I'm Sorry If The Music's Too Loud

For some reason Love Is All remind me of Huggy Bear, albeit minus the overt feminism and with a wailing sax. I guess it's mostly to do with Josephine's vocal style. Back in 2002 I was in that second hand record store on Berwick St in Soho, the one that is a few doors down from Selectadisc, which is now Sister Ray (the original Sister Ray is now gone), and found the Huggy Bear album "Taking The Rough With The Smooch". I only had a couple of Huggy Bear 7"s so I thought I'd purchase it. When I took it to the counter the girl said "Oh this is great, we were just listening to it the other day". She then went to locate disc only to return saying that she couldn't find it! She took my number and said she'd call me when it turned up. I'm still waiting. I have a theory she actually knew damn well where the disc was, but she just didn't want to sell it to me because it was the only copy they had and it is extremely rare. Well I say that's fucking unprofessional! Although I have their best song; Her Jazz on 7", I don't have a record player, and I can't find an MP3 of it anywhere. I'm still smarting to this day.

Last night I went and saw Love Is All and quite frankly it was one of the best gigs I've seen in a long time. Now I hate the term "dance-punk", as it's been attributed to so many shit bands. And I also hate the current post-punk revival; it's a superficial appropriation, with an MTV sheen, that replaces a significant musical and cultural movement with a desire to pick up chicks. It makes me want to bang their fuckwitted skinny jeaned heads together. Love Is All, however, transcend all this. The music they play isn't for fashion, they play the music they enjoy and respect.





It's not often that I find myself converted by a show, while I was already a reasonable sized fan of the band, I now believe that I am a rather large fan of them.
The gig was very short, the band only write very short songs, but this was fine with me as I hate standing for long periods. And it meant that I was able to be home and tucked up in bed by 1am

Cut And Run

Unlike Western politicians, I know when to admit that things aren't going well. So I've decided to not stay the course. I really think it's about time I stop procrastinating anyway and go to university. Although Montreal is a fascinating place, there's certain things I want to do which I can't do here.

I want to spend as much time as possible in the company of the Ellis sisters, and for Justine to make me laugh and cry and make me feel good about myself as I'm constantly bombarding her with all my pathetic insecurities.

I want to sit in Meyer's Place until 1am on a Tuesday night with Kerrie-Dee.

I want to eat Indian with Nadia and tell her about all my grand plans that always seem to fail.

I want to hear Georgie's manic laughter as she tells me about her latest crazy adventure.

I want to go to A Minor Place and order two pumpkin pides.

I want to be walking ahead of people on Lonsdale Street and then quickly dart down that skinny laneway making it look like I've just walked through a wall to the people behind me.

I want to steal confectionery for Danni and tell her all the things I can't tell everyone else.

I want to have highly inappropriate and morally suspect conversations with Mike and Corey.

I want to ask Jade wilfully obtuse questions (If a plane full of people in this office was going down in the Andes who would you eat first?).

I want Kate C. and Jess to continue to tell me I'm "in denial" about being gay.

I want to discuss politics with Jesper and have him playfully mock me for almost everything I do.

I want to have lunch every Friday with Kate S.

I want to go see all of Jon's bands, and ruffle his hair (even though I don't think he likes it).

I want to have whole conversations with Blair and Alex that consist of nothing but references from black comedies.

I want to get Adam started on Israel.

I want to talk music and jive with Dan.

I want James to continue to surprise, amuse and fascinate me with his latest psychological/spiritual theories.

I want to go to Peko Peko and have Brigid not even ask me what I want (she knows).

I want to eat at Thalia Thai and marvel at their pure genius of putting pumpkin in everything.

I want Nadia and I to continue to wonder why we never go to Ume anymore even though we used to all the time.

I want to secretly eat bowls of chips at Nandos when no-one is around.

I want to label Cherry/Ding Dong/Pony "The Axis Of Evil"

I want the guy at the Ethiopian in Footscray to continue to think I'm a "playa" because I take a different girl there every time (although the last 4 times have been with Justine so maybe he thinks I've "settled down").

I want to drive almost half an hour to Malvern in order to get one of those tofu burgers from Grill'd because I don't want to be seen at their South Yarra restaurant.

I want to eat dumplings in China Town, even though I don't really like them I just value the cultural experience.

I want to go to that Vietnamese place on Victoria Street that Kerrie-Dee thinks is a gay hangout.

I want to say "meet you a Troika in half an hour" to anyone that will listen.

I want all the little punk kids at Missing Link to look at me like I don't belong in their store.

I want to walk around in constant fear of bumping into someone from my past.

I want to be able to pay a reasonable price for cashew nuts.

I want chocolate biscuits

I want my GST incorporated into the price of the items I wish to purchase.

I want people to say "mobile"

I want to feel connected enough to the populace to feel like I can be critical of them.

I want to go home.

A Heart That Hurts Is A Heart That Works

I was never a cool teenager. Occasionally on a Friday or Saturday night I would go over to a friend's house with some of those mini spirits bottles that I'd stolen from my Dad's liquor cabinet, but this was a rare occurrence. I didn't really like the taste of alcohol and so this whole "fun" thing just seemed like a bit too much hard work. I never got up to mischief, I never had any run-ins with the fuzz and I didn't speak to a girl until I was 19.

Friday and Saturday nights were spent doing one thing only. Watching hours upon hours of Rage. For anyone non-Australian reading this, Rage is a music video programme that runs all night on Friday/Saturday and Saturday/Sunday nights. It has no deadshit "hip with the kids" host, being on the ABC it has no adverts, and it is never interrupted by station promos either. Just back-to-back clips all night. On Friday nights they play new clips, and on Saturday nights they have a guest programmer (usually a band).

Nowadays I'm a not particularly cool twenty-something. I don't really drink, I have a low tolerance for excitement, I've still have never had any run-ins with the fuzz, and although I do now speak to girls, I don't really seem to be able to "speak to" girls. Friday and Saturday nights are still mostly spent indoors.
Although I am usually very anti-nostalgia, I do feel a certain fondness for those early to mid-90s years watching Rage. Being young and unaffected by any musical cynicism (apart from an undefined hatred of "commercial" music), it was a period of boyhood discovery. Whilst most teenagers were experimenting with drugs and sex, I was experimenting with the faux-angst stylings of the alternative music scene (which is what most teenagers do, but I did it both clean and virtuous). Who needs first-hand kicks when second-hand experience is a reasonable substitute?

Everyone yearns to relive their youth, don't they? But for most people this is a problem. Nowadays pot makes you dizzy, and trying to talk to 15-year-old girls gets you a prime spot on Neighbourhood Watch's Nonce List. However, for me, thanks to modern technology, my youth is just a few clicks away.

There may be something slightly pathetic about a man of my age spending his Friday nights indoors (in a foreign city) watching old Juliana Hatfield clips on YouTube, but when I'm rocking along to Babes In Toyland's "Sweet 69" I don't really care what the outside world thinks. I have a searchable memory bank. While you can vaguely remember vomiting on the carpet at Stuart McKenzie's 16th birthday party, I can google my good times whenever I feel like it.

Bring Me My Spear; Oh Clouds Unfold!

This morning, for some peculiar reason, I awoke with the William Blake poem turned Christian hymn turned English sporting hooligans' anthem "Jerusalem" in my head. Having been forced to sing it almost weekly (if not more so) at my Christian boys school, each line, nay the timbre of every syllable, is firmly tattooed onto my brain. So with nothing better to do, and with my usual arrogant faux-intellectualism, I will attempt to destroy all common perceptions of this poem/hymn held by those who value it. I shall start with the Christians and move on to the nationalists.

First of all, I should stress that I don't hate Christianity; anyone who'd dare have a conversation with me would find that I have been fundamentally affected by Judeo-Christian values. However, I find many of the followers of Christianity to have some very strange interpretations of its teachings. Because of this is it gives me great delight to picture many an Anglican congregation bellowing out the hymn Jerusalem every Sunday morning. Unbeknownst to them, they are singing a poem that was intended to mock them.

And did those feet in ancient times
walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the Holy Lamb of God
on England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here among those dark satanic mills?

This is the first verse of Jerusalem. It basically asks the same question in various different poetic ways - Did Jesus ever come to England? The final line expands on this to ask whether Jesus set up any sort of spiritual centre, or Mecca, if you will, in England?
There is one extremely glaring and highly amusing aspect to this, but I'll save it for the nationalists. The Anglicans have enough to deal with.
The answer to both the questions posed by Blake is fairly obviously no. There's no record of Jesus going anywhere near the British Isles. Blake asks the questions as a way of questioning the spiritual authority of the newly formed Church of England. The Church of England was formed solely so Henry VIII could get a divorce. Modern-day Anglicans will profess their forefathers had Lutheran sympathies, but we all know this is bollocks.

The second verse reads like so:

Bring me my bow of burning gold;
Bring me my arrows of desire;
Bring me my spear; oh clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire!
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England’s green and pleasant land.

This is obviously a satirical expression of religious zealotry and its propensity towards violence, bringing it back home in the final lines "Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, til we have built Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land". An attack on those who would expound a hysterical allegiance to a Church formed on such flimsy grounds.

If one was to try and view the poem through the eyes of those who use it for its hymnal value, one could interpret the poem as advocating the idea of Jesus singling out the English as a "chosen people". Surely this goes against one of the reasons for Jesus’ existence? The idea that God was for everyone.

The more you think about this poem the more odd it becomes that it was adopted as a Christian hymn. Blake wrote the poem in 1804. The musical accompaniment was written in 1916 by Charles Hubert Hastings Parry. I find it extraordinary that in the last 90 years someone within the Anglican Church hasn't questioned whether they should be singing this "hymn".

What is also extraordinary is the adoption of Jerusalem by English football hooligans, rugby knuckleheads and most recently The Barmy Army. Aside from the fact that most of the people in the above groups would be about as Christian as your local Rabbi, the glaring aspect to the poem that seems to escape everyone's attention is that around the time Jesus lived there was no such place as England. It was still 3 to 4 hundred years before Anglo-Saxons would conquer the land and another thousand after that before they gained any significant control. Jesus didn't go to England and tell the English they were special, because "the English" were still beating each other with clubs in Friesland and the Saxony lowlands. But jingoism has never concerned itself with facts, has it?

Conservative MP, Daniel Kawczynski, with his Polish surname, has recently called for Jerusalem to become England's National Anthem. Nothing seems to do satire better than reality.

Wrapped Up In Books

Growing up, Friday night was always Red Rooster night. Mum would buy a whole chicken and two large chips. I would demand a whole large chips to myself, regardless of whether Dad was overseas or not at the time. Friday was also the day that Mum went to the supermarket. She would buy me a packet of chocolate biscuits; depending on her mood they would either be Cadbury's Squiggly Tops, Toffee Pops or (the unfortunately now defunct) Rainbows. Always Cadbury, never Arnotts. After dinner I would take my packet of chocolate biscuits and go into my parents bedroom to watch television. When watching television, and this is a predilection that I still have to this day, it is imperative for me to hear absolutely every word and take in every tiny detail of the program. There can't be any talking or any form of interference at all. In order to achieve this I needed to find the quietest spot in the house, and as we only owned 2 televisions at the time, my parents’ bedroom was where I would find the least disturbance. The program that I would watch on Friday night was Sliders; either the second or third best sci-fi program ever; depending on whether you count Stargate SG1 and Stargate Atlantis as one entity or two. The basic premise of Sliders was that Quinn Mallory had invented a devise that could transport people between parallel dimensions. However something goes awry after the initial "slide" leaving Quinn, his friend Wade, The Professor and Rembrandt "Cryin' Man" Brown unable to return directly to their dimension. And so the four of them had to continue sliding between random dimensions in the hope that one day they'd get lucky and slide back into their dimension. Anyone familiar with the theory of parallel universes will be aware that this provided the writers of the show with an endless amount of options for storylines. Some universes our heroes slid to were vastly different from ours, and some only had minor differences (leading to the false hope that they were actually back in their home dimension). I was reminded of this aspect (the minor differences) of the show today when I walked into a chain of the mega-bookstore "Chapters". It all looked very familiar, yet I had an inkling I wasn't quite in Kansas.

Since leaving Melbourne all of my reading had been of either newspapers or Wikipedia. So I thought it was about time that I bought a book. Aside from a periodic fascination with Haruki Murakami, for the last 5 or 6 years I have favoured non-fiction over fiction. In my late-teens, however, I read quite a lot of novels. I would track down the classics 20th century literature, devour them and then send the books off to girls I'd thought I'd made a connection with in internet chatrooms. The books never returned and as a result my personal library is as conspicuously devoid of fiction as my life is of love.
Upon entering "Chapters" I did have every intention of buying a novel, however apart from a brief sojourn through the literature section, it was obvious that this was never going to happen. I don't know where my aversion to the fiction stems from. Maybe I still bear the scars of poignant prose poisoning my precarious palpitations, or maybe, at the moment, I just find non-fiction a little more interesting.
There is one book that I've had my eye on ever since it became a prominent point of discussion in the Canadian press in March and April of this year. The book is Sorry, I Don't Speak French: Confronting the Canadian Crisis That Won't Go Away by Graham Fraser; a political and cultural analysis of language in Canada since the passing of the Official Languages Act in 1969. Unfortunately, the book is only available in hardcover, which not only makes it more expensive, but is also terribly inconvenient for a transient like myself. I don't understand why paperbacks cannot be released at the same time as hardcovers. The demographic of those who buy hardcovers would still do so even if a paperback was available. Quite frankly, I believe it is a discriminatory practise and no doubt publishing houses around the globe will soon be receiving letters from me telling them so.
A pleasing aspect to Borders, I mean "Chapters", is that it is not frowned upon to take a book from the shelf, sit down and read it. It not uncommon for me to begin reading a book, remember my place and then return to the store whenever I have available time to continue from where I left. I have finished many a book using this method and I believe that the reading of I Don't Speak French will be accomplished in the same fashion.
It's approaching 3 years since I became absorbed by the subject of linguistics. Over this time the majority of books I have read have been language biographies, books on language change and death, linguistic theory and accounts on the everyday quirks of language. And while I'm fully aware of becoming almost myopic with my reading material, my fascination doesn't seem to be abating. And so after much perusing of the bookstore shelves, I bought a book on Yiddish.
For about 2 years around the period of 2003-2005 I lived in the suburb of Caulfield in Melbourne. Caulfield and its surrounding suburbs are known for their large Jewish populations, mainly Polish and other Soviet Bloc Holocaust survivors and with visible Orthodox and Hasidic communities. Because of this Yiddish is a major language in the area. I would often walk or get the tram down Carlisle Street in order to hear it being spoken. Currently I live in the Outremont area of Montreal, which also has a large Orthodox and Hasidic population. However for some reason it is very rare to hear Yiddish on the street here, you'll almost always hear the Jewish people of the neighbourhood speaking English. Apparently, this goes across the board for most Ashkenazi in Montreal, whilst the Sephardi seem to prefer French (and obviously have no connection to Yiddish).
The book I purchased Born To Kvetch - Yiddish Language and Culture in All of Its Moods by Michael Wex, seems to be more of a series of portraits of Yiddish in its everyday use, rather than a biography of the language. However, I'm sure it will provide me with enough history and insight to satisfy my intrigue.

A Mess Of Eyeliner And Spray Paint

One lazy Saturday earlier in the year I was sitting on my bed and reading the weekend papers when in the Review section of The Australian I came across an image I was extremely familiar with titled the Pleasant Communist.


The Tate Modern was curating a retrospective on a German artist called Martin Kippenberger and The Australian had decided to pilfer an article on this from its sister paper The Times, just in case anyone was thinking of popping over to London for the weekend.

Upon seeing this painting I immediately realised that I was aware of three of Martin Kippenberger's pieces. These are the paintings of Kippenberger's as I recognise them





These are the three singles from the Manic Street Preachers album The Holy Bible. Faster/PCP, Revol and She Is Suffering.

On this Saturday just past I was sitting on my bed reading The Globe And Mail when on the front page of the "Globe Focus" section, accompanying a piece on the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, was this image (apologies of the "branding" across the image, it's the best the web could provide me)



Once again I was very familiar with this image. However, in the version of it that I first saw the girl had a speech bubble coming from her mouth exclaiming "This is the only answer to rape". This was from the sleeve of the Manic Street Preachers Little Baby Nothing single.

The Manic Street Preachers are one band that I can't seem to shake. I've tried very hard to purge them, I've paid no active attention to them since the turn of the century and the only track of theirs I have on my iTunes is a Stereolab remix. Yet they have a persistent omnipresence. The subject lines of two of my previous three posts are lines from songs of theirs (Repeat and First Republic), regardless of my attempts to ignore them they refuse to leave my consciousness. Although the band are extremely uncool, currently an embarrassment, have no musical appeal to me whatsoever and only have one decent album anyway, the fact remains, and I'm not shy to admit this, they are still the greatest band that has ever existed.
The Manic Street Preachers are the only band that one can appreciate without caring about the music they played (I use the past-tense because the present doesn't count). They were a band who could be simultaneously over-earnest and frivolous, a band who were completely ridiculous yet were never ironic. They had a cross-dressing bass player who would dedicate awards to the leader of the Miners Union. They wrote music aimed at Middle America and then made homoerotic videos (with Camus quotes) and couldn't figure out why Middle America didn't like them. They had a guitarist who couldn't play guitar yet carved "4 Real" into his arm when his seriousness was questioned. They claimed British shoegaze band Slowdive were "worse than Hitler" and wished death upon Michael Stipe. They wrote songs from the perspective of war veterans, about AIDS being a purposely invented disease, frank working class anthems and songs about the holocaust. They had a number one single in the UK with a song about the Spanish Civil War, and then had another one with a song that began with a sampled a Chomsky quote. They have a song with a chorus that is a list of mass murders, which is followed by a song about the sexual exploits of Russian Presidents. And they even wrote a song claiming their superiority to both Henry Miller and Norman Mailer as well as the entire membership of Mensa. The BBC received their most complaints ever when the band's singer performed on Top Of The Pops wearing an IRA-style balaclava (albeit with his name written across the top; not a noted IRA tactic). Oh and on the 1st of February 1995 one of them disappeared and hasn't been seen since.
The band were quite frankly the most entertaining, interesting and educational of artists that a teenager could hope for. And as much as I try to run from them there's no denying the influence they had on my life and the affection I still hold for them.

I Was A Lover Before This War

I attended an all boys school in Melbourne. It had strict regulations on appearance. A certain length of hair was not permitted. The rules stated that the length of one's hair couldn't be below the earlobe. Unfortunately for the school, as Melbourne became increasingly multicultural, they neglected to update their school rules to suit non-European hair types. In the later years of my schooling I rolled with a crew that contained a young Sri Lankan boy called Suresh. Suresh's hair grew in the "afro" style, instead of down it grew up and out. Suresh decided (with ample encouragement from his friends) to test the school's hair policy by growing the biggest fuck-off afro you've ever seen. Several times the school challenged him on his appearance, only for him to point to the school hair regulations and inform the school that nowhere did these regulations state anything about height and width. Unfortunately, he then tried to bleach the thing and it went orange and he decided to shave it off.

TV On The Radio's Kyp Malone has an afro that is just as impressive as Suresh's.



TV On The Radio came to town last night. Tunde Adebimpe not only has indie-rock's best vocal chords, but also some of its best dance moves. And with Kyp's 'fro, beard and glasses combo they would look like the coolest band on the planet if it weren't for David Sitek and his motherfucking wind-chimes. Unfortunately I don't have a picture, but let me explain the situation. The band's token white guy, David Sitek, decided it was a good idea to hang a set of wind chimes from the head-stock of his guitar and take every opportunity available to hold these chimes up to any microphone he could find, making himself look like even more of a ridiculous cracker-ass next to his ultra-hip bandmates.





The evening was also of note for me having my first drink since August. This girl I'd never met before offered me a sip of her beer. I accepted, and within seconds I had scurried off to the bar where I had to be physically restrained by the security staff for attempting to suck on one of the beer taps. Well, not quite. I did buy a beer though and have to say I quite enjoyed it.

We Want To Play In The Burnt Out Palace Ruins

All this talk of Republicanism has got me salivating like a rabies infested dog over Australia's own moronic constitution.

Last year I made a pact with myself that, if by 2010 another referendum isn't held (or one is held but doesn't pass), I would form a drunken posse to storm Canberra and stage a bloody coup. All those wishing to join me please get in contact.

Let me just go back in time a bit as a few things need to be made clear. It was the year 1999, the Euro had just been introduced, a fresh young Christian called Britney Spears was at the top of the charts and while terrorism was yet to be invented we all managed to find the necessary fear in the computer killing Africanised Millennium Bug. Also that year Australia held a referendum on sending Queen Elizabeth II and her family of inbred douche-bags to the gallows!
The referendum was defeated, however this was not due to wanting to retain the British monarchy as the Australian head of state, it was due to the inability of the Australian Republican Movement (ARM) to explain the situation properly. As well as the disgraceful alliance formed between those who favoured "direct election" and the laughably backward fools known as Australians for Constitutional Monarchy. The ARM did pursue the correct model of parliamentary appointment for the President of the republic, where they failed is their inability to promote and explain the situation properly.
Referendums are notoriously difficult to pass. Of the 44 that have been held in Australia only 8 have been carried. For a referendum to pass it not only needs to be simplistically worded, but also needs to achieve the goal of the referendum with the minimum amount of fuss. Therefore the model presented by the ARM was the correct one. It would have enabled the Queen and Governor-General simply to be replaced by a President. The system of Parliament would have remained the same and the power balance between the Government and the President would have remained identical to that of the Queen/Governor General. The problems with the direct election model were that firstly, for direct election there would undoubtedly be campaigning involved by those applying for the position. Now what possible platforms could one campaign on for an apolitical position? Also, with direct election, the President could perceive that they had a public mandate greater than that of the Government, setting up the possibility of a power struggle, or frequent repeats of "the dismissal". Also, another problem with direct election is that, while I have a large disdain towards politicians, I at least trust them to appoint someone sensible to the position of Head of State. With direct election the great Australian public would no doubt provide the country with President John Farnham, or President Boonie.

Unfortunately, it looks like we won't get another chance to try and get this passed for a while though. Beazley has promised a plebiscite on the model before another referendum, which I think is very wise as it will provide the public with more information on the proposed changes and more time to comphrend them. However I can't see Labor winning back power anytime soon. So it looks like it may be up to me and my drunken posse.

Repeat After Me Fuck Queen And Country

With the likelihood of a provincial election in Quebec in the next year, and the good chance that Jean "Il s'appelle John, pas Jean!" Charest and his Liberal party will be replaced by the pro-independence Parti Québécois, another referendum on Quebec independence is starting to be discussed.
As usual, I feel the need to express my under-informed opinion and throw my 2 cents in where it's not wanted.
The last referendum was extremely close: 50.58% "No" to 49.42% "Yes". I dare say results were skewed in favour of the federalists by the pure insanity of the question:

"Acceptez-vous que le Québec devienne souverain, après avoir offert formellement au Canada un nouveau partenariat économique et politique, dans le cadre du projet de loi sur l'avenir du Québec et de l'entente signée le 12 juin 1995?"

"Do you agree that Quebec should become sovereign after having made a formal offer to Canada for a new economic and political partnership within the scope of the bill respecting the future of Quebec and of the agreement signed on June 12, 1995?"

I think there needed to be a third option on the ballot; Yes, No and What the fuck?

However, even if the Parti Québécois were to provide a more simple way of wording their intentions, I believe I have an idea that will prevent them from ever getting close to a majority in another referendum (which they claim they would hold should they win back power at the next election). My idea couldn't be simpler and more sensible. It is republicanism.

For a country to have a monarch as the head of state in the year 2006 is ridiculous.
Monarchies are medieval at best and at worst the stuff of fairytales. And for a country to have a foreign monarch as their head of state is even more absurd. Especially when such a massive percentage of the country does not have any Anglo roots. And I mean this across the whole country, not specifically Francophones. However, whilst those who have immigrated to Canada have done so in knowledge of the country's constitutional make up, for Francophones in Canada (not just in Quebec, but for the significant communities in New Brunswick, Ontario and Manitoba as well), every time they reach into their pockets to pull out a coin or a $20 note and see the face of Queen Elizabeth II they must feel a sense of being "owned", and that they are disconnected for the heirarchy of the country (this goes for the First Nations as well). Now I'm fully aware of the cultural and "distinct society" aspects to Quebec's independence movement, but surely Canada becoming a republic would make those in Quebec feel like that have a more equal status in the country? C'est trés facile, non? The power-makers within the country do have an idea of this as why else was the search for the current Governor-General conducted almost exclusively within Quebec? (kudos to Canada for the last two appointments of Govenor-General though) I do think that Canada becoming a republic would stifle enough separatist sentiment in Quebec that any referendum held would be guaranteed to fail. Becoming a republic would kill two birds with one stone; Quebec separatism AND absolute fucking absurdity. It's win win!

I Thought She Said Maple Leaves

Autumn is my absolute favourite season. I've never understood why they call Autumn "Fall" in North America. It just seems rather odd to me. Why don't they extend it to calling Summer "Hot", Winter "Cold" and Spring "Animals Having Sex"?
The only good thing about the term "Fall" is that it provided Jens Lekman with some fuel for some witty play on words
Anyway, today in Montreal was one of those perfect Autumn days. A fist pumping, fuck yeah! sort of day. So I decided to use the opportunity to go out and take a few photographs of the neighbourhood.

Down the bottom of my street is a baseball field. Whilst the Québécois strive very hard to preserve their cultural identity, they haven't succeeded very well when it comes to American sports.
American sports, as everyone who doesn't live on the North American continent knows, are rubbish. Well, I used to think that basketball was pretty good, and apart from the fact that the US calls its domestic competition the "World Series", I have nothing really against baseball. But Gridiron, well...this is how I feel about Gridiron

Although I'm not confused in a "I'm too stupid to comphrend" way, I'm more confused in a "Holy shit, you're telling me that people actually think that is a worthwhile game?" sort of way. Gridiron is ridiculous. It makes Rugby look sensible. It is by far the scariest thing about the US, and that includes the man to the left being President.

There is a something rather romantic about baseball fields though. Even coming from a non-baseball playing country there's definite familiarity about them. I guess it comes images of fathers taking their sons to Little League in movies and TV shows. Maybe we need some more Australian dramas with fathers taking their sons to VicKick on a Saturday morning? It seems it's not just the Québécois who struggle to maintain their identity.

One of the more noticeable things going down in town at the moment is preparation of Halloween. I remember once when I was growing up some kids came and knocked on our front door wanting to "trick and/or treat". My dad told them to piss off. Unfortunately, they didn't retaliate my spraying "Bald Arsehole" on the door. Halloween is an absolutely non-event in Australia. I also can't recall any shenanigans taking place in the UK when I lived there. So it is with great intrigue and fascination that I am currently observing the festivities unfolding. It's three weeks before the event and people have started decorating their houses, and large whole pumpkins are starting to be sold in shops.



I have a ticket to go see The Fiery Furnaces and Deerhoof on the night of the 31st, however, I'm sure I'll be around enough to enjoy the spectacle. Maybe I'll even partake in a little trick or treating myself!








C'est mon atelier préféré de bagel. J'obtiens des bagels d'ici presque tous les jours. Ils sont trés trés yummy.

Sick 2 Think

The thing about rarely getting ill is that when you eventually do get a cold no-one actually believes you that it is a seldom occurrence. For the record my last cold was in September 2003. I remember it well. I had a job interview to attend and had to pump myself full of goofballs to make it. I had to delay the commencement of the position by two days in order to get over the illness. The cold before that was when I was 14. I had the Friday off school and against my Mother's wishes I went to the St Kilda vs. Hawthorn game the next day at Waverley. Whilst at the game I got this crazy nose-bleed. Some guy in the crowd had to give me a towel to soak it up. Despite feeling better on Monday, Mum decided it was best to stay home. Those were the only two days I ever had off school for being sick.
My current cold isn't particularly bad, but due to the rareness of the experience it feels a lot worse than it is. And last night I felt not well enough to attend the Akron/Family and Beirut show. Instead I went to bed and watched old episodes of Stargate on YouTube.

The Plight Of The Flightless Bird

When the planets are in the right alignment I can be extremely witty and charming. It may surprise, but I can be a very likable young man, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, this side of me only makes rare appearances. Mostly my personality is drab and aloof. I avoid social interaction and spend extremely large periods of time in solitude. I think this stems from my late-teenage interest in medieval monasticism. I sympathised with the theory of isolationism and thought there was a certain nobility to hair shirts and self-flagellation. While I no longer have an overt interest in such ideals, I do still find myself activity separating myself from normal human contact. However, I don't enjoy it and I don't think it's clever; I just can't seem to break the habit.

Over the last few years I've had a periodic email relationship with Upper Class Recordings head honcho and member of the wussy post-pop band The Cansecos, Gareth Jones. Last night was the Upper Class showcase at the Pop Montreal festival. It was an opportunity for me to dust off this charming personality of mine and do some serious schmoozing. Most of the email conversations between Gareth and I had be written in thick Afro-American slang (a dialect in which I am surprisingly proficient). So after spotting him in the crowd I decided to first work on a few choice phrases before going up and introducing myself. However, the planets definitely weren't aligned last night as when I did approach him my planned "Sup G? Saw yo' ass over dere wit' yo' whole motherfuckin' Ben Gibbard vibe, wassup?" instead came out in my most polite English; "Hello Gareth, it's Grant. How are you this evening?” Obviously this made no impression whatsoever, and after some strained small-talk he made his excuses. My attempts to infiltrate the inner sanctum of Canada's indie elite had been thwarted by my inability to project myself.

The main attraction for the evening was bedroom synth-pop superstar Matthew Adam Hart aka The Russian Futurists. Unfortunately lacking the multitude of limbs required to perform his songs by himself, onstage he is joined by three others.
The most striking thing about Hart is that he looks absolutely nothing like you would expect from his songs. He is a stocky and bearded man, with quite a masculine stage presence. Regardless, I still enjoyed the performance. Tracks like "Let's Get Ready To Crumble" and "Paul Simon" even had people dancing!

Tonight I continue my non-stop gig going with the Akron/Family and Beirut. I have a bit a cold at the moment, which I'm finding a little difficult to cope with as I never get ill, and all these late nights aren't helping! However I will persevere. It's not about me; it's about the music!

Lead Me To Water Lord I Sure Am Thirsty

There's an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry tells his (Christian) father-in-law that he doesn't understand the worship of Jesus as he doesn't understand worshipping a male. But if God's child was a girl then he'd understand worshipping her.

Well, Larry, your prayers have been answered! I'm here to spread the gospel. Forget Jesus, God has a daughter! She walks amongst us now and, like a perfect angel, she plays the harp. Her name is Joanna Newsom. Bow down.



Forgive me Joanna for I have sinned. Last night whilst watching and listening to your astonishingly beautiful music, I caught a glimpse of your (pink) bra and several sacralicious thoughts ran through my head. Please forgive me, for I am just a man. My fallible mind cannot help but be distracted by your beauty. Joanna, I know you exist on a higher plane, and getting involved with mortals is most likely against all your heavenly laws. But I was wondering whether you'd like to go dinner sometime? Don't worry, I'll pay. Do you like Indian? Maybe we could go for a drink afterwards? And dancing? Do you like dancing?

Joanna played songs last night from both the Old and New Testaments, "The Book Of Right On" being the most well received. The crowd were mostly slack-jawed in awe, which prevented me from my usual enthusiastic singalongs for fear of disturbing the reverent silence. So I had to resort to power miming. This wasn't ideal, as I'd hoped to impress all the cute girls at the concert with my singing voice, but I guess that's just a sacrifice one has to make for one's religion.



Prior to Ms Newsom's life affirming sermon gloomy Danish post-rockers Under Byen had performed. Earlier in the week I had downloaded a couple of their tracks and was significantly impressed to think that I would enjoy their performance immensely. I was wrong. Usually I'm a bit fan of pretension. The more pretentious the better as far as I'm concerned. But it's a fine line to walk. There needs to be a certain amount of self-awareness and humour involved. Under Byen, unfortunately, fall the wrong side of that fine line. Their songs lacked a sustained imagination. Whilst sections showed promise, they all too often descended into bombastic post-rock cliche. They converted no-one.

Tomorrow, tomorrow....

Sweet Shop Avengerz

The other night when I was heading out to the Subtle gig I felt a bit peckish. So I stopped off at the local Pharmaprix and got myself a Mars Bar 2 Pack. They look quite similar to a normal Mars Bar, at a quick glace you would only notice a slight elongation in the packaging. However, instead of the normal one bar, the Mars Bar 2 Pack contains two bars roughly 2/3rds of the size of a normal Mars Bar, and with the Pharmaprix selling them for $1.29 I think they are a reasonably affordable snack. The other advantage of the Mars Bar 2 Pack is this: I had started eating the first bar immediately upon leaving the store, yet after I finished it I realised that I had satisfied my hunger and no longer required the second bar. So I put the second bar into my bag and continued walking to the venue. The evening then went ahead as detailed in one of my previous posts below. However, what I didn't mention in that post was that half-way through the Subtle set I began to get a little hungry again, luckily for me I still had the second half of the Mars Bar 2 Pack in my bag and was able to take it out and provide myself with the sustenance I needed to continue enjoying myself. I believe that this is the sort of situation that people at Mars had in mind when they devised the Mars Bar 2 Pack, and I would just like to use this opportunity to thank them for their foresight.




When I was in my mid to late teens I had a real hot thing going on for Jolly Ranchers. I use to carry a pack with me most places I would go, and while I never felt I was going overboard, I was consuming 2 to 3 packs a week. Then around 1998 or 1999, possibly even 2000 (the whole period is rather blurry to me) they disappeared off the shelves of Melbourne's supermarkets and milk bars (convenience stores, for my dialectically challenged readers). It was outrageous. At the start 2001 I moved to London, but the Jolly Rancher was not available there either. My confectionary requirements were met by other products, but there was still a yearning in my heart for the Jolly Rancher. Upon my return to Melbourne in 2003 Jolly Ranchers once again resurfaced in my consciousness and I attempted to search for them, however I was to be disappointed. Not even that store on Lygon St. that specialises in imported confectionary had them! So you can imagine my delight upon moving to Canada to discover that Jolly Ranchers are in abundance here! Although the convenient pocket-pack is rare (although still able to be located in some stores), the more common form of purchasing them is in a bag.

This doesn't concern me too much though. I'm just so happy to be reunited with them. There are two issues with Jolly Ranchers though. The first being that, like the Mentos, it's very easy to overdose on them, and too many in quick succession can lead to a rather unpleasant taste in one's mouth. The other problem is that I've never been a huge fan of the grape flavoured Jolly Rancher; it just does not sit right with my palette. Luckily though Talia from down the road is a big fan of the grape flavoured Jolly Rancher and so I save up all the grape ones I get and give them to her.

Let's Save Tony Orlando's House

A few of my buddies and me have a bit of a game going where each one of us tries to reintroduce into each other's consciousness great retro Australian Rules Football players. Preferably the player is of VFL (Victorian Football League) vintage (we all know the game started its descent in 1991 when the VFL morphed in the Australian Football League). Such notable names that have resurfaced include Billy Duckworth, Alex Ischenko, Chris Mew and Mark Zanotti.
Last night when I was watching Why? perform I noticed that Yoni Wolf's brother and Why? drummer Josiah, with his beard and white-boy 'fro, bore a striking resemblance to former South Melbourne/Sydney full-back Rod Carter. Unfortunately, the internet has not been up to dig up decent photos of the pair. You'll just have to trust me.

One of the odd things about the Subtle show on Friday was the amount of "hip hop" types there. I fully expected it to be full of Pitchfork readers, but it was all baggy jeans and hoddies, and dudes were doing that thing with their arms that indicates that they approve of the beat. Last night, however, it was back to black-frame glasses and ironic girl scouts t-shirts.



Having to refer to Why? as a band now rather than a person is a bit strange, but I like the music Yoni has made with the band. The Sanddollars EP is completely awesome, and although with Elephant Eyelash they didn't clear the bar set by the preceding EP (which is what I was expecting), it's still a good album. It's rather odd when you go to a gig mainly for the the support band. Whilst most people were getting drinks and trying to think of pick-ups lines to use on the hot girl standing to their left, I was down the front singing along and wiggling my bottom.



Once you get to your mid to late thirties you shouldn't be making music anymore. There's nothing more unseemly than a band that refuses to go away. There seems to be two exceptions to this rule. Sonic Youth and Yo La Tengo.

As I was watching the band move seamless between their sweet pop melodies and 10 minute spazzy noise-rock wigouts, my mind was drifting back to Josiah Wolf's resemblance to Rod Carter and with lookalikes on the mind I notice something that I had never noticed before. Ira Kaplan totally fucking looks like Larry Sanders! Check it out:





It's uncanny. Furthermore, he has the same dry wit. Whilst wishing everyone a happy High Holy Days for the period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Ira mention that the band wouldn't be fasting, adding "We love Judaism and all, but that's just fucking ridiculous".

During Why?'s set, Yoni had warned the crowd that Yo La Tengo used "The Brown Note" (the mythical frequency that makes you crap yourself). While I don't believe in the brown note (Mogwai have attempted several times to explode my internal organs and have failed), Yo La Tengo, for a bunch of old Jewish geeks, do know how to make a ridiculously fucked-up noise. It's late Sunday afternoon and I am now starting to regret stranding right next to one of the speaker stacks as my right ear is still ringing.