in his jocks asking for forgiveness for bestowing lyrical shit upon the nation, dirty Hare Krishna food and the rear end of of a horse costume.

Mud stained knees, running eyeliner, dirt on face, and drenched feathered headdress, I trudge a mile back through the muck, looking more like a drowned KFC Colonel's Secret Recipe chicken more than swank festival patron.

I pass out (extremely sober) from all the complexities of the night's events in the muddy tent, dreaming of a warm shower, clean bras, the thought of consuming real food and the luxury of a flushing toilet. Skinny dipping with hippie kids in the forest at midnight and rad times may have been absent from my NYE contrary to original plans, but a propagating thought reassures me that the 2010 can really, surely only go up from here.



(2010, another year for refining the art of crashing and ruining a perfectly good photo.)



Happy 2010 to all of you,
all my love.