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

Saturday, September 15, 2012


Well now, just when you thought Melbournites had relaxed a bit and extracted the 10 year old butt-plug a few snooty pricks put you in your short-ass kiwi place. Melbourne , thou art a city of paradox. whelp, this be a review. Snap crackle pop its a rock show. Like the one peaches sings aboot. Peaches. Oh god I love asses. Whatever happened to sex-synth-rock. Anyhoo. Crude played one absolute feltcher of a set the other night at a Burger joint called the B.east. 15 minutes of clanging, piercing hot caker guitar and a small-town ego in defense-mode, the Melbournite audience all professional and glib, sorta slimy and smarmy and holier-than-thou, with  that curious late-modern-capitalist brand of violence effervescing just under the skin like a needle fixers putrid abcess thats sorta gone off,  a kind of nasty, biological stink. I helped clear the room for the main act, bet they liked that. Well no, I think alot of people were there for the burgers, the show was free, it just sorta  just 'happened' to them, like a kind of distraction or a usurpation and once the art gets too, i dunnow, 'real' they leave in droves. But they had just eaten their fuckin burgers so it was time to go anyway wasnt it. But my little 'Crude does rock' fail didn't represent the rest of the piquant putsch ov a night. Coz first up was Christchurch legend Reta 'Lightening' LeQuesne doing the solo guitar/vocalist thing properly. Lequesne was vocalist in Axel Grinders and guitar vocalist in Snort, did a stint in the Axemen , and swamp rocked in the Stepford Five with Celia Man-fucking-Cini and the Billesdon twins...these were skuzz-swamp-nasty rock acts. Her set was a little bit rockabilly, kinda old-world, referencing the colonial blues of the Melbourne/London music patriarchy (you know who they are) ever so subtly, but ultimately hers was a south island of nz sound..
Then a really odd red rectangle guitar is brandished onstage by Number One Jones, ,,,,,stylish drums and bass backing up the rectangle rock act perhaps maybe just a little bit inspired by The White Stripes and maybe the Oblivians, a smart dementia, a curdled milk drink, tasmanian devil chatter box nifty-fifty fly-by-nighter quasi quasi.  This ain't an art gallery matt, its a freaking burger bar and this is garage rock.
Of course I get up and act like im either a stand up comedian or in an art gallery, but i manage to spew out some caustic renditions of 'All Electric' and 'Drive On', (The Aesthetics were originally supposed to play but our drummer is doing some research in Germany). I then get some sort of crowd heckling or something and ad-lib a song proclaiming that I possess an intellectual capacity that cooly supersedes the collective intelligence of 'everyone in here put together'. And who knows who could've been there. A freaking scientist maybe. Accountant geniuses. People who know things I couldnt even dream of. Its just dangerous to posit such arrogance I guess. But who actually gives a fuck anyway? I mean really. Did the gig even fucking happen?  It may not have, this is fucknig Melbourne, too many bands, too many acts, no possibility for real notoriety or fame whatsoever here. Its just a big viscous blur here, no punctuation, no nothing, just a thousand hipster band names that change every fucking weekend. 'The Grizzlies' or 'Forest Family' or fucking 'Sandals' or 'Appalacian' or something. Its a big nothing. Not a chance for anyone to get anywhere here. Can someone name a Melbourne act from the last 10 years thats gone beyond a bit of local notoriety and really made any sort of impact?? I dunnow. Oren Ambarchi maybe. Pimmon? Nick Cave? I guess its a post fame era now. I should get with it. Democracy. True levelling of the field. Free music forever. Fame is so 90s, Matt...
And then it was the band with the biggest posters in town - thee Levitating Churches. Don't deny it hipster,,,,you know who they are...youve all seen the fucking posters. And they hammer out ballzy, snotty, rasping garage-psych-punk-hard-rock and they truly do not give a fuck what you think. They dont care if you like em or hate em. They rock it and should be on tour with Guitar Wolf. An absolute  blast of a set, thoroughly enjoyable and laudable.
Eat my ass.
God Im bored.
And so are Sydneys Salafis.