Tuesday, August 5, 2014


bwa bwa
zane derry
pride pack
vade vadee
juun juun d'kneeal
tapper ko ko
quaak hard-la
oi-ooo preen
saard fujeera


Well whoop-di-do ive been a quiet shopper haven't it. Flopper dock, duck in duck out just get yer vex straight poster child. So its truther truth you wanted and you don'ts get. Blimmen bugger it get ready woman! I'm supposed to be on stage. There's, well, theres people from work who want to see what you do outside of work there! My work life is now my creative life too, like it or not chuck! That work ethic is now your play ethic mate! Well, sorry but fuck em, as much as I luv em. And I concocted a real turd for em all. I got up on it. So - city of not much of not much, It seems me dont really pull it off any more.. In my petulant little mind its all over. Really. Culture as this small minded imp thinks it is simply does not exist. There is truly no reason to play music at all. Or in fact, do anything. Because this town is a vacuum. A distended homeless swathe of throwaway names and acts and names and names and bandnames and more bands and bands . A mass of filtered, heat-treated, half-baked, templatized, insuperably moneyed slime moulds competing for ever decreasing venue spaces and what - recognition. Fun times. A point to make. Someone to love. Artistic credibility. There is no point to any of it, nothing. The  Real Estate agents have won. The business lobby has won. Venues are gratuitous tax avoidance rackets precisely set up to only promote bands whos members operate like a small to medium sized business enterprise  . Mentally ill types like myself have no place here.  But, ill keep living here, as a faceless worker, because city life pays the bills. I resign, but i don't resign.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

review-stations,the aesthetics,zond good times studios

Hitting the bottom-of-the-barrel stuff this Sunday afternoon. Sulphite-ridden weasel juice. Gossips. Cheap, very very cheap. Like me - I got a price and it's cheap. Greetings to the bent, sick, slimey swag of reptilian old boys who run the country. I'm a permanent resident in this corrupt little country town-cum-continent. The dodgiest little white boy congregation this side of Cambodia. Not a cell, not ONE truly uncorruptible human grouping exists in this sick, twisted country. Not a one. Everyone is able to be bought off. So why not just go home, as hecklers gleefully intone.  Go home. Go back to New Zealand -  currently tightening its fiscal belt care of its emporer-in-chief , an ex-currency trader and multi-millionaire - a truly non-charismatic leader - Abbotts ideological cousin you might say.. .  Not much to 'go home' to either - i guess Australia is the lesser of two evils? No ? Yes? No? Fuck off faggot Puckle street moonee ponds business incubator scum-fuck burger joint? The pickers and packers? The painters and dockers? Budget-fried cockers? The fiscal bottom-feeders, sucking up what they can from the destruction of whole communities? All hail them. We just keep hailing them. The neo-liberal future seems water-tight and immune to any psycho-philosophical assault. A dirty meta-meme has been fed lock-stock into each toddler's mind beginning with your standard issue lolly-pack/laser-light induced tantrum. Why can't I have that mum?? But why???? Its right there! I want it!! Give it to me! Give it to me now! All of it! But why can't I just have it? why not? Why not? Why not?
Commerce keeps pulsing, like the dopamine fiend jerking off in front of internet porn..the worlds servers shreiking and whimpering and blood soaked, just beneath the surface is your very own chancre-blistered amphetaministic hit.  We couldn't stop even if we wanted to. Keep the city of London happy, keep feeding upstream, Don my boy!
Even if we patently dislike what we're doing, we cant stop. Money. It's all that. And more. 
..So 'twas a gig, this time not beholden to the money-vacuum that is the entertainment venue (Venues are usually a tax write-off.  In my gigging experience a venue is usually set up to pay everyone except the musicians who provide the evening's entertainment (and entertainment in Melbourne is a tight-ship - clock in-clock off-go-home-shut-up-fuck-off) - there's all these others who demand the first cut like the in-house sound-man and the in-house door-person and the in-house booking agent and the in-house promoter and the in-house  media consultant and the in-house private security firm (back after a stint in afghanistan) and the in-house mafia cut etc etc) 
So here we were locked in down the underground bunker buster fad-gadget over the road from the central entrance to the intellectual corporate called Melbourne university. 'Twas a lodge for artists, a multi-roomed space called 'Good Time Studios'. Could this chilled concrete box conjure up good times? I guess its up to the performance artist to define it. Innit. A good time to a Broadmeadows crime family perhaps ain't the good time of a gaggle of hyper-stylized Collingwood art directors. I guess not. Relativism is Lord and you just can't please everyone.  We gigged there and it worked. We gagged there and were ejected. What a swag of attendees! Some came to brey and gaffaw at the latest incarnation of The Aesthetics, others came to lend filial support unto the Zond and others were compelled to sample the chic industro-synth-pop that-is Stations. 
First up was indeed Stations, I guess a new outfit round Melbourne (?) , I decoded the odd lyric through the haze : ' I'm 24 ' was one chorus starter.  Such self-conciousness regarding age as it relates to performance/poetics is poignant - its that generation - perhaps just finishing university, maybe wrenching out the last gasps of an extended gap year, that generation --  the peak age -- twenty four..that particular generation..9/11 a dream from the first years of high school, pcs installed with windows '95 a remote trace from infancy....that generation..for whom grunge and industrial and alternative music generally has become a spectre of the ages. The generation that seemingly has countered counter culture - so, for me - its heart warming to witness a band like Stations as they blast out ascerbic and chic synth-goth. Now there are some people who haven't joined the ranks of the 'new conservative' youth movement thats ever so anti-fashion ...(you know... the stolid faced righteous kids who ain't afraid to make the hard decisions and suck it up and face the front and get real and cheer when Abbot refers to Aussies as 'lifters, not leaners'). It sounded like Stations were shedding older material and premiering newer stuff - refining and trialling work - synthesizer riff driven post-punk rock, brian eno meets husker du meets le tigre. Other songs danced around a single motif  - a solemn spaced out ebm atmosphere. Others were based around vocal delivery.  I only hope that others of Stations generation keep the synth-punk torch burning so as to provide a counterpoint to that nasty breed of new patriot conservative kids we read about.    Sorry visual thinkers - no image to insert here. 
Concrete performance space warms as DJ Artless denies cow-cocky up-bringing by spinning (no discs were involved --shall we say I used the phone ) a wack of avant-kack bled from the mutant sounds repository..
And then Zond. what more can say about Zond - there's is a force of nature - a vicious and magnificient wall of sound - punishingly loud, you wouldn't miss em thats for sure. Marnies signature tenor punched holes, Justin's guitar amp an industrial grade sound assault...maybe that set was a little loud - being an on stage mix the drums which are usually mic'd to the hilt were lost in the din. They whipped out some new songs which was great, no-ones resting on their laurels there. 
A little LSD Fundraiser was evoked by the mysterious dj artless and then...the new Aesthetics hit. New drummer in the form of Jeremy Corborough - drummer for Wellingtons Orchestra of Spheres, techno-rave authority, crack technical writer and workplace safety poet. And the band is ever so slightly dancified. Just slightly. All Electric a 4-to-the-floor funkster. Doomtown Fuzz a heavy dance slap-dash. A disco-ized swirl. Some danced, some snogged. Some snorted, some grimaced. All the hits - again. Melbourne hasn't quite smelled a rat - yet....but some ex-pat kiwis have - and they urged us to lyricize more contemporary themes ( eg work, working, work stories, work and mate-ship, work hours, workers, work-ethic, bosses, supervisers, colleagues, the moneyed-classes, the melbourne music mafia etc).to offerup some new bloody songs for chrissakes. and bang on. How bout a new Aesthetics record. That'll work. That'll work 40 hrs a week. Neo-liberals. 
 They have a smorgasboard of pseudo-pragmatic 'pearls' for us. 'Wisdom'. Inject a bit of classical Thatcherism into their arsenal and voila!  - our inability to get ahead is purely a personal failing. It's a moral thing - an individual choice. A bad choice we all made. Our poverty nothing at all to do with rampant worldwide world-bank structural adjustment and the misanthropic neo-liberal orgy we call the banks/wall street. Nothing to do with the cretinous institution the bible labelled usury. Nothing at all. 
And when i think now of my own death, I actually think, yes! Goodbye! The relief! Goodbye to the lies, struggles, the purulent bombast that is world media; vile networks proselytising the virtues  pain, torture, rape, machinisation,slavery, atrophy, manipluation, exploitation, fear, and our pet fave - corruption. Kick it back my man! I didn't see nothin'. What body? What deal? What hotel room?
I'm supposed to feel like a scumbag for not topping up my myki card, or for not washing a coffee stain off my shirt-front.  All the while the real scum are to be found at the racecourse down the way -  
'skanky', 'munted', tasteless, fakers all, dealers in death, polluters, collaborators, racists intoxicated beyond all recognition, eyeliner running, sweating, heaving, high heels galloping down Mount Alexander Road, bra straps slackened off, a drawling hysteria, curse words belted out with a screeching timbre close to that of the cockatoo, fluttering flailing fascists. 
Big money mate. Money mates, making money, eaters, wife beaters, coders, loaders, penal zoners. 
Life off - made maggot - mafia magistrate - day-to-day - hand-2-mouth - 3 gargoyles and a drunk kracken at the table, getting loose, getting high. Mountains. Hull, lackey, braggard. 
Nevermore. Oh fable. Harry. Metal-edge. Breaking up is hard to do, you know it. He's the weekend bikie. He's the kingmaker. He's the culture lord, the large, powerful, moneyed merchant. 
Dribbling truths, banging heads, shutting down parties, gatherings, clubs. Single file. Rediculous laws. Conspicuous flaws. 

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Right wing aussie

Chopper checking me for bisexual crimes in deepest brunswick

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Sylph countenance no consequence

All dat kontentedness
So dat so see dat be dat
Rwanda land
See my listlessness fetch high high
Vote vital me bosses
And fish up blessedness
Strike like fire round
This my hunger hound
Be pleased be plugging
Gypsy be, gypsy see
A ranger ranger ranger three

posted from Bloggeroid

Friday, April 25, 2014

Mobile Vignette..Keblujaron Night ..

Yep, I'm using a cute lil app called bloggeroid offa my vaguely outmoded slash shitty xperia x10 clunker. Not much room to stretch out the old fingers on this digital keypad but hey,,I can wack out the feeling, the gist of it all with this plastic rectangle from the misty-moist days of 2011. Its Saturday, I'm perched up on a barstool at the Cornish Arms on Sydney Road..a bar that used to be a scum punk watering hole but now caters to local post-gentrification semi-professionals and sportos. But it has retained a little bit of character, there is a knowingness to the place...an atmosphere, I guess. The Cruder is off to view a lush stop motion piece by my workmate tonight, Isao Sano . Isao, affectionately know as Ove is the sound designer for the film. His artistic work ethic is stuff of legend at work. The film was a painstaking enterprise. And my goodness...was it good. review coming up....

....Made a point of entering one of Melbournes many and varied streams of socialbility last week. Had to be done. There was some sort of do on, a lil' tease. This was more than your usual outing, it was a showcase of some serious burgeoning ami..amina - animation talent. And as we all know most of Melbournes talent seems to work in the organic food industry – well – one factory in particular - and hence work with me; it is one such colleague, Isao Sano (Ove Naxx) who's work stories comprise mostly of sleepless coffee sustained nights bleeding over painfully repetitive time consuming shots for an up-coming experimental animation project, that I had to go see that night. The gnosis - indeed the transformative enterprise Ove laboured over was a work entitled Keblujaron -  brainchild of visual artist Akihito Nonowe,sound artist Isao Sano and vocalist/artist Konoka Takashiro.

The trio are from Osaka, Japan. 
The night was supported by Little Tengu , weaved together with the help of several noisy art/sound acts and in my mind was a true success. So, the point of it all, the teaser, was a true overload.
Keblujaron appears to be an orgy of obsessional motifs, strange angular forms, an astoundingly unveiled Freudian smorgasbord, surrealist industrial animation unconsciously tipping its hat to 'The FantasticPlanet' and the animated stop-motion work of Terry Gilliam. Narrative took second place to pure artistry, experiment and technical exposition with this work, as is often the case with many a film-makers maiden voyage. Sound and Music for the film was provided by Ove NAxx - and it was seamless.  Perfect off-beat electronic warbles and throbs and jangling guitar tracts punctuated the awkward lurching bodily mutation scenes, tension arcs and manic power-ups, occasionally reminiscent of the all-round sound engineering/editing craziness of mother-fucking Ren and mother-fucking Stimpy - at other times droning and choral like some animist trance ritual, that is - truly sublime. Yep, I was told these boys used chance and other shamano-daoist indeterministic methods to coax out a scene here, they would embark on a session of grueling stop-motion work without any ostensible guidelines in mind, thus gauging open psycho-artistic motifs direct from the collective unconscious. Hugely entertaining stuff, very keen to check out the completed package.
There was also plenty of perfectly appropriate music that night, my favourite had to be OveNaxx's set - its always strange to watch a work mate from down the factory transform into some sort of techno-god figure when your used to seeing him sporting a one-size-fits-all hairnet and lab-coat spattered with sauce, buckini and the finest yellow-hued 'gubinge' powder. Thats perfectly describes the effect Ove promulgated, a total morph, a transformation away from the everyday -  a stylish Japanese postmodern rock-star manipulating digital equipments from the near future, his violent chugging electronic sounds juxtaposing the commerce and bustle Osakas city-scape with the clutter, creativity and lurid subjectivity of a solo artists bedroom/studio. OveNaxx's musical template is right-smack up-to-date, waftings of experimentalism over
a straight-ahead nasty techno core - dub-stepping sub-bass body-slamming motifs, strange guitar melody with the odd vocal manipulation. My fave of the night.
All the other acts were tight – there was – and yes, this piece is lifted, lazily, ever so lazily….Toxic LipstickPASSENGEROFSHITUmbilical Tentacle, Binliner, Cross Pollination, Pauly Fatlace, Nayutto, and Snuggy Man. Truly eclectic, a truly crazed evening of mixed media really, if you read the list of acts over at the facebook event page , you encounter a truly collaborative venture. Like a freaking film. Filmmaking is the collaborative art they say. So someone somewhere needs to talk the freaking talk, to be friendly and network seamless. Zip. Zip it, cock it, freaking freak scene,....

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Saturday, March 22, 2014

It's been a while....

I've been exceptionally quiet of late. It's all this brute labour work stuff I've been doing I think. Not so much to say I guess. Lambda Lambda Mu.
Well, must review recent live splurges however. Considering my constricted internet access of late it's been hard to pen a wad of gob in a comfy setting. Mite cut and paste something I've concocted at home then regurgitate the digital shag'n'chaff in one clicky-wack down the wi-fi nodule.

Friday, January 10, 2014

rework of 'final demand'

...have whittled this poist-industrial momento down to only the best tracks. Take it, eat it, throw it away.

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

fade out





Sunday, January 5, 2014

goodbye (2013) jealous hick waffle

Hello you. Yeah, you. Welcome to the world's least read blog. No comment. No freaking comment. And fair enough to, wheres the money? Can't monetize this small-faced cunt can we, meeester cultural gate-keeper. Oh yeah, another year of this directionless pulp. 5 more years left on the blog. Is legend-status something this cunt writer can muster by 2019? Thats not the writers call, homie. Slick.
Its obligatory drinking day here in the wealthy west, and oh, the sweetness of the air. Unless you have to stand close to me and what i'm wearing - which is most likely the same shit i had on this time last year. Melbourne city. So god damn liveable here I tells ya. Unless you're looking for asylum.
Here in Melbourne it seems that the entire population , every single one of them, is embarking on a creative project. See that baby there, she's about to film a music video. That venerable octogenarian over yonder, why...she's actually just come back from a tour supporting Mumford and Sons. That guy ranting,,,there,,,with the bottle in the paper bag...he's a published poet. See that cat,,he's a Persian , and he's a lauded experimental dance choreographer. That cockroach you nearly stood on....he's a sound artist just off to put the finishing touches on his installation downtown.
Everyone is writing a novel, everybody is  making a film, everyone plays music, everyone improvises, everyone has a vintage four-track , everyone plays saxophone, everyone is touring europe and the states..
You gots t'be.....you gotta be.....i don't know... GG Allin if you want to be noticed.

But hey. Is another year and another shot at rocking it in Melbourne town so the aesthetics version 18 will give it a good ole go.
Listen, don't get me wrong, I cherish my readership. You keep me going.
Life is life. Solace is solace. Time is someone else's money.
Action begets response. Most of the time.
Unlike brazen mafia types, we gotta just keep our heads down, work and worry.
It's lucky time.
Talk nothing.
Motivation circuits, all awash with mama's grey water dopamine.
That wasn't no job well done there me old mukka, that's just cheating. Cheating.

Eat me collingwood hipster scum