Friday, September 28, 2012

Hot Palms, Bleach Boys, Crude ----thee Sporting Club ...

And the Hot Palms have languished in a season of effervescent creativity down at thee Sporting Club, o'er the road from thee Barkley Square Coles where prices are down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down down fucking well down motherfuck. Keep yer nose clean boyo. Anyhoo. Music. Arrive on the scene a little late, a tight-knit crowd sat and absorbed thee delicate dream-drone of the Hot Palms, a select few enjoying a special presentation of recent work, the sports-bar was suddenly an art gallery, a heart warming experience all round in my book. I lamented arriving so late because the sweet din only had 5 minutes left in it and sweetness is something altogether lacking in the Moreland biosphere this week. What a terrible terrible week, with the rape and murder of a local woman down Sydney road on the weekend.  Oh misogyny, when will you roll over and die. Re-educate, re-educate. Start it real early. The male condition is a perpetual stain. In my opinion us men are over-rated , overvalued and over-employed in this world. I'm male, don't I know it. I know, I'm attacking my gender here. Perhaps im just sucking up. Oh I don't know. Truth is -  and this is undeniable - in the main its men who are the aggressors, the abusers, the war-mongers and the murderers. I digress wildly but I think all of Moreland City is digressing wildly right now and doing alot of collective soul searching. It could've been my wife. It could've been my sister or mother or daughter.

Anyhooo oh reader, keep a look out for the Hot Palms, keep em bookmarked next to your Advaita Vedanta index and yer Craigslist and yer

Next up was The Bleach Boys. Lo and behold we were duped - this act was neither ensemble nor boy-band.  The Bleach Boys was one Maya Kjellstrand, a solo sound artist and her work transported me back home to None Gallery or Lines of Flight (which is on as we speak - no longer a Dunedin based event), immersive, ever-so-slightly sci-fi, the sonic strains and drones that you tap into as you oscillate b'tween sleep and thee bill/fee/fine/rent-burdened waking-state(oh sleep! for those few hours, the bills have been payed in full), a wonder to behold. Sound-Art is pure joy in my book. Kjellstrand's  performance was a demonstration, live treating and aesthetic tampering with pre-prepared sounds,  she journeyed into tactile production-line schtick with manual switching of cassettes, the effect reminiscient of how computers in the 1950s were operated. Maya has a track on the fabulous 'Ladyz in Noyz Australia' album, hosted on bandcamp. Check it oot.

And then Crude appears, an experimental act with a goofy performative bent, I attempt to inject humour and a kind of corny kiwi compere-ship into the line-up, wack the old dick smith mp3 player into the amp and wail over such hits as 'Summer Part One' and 'Grandmother' and 'Hey Hey Commando' . All in all this time the Crude attack works and the small crowd is entertained for a bit. Reviewing your own gig. Its a uroboric feat. Its self-indulgence gone awry. It needs to be done. Grey on grey. Like a rhinestone cowboy. Melbourne Fringe. Oh yeah, i need a freaking haircut. The yoga of objectivity. Nascent nascent nascent. Umbilical. ottos first flat. Pain and class. Meditate. vEDANTA pANCHADASI

1 comment:

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