2007: These Things I Believe

Without any fanfare or explanatory introduction here are my favourite album of the year 2007:

10. Spiderman Of The Rings - Dan Deacon

This is what happens when you let a kid with ADD loose in an electronics shop. Frequent exposure may cause one to want to rip one's ears off, however in small doses the sheer joyousness of this record can send one into a goofy-grinned whole-body spazz-out. If Wham City cannot fill you with childlike glee with its singalong chorus of "ghosts and cats and pigs and bats with brooms and bats and wigs and rats and play big dogs like queens and kings and everyone plays drums and sings about big sharks, sharp swords, beast bees, bead lords, sweet cakes, maste lakes, O ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma", then the glorious electro-epilepsy that it flips into surely will.

9. The Locksmith Cometh - Nedelle

There's no such thing as too twee. Ok, so this is potentially a false statement, but what I'm getting at is that Nedelle isn't too twee. She's just a cute songwriter. And a good one! And she's funny! Don't you haters with your earnest adultedness understand that it's funny? It's funny! Funny is good. It makes one chuckle. This album may not be as consistent as From The Lion's Mouth but, from the upbeat 60s pop of Ghost Ships and Your Fiancé to her more conventional balladeering like Ex-Priest and I Hate A Mountain, this album exhibits her finest songwriting.

8. Places Like This - Architecture In Helsinki

Australians are suspicious of personality in music. Earnestness is a lot easier and safer for an inferiority complex to swallow. Kook is frowned upon. This is why Places Like This received a frosty response in the Australian press, and it is also why I think it's a fantastic album. Apart from being a great set of innovative and interesting pop songs, the fact that it is also manages to antagonise the band's fellow country persons makes it that extra bit better to these ears.

7. La Revolución Sexual - La Casa Azul

Guille Milkyway, despite his fucked-up pseudonym (surely his mother didn't call him this?), is just one of the greatest pop songwriters going. This mutha has more hooks than a fisherman's tackle box. His seamless combination of 60s AM pop, 90s electro-pop, twee-indie and Japanese Shibuya-kei is both astonishingly sophisticated and extraordinarily fun. La Revolución Sexual is his slickest, but also most complex album to date. This is a meticulously constructed record, being both progressive and experimental whilst remaining unashamedly and gloriously pop.

6. Person Pitch - Panda Bear

I think the hype concerning this album has been a little much. I mean, any album that contains a tabla wig-out cannot be the best album of the year just be virtue of human decency. That said, Bros is twelve and a half minutes of giddy awesomeness and Take Pills and Comfy In Nautica are both wonderful slices of dreamy weirdo pop. What makes Person Pitch stand out as a concept is that it is an album constructed almost entirely out of samples yet in no way at all sounds like a sample based record.

5. Night Falls Over Kortedala - Jens Lekman

Previously I'd been somewhat dismissive of Jens. I mean, I liked him just fine, but found that his moments of brilliance weren't frequent enough for my needs. However, Night Falls Over Kortedala changed that. Easily his best release with his wry pop hooks all falling deliciously into place. Songs like A Postcard To Nina, Shirin and Kanske Är Jag Kär I Dig are the works of a supreme and sophisticated wit and masterful pop auteur.

4. Strawberry Jam - Animal Collective

Whereas previous Animal Collective albums have had their glorious moments, they've never managed to string a whole albums worth of them together until now. Although, this is far from just a great set of songs, this is distinctive futurist pop of the highest order. Vocally this is a much more Avey Tare-centric album, with Panda Bear taking lead vocals on only three tracks (although his backing vocals on #1 are brilliant), and Avey's more confident and upfront vocals are one of the album's prominent features. That said, with its twitching and squelchy electronics it could also be argued that Geologist is the daddy of the record. Fireworks is undoubtedly the stand-out track, but the album is completely devoid of dull moments.

3. Widow City - The Fiery Furnaces

I must admit that the lack of enthusiasm that has greeted this album has perplexed me this year. Sometimes I think I've been listening to a completely different album to everyone else. Due to Blueberry Boat's absurd ambition, this is not the band's best album, however it is most definitely their best set of songs. And regardless of what others may think I will defend this statement to my death. Or until they release a better set of songs. Elenor's voice has matured and gained a lot of confidence compared to previous releases. On a track like Pricked In The Heart she has so much game and is just so all over that vocal performance that it's apparent that she is the primary asset of band. That said, Matthew is a mad genius whose humour, musicianship and vision should not be challenged by naysayers.

2. Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? - Of Montreal

It's quite astonishing just how as Kevin Barnes' life becomes worse, his music becomes more upbeat and his vocals increasingly camp. This is the third album since Barnes decided to ditch his slightly annoying weirdo-hippy-twee fairytale meanderings to make pseudo-psychedelic indie-dance-pop records about his own life. The juxtaposition of hyper-confessional lyrics with the booty-shaking music steps up a level with Hissing Fauna..., and so it should! The man has always had a way with vocal hooks, but now his ability to get people to move their bodies is just as impressive. But while Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse and A Sentence Of Sorts In Kongsvinger are both brilliantly skewed dance-pop, it's The Past Is A Grotesque Animal that takes the biscuit - pure awesome insanity.

1. Random Spirit Lover - Sunset Rubdown

Undoubtedly the best album of the year, probably the decade and quite possibly ever. The fact that this statement wasn't observed unanimously throughout both the music press and decreed by Ban-Ki Moon at the UN was merely due to it not being heard. And by "heard" I mean heard. People may have listened to it, but anyone who was to deny Spencer Krug's supreme genius did not hear this album. Like The Fiery Furnaces and Of Montreal, it's difficult to decide whether with Krug it's his lyrics or his music that is the more amusing. Obviously, he plays the whole thing straight, but Krug's mastery lies in the way he is self-aware enough to know he is slightly ridiculous, but confident (or mad) enough to not be self-conscious and restrain himself. Not to diminish the rest of the album (which is consistently awesome), but Up On Your Leopard, Upon The End Of Your Feral Days alone makes this album essential.

Politicial Analysis

The following is the script from a short one man play performed in the lounge-room at Cole Street on the evening of the 11th of December. The play concerns a young reporter by the name of Grant Wyeth who is allowed an exclusive interview with the President of the United States of America, George W Bush. Both characters were performed by Grant Wyeth in real time.

Grant Wyeth: Mr President, thank you for your time.

George W Bush: It's a pleasure.

Grant: You talk a tough game, Mr President, do you think this works well for you?

George: People know where I stand. I'm not afraid of stepping on a few toes.

Grant: Do you think, with hindsight, you could use a bit more tact?

George: I've never been comfortable with the 'wait and see' mentality.

Grant: American imperialist dog! September 11 hurt us all, but you took it too far.

George: Bite your tongue, mister. A lesser man would have you on the street for such talk.

Grant: I apologise, sir. I got a little heated.

George: Where do you think it came from, do you have issues with your father?

Grant: I've never made love to a woman.

George: Love isn't something you can pick out of the frozen foods section of the supermarket, you have to make an effort.

Grant: That's easier said than done. A guy like you, in your position...

George: Do you know what you are doing?

Grant: I've seen pictures.

George: I meant, do you know how to talk to a lady, make her feel good about herself?

Grant: Maybe.

George: From what I've learned, the best way to a win a woman's heart is by making her laugh.

Grant: I have my own ideas about women.

George: Well, they haven't got you very far, have they?

Grant: [...]

George: Let me tell you something, son. Women aren't looking for you. Guys like you are like farmhouse rats - seen one, seen 'em all. You have to differentiate, make yourself unique.

Grant: And how would I do that?

George: That's not for me to tell you, you have to figure it out for yourself. Life is a creative process.

Grant: The world changes so rapidly. How can I keep up?

George: The rotation of the Earth is only a problem to those who stand still.

Grant: When you're out fighting wars do you ever get lonely?

George: Not for a minute, the thrust and parry of conflict excites me. I'm absorbed in the moment.

Grant: Sometimes I cry myself to sleep. The pillowcase absorbs the tears and by morning they've dried out and no-one knows.

George: The army will toughen you up.

Grant: I don't want to toughen up. I don't agree with violence.

George: Violence won't cease just because you don't agree with it. It's roots are deeper than the California Valley Oak.

Grant: Deep roots make for shallow graves.

George: Strong men never die.

END SCENE

El Secreto De La Casa Azul

When the mood strikes me I have no qualms with declaring La Casa Azul the greatest band on this, or any other, planet. Right now I am so confident with this claim that not even the fact they aren't actually a band isn't enough to persuade me otherwise. You see, in a move that might be render all you grunge-daddies and burnt Milli Vanilli fans out there aghast, the members of La Casa Azul, as they are presented to the world, are nothing more than just a bunch of goofball Spanish actors. Although their clips show them playing the songs and album sleeves credit them with the instrumentation, the music of La Casa Azul is actually entirely the work of a certain mysterious Guille Milkyway.

With the possible exception of Of Montreal's Kevin Barnes, Milkyway is undoubtedly the greatest exponent of the pop hook in the world. Songs like Quiero Parar, El Secreto De Jeff Lynne, Chicle Cosmos and Cerca De Shibuya are so catchy that regardless of the fact that I don't speak Spanish, I still find it impossible not to sing along to them. La Casa Azul songs are the seamless synthesis of 60s American AM pop, 90's electro-pop and twee indie-pop, yet this abstract description in no way indicates just how damn good they are. Milkyway's interesting arrangements and diverse instrumentation provide further evidence of his musical genius.

Personally I have no beef with Milkyway's ruse. My disdain for male singer/songwriters is well documented. I find having a cohesive band to look at with personality and presence a lot more entertaining to watch than than some arsehole with an acoustic guitar and harmonica. Whether or not they actually write and play the songs makes no difference to me.

Bitter? No, I Just Love To Complain

To whom it may concern,

Today I needed to get to LaTrobe University by 5pm. To do so I would catch the 246 bus route. I arrived at the bus stop on the corner of Hoddle Street and Victoria Parade at 3.32pm. This would usually give me ample time to reach LaTrobe by 5pm, however not today.
I know it was exactly 3.32pm because I looked at my clock and then looked at the timetable. As the timetable indicates that there is a bus scheduled to arrive at Wellington Parade at 3.29pm I thought there was a good chance that this bus had yet to arrive at Victoria Parade. This bus is, of course, a Clifton Hill bus (the next LaTrobe bus wasn't until 3.53pm), however, I hoped that when the bus arrived at the Clifton Hill interchange, it wouldn't be too long before a 250 bus (which also goes to LaTrobe) would come along (I knew my hope of this was misguided, as I shall explain shortly, but I hoped anyway). At 3.41pm a bus arrived. I assumed that this was the 3.39pm bus. This bus arrived at the Clifton Hill interchange at 3.52pm.

For the next 42 minutes I stood, like a fool, at the Clifton Hill interchange waiting for either a 250 to turn up, or for the 246 LaTrobe bus (that should have been at the Wellington Parade stop at 3.53pm) to arrive. Unfortunately, neither did. Two 246 buses arrived, but terminated at Clifton Hill. Realising that even if a bus arrived that very second I would not be able to make my lecture, at 4.35pm I decided to walk, in a brisk and frustrated manner, to Clifton Hill station where got the train back to North Richmond and returned home.

The bus commuter and the bus company share an informal agreement. The commuter needs to give themselves ample time to reach their destination, whilst the bus company will do its best to provide transport to this destination in or around the times it states. Today I feel like I have kept up my end of the deal, but you have failed to. This is a formal complaint.

In a further note I would like to inform you that there is no bus timetables at the Clifton Hill interchange for either the 246, 250 or 251 northbound bus routes. If this could be rectified I would be most pleased.
Let me add to this by letting you know about why I thought my hope of getting a 250 from the Clifton Hill interchange to LaTrobe today was misguided:
I travel on the 246 most days. Sometimes I am lucky enough to get on one of the two buses an hour that run all the way to LaTrobe, other times I change at Clifton Hill. When changing at Clifton Hill I have become aware that both the 246 LaTrobe bus and the 250 bus (also going to LaTrobe) have a tendency to arrive at Clifton Hill at the same time. As the buses have identical routes from Clifton Hill to LaTrobe one bus tends to pick up all the passengers while the other follows redundantly behind it. Surely it would make much more sense for the 250 to arrive at a time between the two 246 LaTrobe buses? This would not only assist those people who live along the 246 bus route south of Clifton Hill, but also those along both the 246 and 250 bus routes north of Clifton Hill. It would also be a much more productive service for you not having to run a superfluous bus between Clifton Hill and LaTrobe.

I am hoping you will consider my suggestion carefully as well as taking my complaint seriously.

Thank you very much
Grant Wyeth

The Ballad Of A Ladyman - Sleater-Kinney

Now it might be somewhat hypocritical for me to label anyone an elitist, I mean, I refuse to even have sex because "everyone does it", but there's a group of old school Bust readers who feel that Sleater-Kinney "lost it" with the release of the album All Hands On The Bad One. Now I could be pissing on my own chips here because if I was to have sex it would have to be with a Bust reader, but these people are wrong wrong wrong.
Aside from "Youth Decay" being the fourth best song to do a hyper-exaggerated Corin Tucker impersonation to (after "Sympathy", "The Fox" and "Words and Guitar"), the album is far from poor, with "The Professional" being the only song subjected to my skipping finger (sorry Carrie). My favourite track, however, is the album's opening number "The Ballad Of A Ladyman". The year prior to the album's release saw Sleater-Kinney perform at the indie-world's most discerning festival, All Tomorrow's Parties, in Camber Sands, England. One morning the band awoke to find some goon had posted at sign on their chalet door stating "Ladymen". The Ballad Of The Ladyman is Corin's response.

They say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, but sometimes it's a necessary tool to get a point across, especially when one needs to heavily deride the recipient.
"Freak that I am, live in Japan, let's rock with the tough girls in this part of the world. Take a photograph, portrait of a ladyman" sings Corin before asking in the chorus "Are we holding on to our pride a bit too long?"

Oh, but the fun doesn't stop there as she continues in her mock tone "They say I've gone too far with the image I've got and they know I'd make a mint with new plastic skin and a hit on the radio! Oh, temptations of a ladyman". There's a certain underlying bile with they way she enunciates each word, and it just gets better as she advances "I could be demure like girls who are soft for boys who are fearful of getting an earful." This, to me, is the killer line of the song. It's a huge kick in the balls to those who wrote the "ladyman" sign. The insinuation of the sign is that somehow Sleater-Kinney (and all girls) are less female by not conforming to standard feminine presentation. This line retorts that men who cannot handle any challenges to these standards can only deal with to being surrounded by girls who aren't any threat to their pathetic egos. Girls who stroke and don't provoke.

Corin concludes the song with a series of questions all designed to make the sign-writer feel as tiny and foolish as possible: "How many times will you decide? How many lives will you define? How much control should we give up of our lives? And the last laugh is undoubtedly hers.

The Ballad Of A Ladyman - Sleater-Kinney

Benton Harbour Blues - The Fiery Furnaces

When Matthew and Eleanor Friedberger, aka The Fiery Furnaces, get things right it is difficult to dispute they are brilliant beyond analogy. Whilst their music can often find them squeezing anything from prog to free jazz to electronic experimentation into extremely listenable pop songs, their lyrics can tread similarly obscurist territory, like fighting pirates on a ship transporting blueberries, getting abducted by fishermen in Spain, or documenting the songs of Finnish servant girls. Dull they are not. However, when they get it wrong they can be either bemusing (a concept album about the life of their grandmother, sung by their grandmother), or just plain frustrating (each and every one of their live performances). Geniuses they may be, but consistent they are not.

The band's fourth album, Bitter Tea, contains both this astonishing genius and their unfortunate inconsistency. I'd give up my 1980s Fitzroy Football Club drink coasters in defence of the futuristic doo-wop of "Waiting To Know You" or the tape-manipulated pop of "Nevers!", but I find impossible to sit patiently through the meandering backwards brain-spazz of "The Vietnamese Telephone Ministry" (no matter how awesome the title is), or the just plain boring "Black-Hearted Boy". Whilst the album may not reach awesome heights of their second album "Blueberry Boat", or their current masterpiece "Widow City" (third best album of the year, by the way), it does contain what I consider to be their best song, "Benton Harbour Blues" (referring to "Chief Inspector Blancheflower" as merely "a song" seems degrading. It exists on a higher plane).

What is initial most notable about "Benton Harbour Blues" is its emotional evocation. Whilst Eleanor's voice perfectly suits the absurdist adventures her and her brother usually find themselves in, "Benton Harbour Blues" proves that she's more than capable of giving the heart-strings a tug as well. Whilst Eleanor's vocals might be the obvious focal point of the song, it Matthew's muted organ, tick-tock drum-machine and delayed acoustic guitar that provide the canvass for her to work with. Not known for their subtle arrangements, "Benton Harbour Blues" is enhanced greatly by them exhibiting some restraint for once.

I must admit that I feel a significant affinity with this song. Most people who know me would testify that I've done, and do, very little with my life, and so it's not hard to nod my head in recognition with an opening line like: "As I try to fill all of my empty days, I stumble 'round on through my memory's maze". Staring at the walls, sifting "On through the past, only the sadness stays".
It wouldn't be a Fiery Furnaces song without some first-person active proclamation, and so Eleanor states matter-of-factly "I went moping down by the bridge. I rode a bike in the snow to the mini-mart", yet the weight of her sorrow can't be eroded with a king-sized pack of M&Ms as she solemnly sighs "I thought of the ways that I had broke my own heart". The key to this song is subtle depiction of sadness. A single tear running down a cheek has more of a melancholic impact than some hysterical outburst and this is an impression Eleanor notes perfectly with her closing lines "Well, it's not for me to fill the blue sea with tears. But when I think back on all of the wasted years, all the good cheer and all of the charm disappears".

Benton Harbour Blues - The Fiery Furnaces

The Sound Of Settling

Kevin Andrews. What an arsehole. Serously. When it comes to ministerial incompetence, Andrews not only takes the cake, but he swallows that motherfucker whole.

Andrews, the Australian Immigration minister, is cutting the percentage of Africans from Australia's refugee quota from 50% to 30%, having already cut it back from 70%. Initially he claimed this was because the conflict in the Darfur region of Sudan had improved. Anyone who knows even the slightest amount about the situation in Darfur knows that this is rubbish. Now he has quit with the spin and decided to be honest and inform the public that his decision is due to refugees from Africa "not settling into Australian life". Being the incompetent minister he is, he has failed to provide any evidence to demonstrate this claim, nor has he defined what constitutes "Australian life". This unfortunate stupidity soon turned into insane absurdity when Andrews used the bashing death of Sudanese refugee, Liep Gony, as evidence for his standard line that the Sudanese "don't seem to be settling and adjusting into the Australian life as quickly as we would hope". Now let's just get this straight. Most people who have at least a few brain cells would conclude, when hearing someone has been bashed to death, that the perpetrators were murderers and should be punished accordingly. Minister Andrews, however, concludes that it is evidence that the victim hasn't "settled" into "Australian life" (whatever that may be). So what is Kevin Andrews implying here, that people who aren't deemed to be "settling" into "Australian life" deserve to be beaten to death? Maybe the minister would like a state-sanctioned militia to go around beating to death people who don't seem "settled". Maybe the group could model themselves on, oh I don't know, the Janjaweed?

Andrews proved himself incompetent (or an pathetic joke) during his bumbling handling of the Mohammad Haneef affair and he has now taken that incompetence one step further. At least Phillip Ruddock, when he was immigration minister, had the verbal capacity to skillfully change the subject and twist the facts to avoid accountability for the government, Andrews can't even do this. He stumbles over his words, pathetically avoids questions and changes his story constantly. He lacks the ability to perform even basic public speaking, let alone have enough ability for someone who has one of the most important and sensitive portfolios in the government.

From what I can deduce, Andrews takes his policy advice from the Herald-Sun. The Scum has been running a scare campaign against African immigrants for several years now. They claim that they are forming gangs and cite the way the travel in groups of 5 or 6 and wear American basketball clothes as evidence for this. According to people who are actually informed about such things, it is a common cultural trait for East African men to walk around in groups of 5 or 6. They come from community-based societies and as a result do things as a community. As for implying that the wearing American basketball indicates one is in a violent gang, not only is this (offensively) stereotyping African-Americans as members of gangs, it also overlooks the most obvious conclusion that maybe they just like basketball? The NBA is dominated by people of African origin, of course young African kids are going to want to emulate them, they are a huge success. It's no different to someone wearing a cricket top or football jumper. Or maybe it is in the eyes of this government? Apparently Liep Gony was an excellent basketball player, maybe if he had been an excellent cricket player Kevin Andrews would have considered him "settled" enough not to deserve to be beaten to death.

Apart from the obvious absurdity of Andrews' comments, there's an underlying insensitivity that stems from a complete lack of basic understanding of refugees, let alone empathy. For people such as those from the Darfur region of Sudan, who come from a conflict where their government is completely complicit in their persecution, governments are institutions to fear. These people aren't of the mindset, as people who are brought up in Australia are, where you are able to tell the government to go fuck themselves if you think their policies are wrong. These people are going to be overtly sensitive to the pronouncements of the government. Having been given refuge here from their government (maybe you can get the dictionary out and look up the term "refuge", Mr Andrews) the last thing the last thing they need is to be demonised by ours.

Keep Sending Me Black Fireworks - Of Montreal

99% of love songs are rubbish. They're either too over-wrought rendering them creepy, or just a pile of clichéd tripe. Or both. Generally both. However, when Kevin Barnes writes a love song you know it's going to be awesome. He's the type of guy who can make a mundane task like cooking toast seem like the coolest thing in the world. Tucked away on the bonus disc that came with the Of Montreal album The Sunlandic Twins is a song called Keep Sending Me Black Fireworks. The most notable thing about the song initially is that it's sung by Barnes' wife, Nina Twin, effectively making it a love song he has written to himself. Which is fine by me, if I was Kevin Barnes I'd be doing likewise. Furthermore, the other striking thing about the song being sung by Nina Twin is that it also makes one wonder why she doesn't sing more often? She is not only fully up to the task inflecting the this-is-funny-but-it's-not-a-joke tone of Barnes' lyrics, but also exhibits a slight Norwegian tinge coupled with a Home Counties pronunciation that is frankly delightful. Musically the song is similar to pseudo-psychedelic upbeat indie-pop with electronic flourishes sound of the Satanic Panic In The Attic album and the first half of The Sunlandic Twins. Nothing exceptional, but something that Barnes does better than most (in fact, everyone) and perfectly suitable to to the content of the song.

"Look in my eyes,what do you see? I’m hanging upside down like a chimpanzee" It's a pretty good opening line, but nothing compared to the utterly charming lyric that follows: "When I'm with my friends riding somewhere on a crowded bus there is nothing that I want to discuss. I just sit and smile thinking about us". As a regular bus user, this sentiment has a huge appeal. If I'm sitting on a bus whilst listening to the song on my iPod I smile and pretend.

"What is this that sends black fireworks dancing around me? When we kiss the explosiveness is life’s sweet mystery." It's a gorgeous uplifting chorus, but it's the second verse that has the song's most beautiful (and amusing) moment. As the piano rollicks and electro-gizmos squelch behind her, Nina Twin coos "Ah my kitten, I am so glad you are the way you are, you're my favourite living human by far". Every time I hear this line I long to one day be in the position to send it via text message to a special someone of my own.

Never one to resist an opportunity to declare my adoration for Kevin Barnes, it says so much about what an awesome genius he is that he can throw away a song like Keep Sending Me Black Fireworks on a EP tacked on as a bonus disc to an album. Most modern indie song-writers would sell their mothers to write a song half as good. Barnes' knack for sing-a-long pop hooks and amusing lyrical expression is frankly unmatched.

Keep Sending Me Black Fireworks - Of Montreal

The Triumph Of Our Tired Eyes - A Silver Mt. Zion

After years of avoiding saying anything to anyone as part of media-shy Montreal-based warehouse-dwelling doom-laden orchestral post-rock mystic-niks, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, on the second album of his side project, A Silver Mt. Zion, Efrim Menuck finally had something to say. And this was it: "Sisters and brothers, we have surely lost our way." Dang.
But that wasn't just it. There was more words of sage-like wisdom from our reclusive friend as he informed us that "There is beauty in this land, but I don't often see it. There's beauty in this land, but I don't often feel it" Yet before we resign to all hope being lost Efrim's plaintive squwark assures us "We will find our way", and we wipe our brow and give a collective sigh of relief.

There's a school of thought that suggests the music of A Silver Mt. Zion has suffered badly from Efrim's decision to add vocals, and at this point in the song that belief is carrying some serious weight.

But then he hits us. Right between the eyes, with the most brilliantly blunt and antagonistic statement: "Musicians are cowards!" Musicians are cowards? It's wide-eye'd and jaw-droppingly good. Yet there's no time to wallow in the jealousy of wishing you'd thought of it first, as the song continues: "Let's argue in the kitchen for hours and hours. Tomorrow is a travesty, tomorrow should be ours", and as violins swell triumphantly Efrim reiterates on repeat "Musicians are cowards! Musicians are cowards!..." each exclamation mark more emphatic than the next and the whole thing is so absolutely glorious and beautiful and fills you with such anarchist verve that you just want to go out join a protest march or punch a cop or sit in a hip café on the corner of St-Laurent and St-Viateur and act all mysterious.

Just when you think Efrim has become immersed in his pursuit against cowardly musicians and has forgotten the little people, he brings us back under the warmth of his counter-cultural wing by declaring "The soldiers with their specialists and the pigs with their guns cannot stop the lost ones and the desperate ones and the driven ones." And as the song winds down to just some plucked violins and reverb-laden guitar he urges us "Come on friends, to the barricades again" and one wouldn't dare not follow.

The Triumph Of Our Tired Eyes - A Silver Mt. Zion

Mechanical Man - The Folk Implosion

Dinosaur Jr, Sebadoh, Lou Barlow's apparent lo-fi revolution. These things (and more) I don't give a fuck about. Barlow may be an influential figure in the musical worlds of many, but to me, looking back, 90s indie-rock is nothing but a bland ghetto of Kurt-damaged arseholes afraid of the future (obviously Barlow preceded Cobain, but "Kurt-damaged" is my current favourite accusation and I just needed to use it). For the most part Lou Barlow is complicit with this yawnfest, however there is one exception. Barlow's side-project, The Folk Implosion, released an album in 1999 titled One Part Lullaby and was significantly different from any of his previous musical projects. Gone was the reliance on the traditional guitar/bass/drums line-up as these songs were augmented by synths, samplers, glockenspiels and an assortment of other musical knick-knacks. Mechanical Man is the highlight of the record, a song about a robot's love for its owner. Beginning with an amateurish Casio beat, Barlow's melancholic tones evoke genuine sympathy for his robotic character - "I do everything he never would, I'm mechanical man. When I said I understood, I only knew where to stand. But I'll be there for you, if your world's on a wire. My mechanical moves fit the mood you desire". It soon becomes apparent that the robot's owner has a human lover as Barlow sings "But I'm not perfect after all, I still get jealous when he calls". It's heart-breaking stuff, especially when he continues "Something's wrong, pride was never in the plan, turn me in for a brand new mechanical man". I'd never thought of Barlow much a story-teller, but Mechanical Man is an affecting little piece. As the song begins to fade out, our robot hero concedes to his predicament as he solemnly states "I'll never try and change you, I'm programmed to forget".

Although I have a very limited knowledge of Barlow's back-catalogue, this is obviously the highlight of his career. With the subsequent Folk Implosion album being rubbish and Dinosaur Jr recently reforming it seemed that, unfortunately, someone has pressed Barlow's reset button.

Mechanical Man - The Folk Implosion

Kidnapping An Heiress - Black Box Recorder

In his tribute to Luke Haines - 63 Ways To Begin An Essay On Luke Haines - Paul Morely writes for his 25th introduction:

Luke Haines's Englishness is so desolte and inhospitable that even the English are scandalised by it.

Throughout his career with The Auteurs, his one-off Baader-Meinhof concept album and his increasingly absurd solo material ("a Vaudeville spook mentalist", in his own words), Luke Haines has relished expressing his wry nihilism in a variety of musical styles. However, it is his first album with Sarah Nixey and former Jesus and Mary Chain drummer, John Moore, as Black Box Recorder that would undoubtedly be his bleakest. Unlike subsequent BBR albums where the band fully embraced upbeat electro-pop, England Made Me is slow and minimalist. In Nixey, Haines had found the perfect oh-so-English voice for his dark wit-filled critiques of Britainnia, and it is her vocals that carry the weight of the album.
The title alone of Kidnapping An Heiress gives a substantial insight into Haines's outlook. Like most of British intellectual thought it is rooted deeply in the class divide, and the song has a direct lineage from early Auteurs tracks such as Valet Parking and The Upper Classes. The initial glaring attribute of the song is that semi-annoying musical saw which is looped throughout the its entirety, yet like the rest of the album, it is Nixey's deadpan delivery that is soon the focus - "Rescued from a shopping mall, heiress with a little girl's soul. Do you think we'll make the papers?". While the song may play out like a money-wrangling conspiracy with the chorus of "And we're searching for your daughter" changing into "And we think we've found your daughter" towards the end, as Morely points out in number 42 of his introductions to Haines - One of the reasons to write songs is to get your own back - and while the moneyed may be his targets, money itself isn't his primary concern. Like most of Haines's work the tone is one of absolute moral superiority. There's a game of spite to be played and Haines cannot help but indulge himself.

Kidnapping An Heiress - Black Box Recorder

Early Whitney - Why?

With its plucked guitar and opening three words - You're so sensitive - Why?'s Early Whitney could almost be mistaken for a Death Cab For Cutie power ballad. However, whereas DCFC beefcake Ben Gibbard would then, in his earnest whimsy, declare his devotion to his muse's emotional sensitivity, Joni Wolf continues ...you can feel a single hair curl while you're sleeping, and each fraction of a millimetre fingernails grow. Before Why? became a band, it was Joni's moniker in a variety of Oakland avant-hip hop ensembles, and it was also the name in which he released his first solo album, the lo-fi masterpiece, Oaklandazulasylum. Early Whitney is the centrepiece to this record and its most conventional moment. Which isn't to say it has any chance of appearing in an episode of The OC, but merely to suggest that the song is quite possibly the point where Joni made the leap from weird-arse renegade to the indie-pop songsmithery of subsequent Why? releases. Whilst the song may be less idiosyncratic than his previous work and the rest of the album surrounding it, it still contains a fairly schizoid structure and exhibits Joni's distinctive outlook in quite an extraordinary fashion. The way the song can jump from Joni's nasal whine of Coffee's turned my dark days into Woody Allen long-sigh anxiety into a genuinely affecting plaintive falsetto of "Hide in Denver, I remember Montreal, I swear I'll write soon" and then back out to his semi-shouted pseudo-rap chorus (backed by Beach Boys-esque coos) that culminates in his definitive statement That ain't no God it's just a burning bush!.
Being the unreconstructed Jewpie I am, I'm a sucker for any reference to the Old Testament. It gives me sense of cross-cultural affinity which my otherwise oh-so-gentile lifestyle is lacking. Joni's father is a Rabbi and the jealousy leaves me doubled over in pain.

Early Whitney - Why?

Captain Easychord - Stereolab

There are three musical instruments I have no tolerance for. They are the bongos, the harmonica and the lap-steel guitar. I can't stand hippies, I hate male singer/songwriters and all music made outside large cosmopolitan cities (that is, country music) is completely regressive.
In light of these three facts I have a very uneasy relationship with the first single from Stereolab's 2001 album Sound Dust, Captain Easychord. One could describe it as love/hate, and with most things attributed that designation, it is a little confusing. Stereolab are the most urbane of bands. They are Parisian chic, London's worldly curiosity and New York's melting pot. They are a band of true musicologists and progressive political intellects. So what the fuck are they doing using a lap-steel guitar as in Captain Easychord? I can still recall the utter revulsion I felt upon hearing its pathetic yokel whine when I first heard the track. I felt personally betrayed. The one band I thought I could always rely on to be on the right side of musical expression had turned on me. They'd moved their spiritual home from La Rive Gauche to fucking Nashville and I wasn't happy. The single version cuts off at 2.54 and not even it's bilingual lyrics can save it from being utter rubbish. However, the album version of the song contains two sections, the second of which restores the band to its sophisticated glory. Its ascending electronic squelches and Mary Hansen's coo'd ba-da-ba-ba-ba-da-ba-ba are just delectable, resurrecting my admiration for them. Luckily the lap-steel guitar made no further appearance on that album on any subsequent Stereolab releases.

Captain Easychord - Stereolab

More Than You Will Never Know

Oh Kevin, this bond we have just keeps getting stronger. Every move you make seems to confirm just how much we have in common. To be honest with you, Kevin, I have been trying to distance myself from you of late. The past few weeks I've been ignoring you, attempting to focus my attention of the new man-crush in my life, Spencer Krug. But now I know our affinity runs a lot deeper. I understand, Kevin. I'm one too. Occasionally we've been able to work through the fear, that night in Las Vegas for you, and my night in Toronto. But the anxiety keeps returning, doesn't it? People don't understand, people think we're weirdos. They don't know how difficult it is. They don't know how we suffer. Kevin, if you ever need someone to talk to, just get in touch. This is something we can work through together.

And I Know That I Should Let Go, But I Can't

Several weeks ago I became somewhat obsessed with both a song, and by extension, the artist responsible for the song. Now usually I am one of these annoying types that when I find something I am enthusiastic about I need to enthuse loudly to whomever is willing to be subjected to it. However, as the song in question was number 1 in the UK charts at the time I felt then need to restrain my excitement. Not because I was embarrassed, but because you lot are judgmental and disapproving and I just didn't need that sort of thing at the time.

Today I was flicking through a copy The Times Saturday magazine from a couple of weeks ago in the library at La Trobe University. Upon finding myself on page 38 I had the extreme pleasure of laying my approving eyes on a picture of this wonderful artist.
Alright, I'm just going to be blunt about this. Her name is Kate Nash and I am in love. I was seriously considering ripping the pages out of the magazine so I could have pictures of her on my wall, but I unfortunately wasn't brave enough.

Kate's (obvious) appeal not only lies in her glorious reddy-brown hair and charity shop dresses (with yellow stockings!), but her completely brilliant overt Estuary English pronunciation of her half-sung, half-spoken amusingly literal lyrics. How can anyone not appreciate such gems as "You said I must eat so many lemons cos I am so bitter. I said 'I'd rather be with your friends mate, cos they are much fitter"? and "You've gone and got sick on my trainers, I only got these yesterday. Oh my gosh, I cannot be bothered with this"? Just awesome. Enjoy:

Music Sets Us Free

People get it wrong. People get it wrong all the time. I don't how they do it, but they do it with such frequency that sometimes it becomes a little too much to bear.
The lastest person to get it wrong is David Raposa from the Pitchfork Media [dot com]. Being a new kid on the Pitchfork block I was going to cut him some slack, however when you are writing for such a reputable publication there shouldn't really be any tolerance towards ignorance and laziness.
Last week Raposa wrote a review of the new Mary Timony album (or The Mary Timony Band, as the album is released as), The Shapes We Make. Unfortunately for the readers of Pitchfork, his review has some major flaws. It becomes very difficult for me retain composure when an artist I hold very dear is reviewed by someone who has a limited understanding of their back-catalogue. One of the reasons why I no longer read any music press (Pitchfork being the exception) is that the ill-perceived inaccuracies and blatant ineptitude of most music writers frustrates me considerably. My mental health dictates this avoidance.

An appreciation of the first two of Mary T's solo albums is a significant criteria for any potential love interest of mine. Not that I'm considered getting involved with David Raposa (definitely not now anyway), but I'm just trying to illustrate what an impact these two albums have had on me, and basically how completely awesome they are. Sure, they both might be a little too "Rory Gilmore" for some people. Timony might refer to herself in the third person as Ms Charming Melodee and befriend a forest full of furry friends throughout the songs, however, they both are musically inventive albums which not only demonstrated her knack for a good tune, but also construct interesting and challenging arrangements on a variety of instruments. Furthermore, anyone with even a passing knowledge of her work with Helium knows that she's not all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows.


Raposa beings his piece by stating the the collaboration between Timony and her current drummer, Devin Ocampo, "has given her music a beneficial kick in the ass". The implication of this statement is obvious, however it could be justified if one was to view the statement through Timony's third solo album, and first Ocampo collaboration, Ex Hex. This album was a marked shift from her first two solo releases. On Ex Hex Ocampo's brutally awkward rhythms were the initially confronting, but subsequently brilliant companion to Timony's unorthodox and obtuse riffing. However, that has not continued on The Shapes We Make. Ocampo's drum-work is muted and much more conventional. He isn't kicking anybody's arse on this record.

This claiming of an improvement is a standard writing tactic employed by most music writers. It's the old diss previous albums to praise the current one trick. It's such lazy and incompetent journalism, especially as it is not only a cliché move, but is frequently poorly researched. Raposa displays this lack of research by making the implication that what Timony required after her first two solo albums was "an honest-to-goodness drumkit" and making the aside that Christian Files was "the sporadically-used drummer on those two albums". In fact on both Mountains and The Golden Dove Files is not only has a large presence, but her stuttering off-beat rhythms are essential components in what is so great about those albums. Songs like Musik and Charming Melodee and Dr Cat, both from The Golden Dove, are first rate rhythmical adventures. The tracks where Files' presence isn't so great is due to her drum-work not being a necessity in the arrangement of the songs.

Raposa has a major problem with Timony's lyrics on this record. This is fair enough, gone is the post-Riot Grrl feminist poetry of Helium, as well as the amusingly twee medieval imagery of Mountains and The Golden Dove. nowadays Timony lyrics are in obvious decline. However, Raposa contrasts this lyrical vacancy with what he hears as her musical depth, claiming her success will come "as long as she has music this strong doing the talking for her". This is extremely perplexing. I will love Mary Timony until the day I die, however this is obviously her weakest album. It's her least inventive and is definitely also lacking in major hooks. For anyone to praise it in favour of her previous work shows a distinct lack of understanding of the artist.

The reason why Pitchfork is the only music publication I read now is because I trust in the competence of its writers. Obviously, I will occasionally disagree with their opinions, however, I expect this to be on grounds of taste rather than lack of research and lazily constructed pieces.

Deep Cuts

It's my face I have the most problem with. If it wasn't for my face I think I'd be a lot more constructive. Hey, of course we all have our little blemishes, but my problems cut a little deeper.
When I was about 15 I split my lip quite badly. As a result I had to change the way smiled to prevent ripping the wound open further. I had to tuck my top lip underneath itself to the point where only a thin line of lip was visible and the full exposure of the area above my teeth was revealed. It was a very ugly look. Unfortunately the lip was cut for several weeks and as a result this tucking of my top lip when smiling became an instinctive reaction. What is more unfortunate is that this is a reaction that I have maintained to this day. Because of this, for the past 13 years, whenever I am amused or experience something that pleases me I have immediately covered my mouth with my hands. The fear of inflicting my hideous smile on others has been a perpetual weight on my mind. What should be my principle presentation to the world I keep hidden. This is not the look of a confident man, it's the look of someone a little uneasy in the world, someone too self-conscious to exhibit the boldness required to truly be someone. The eyes may be the window to the soul, but the smile is the front door, and so the impression I've given for all these years is of someone peering hesitantly out through the chained latch, a fearfully embarrassed wombat. This mindset has obviously infected the approach I take to my entire life.
Now I'm not going to proclaim that I'm starting to "work through it", because I'm not. Forcing my hands down from in front of my face is not going to make me happy. Scaring little children, freaking out old ladies, that's not what I want to do. I honestly don't have a solution for this. The philosopher Benjamin Gibbard once proclaimed "We are not perfect, but we should try", but that's bullshit. Life isn't just a series of steps towards becoming flawless. Sometimes in order to save face you have to conceal a bit of it.

We Want Our Film To Be Beautiful Not Realistic

The past week or so I have been seeing quite a few films as part of the Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF). I guess I've always seen myself as a fairly cultured person, yet I'm someone who has kept a distance from, what I can best describe as, the culture of culture. In the past I've been very careful with my associations, my demeanour is one of inherent suspicion. However, as part of my recent shift in outlook, I decided I should loosen my belt a little and attempt to become more actively immersed. So I purchased a pass for the Film Festival. The hope was that this would not only increase my exposure to film, but also contribute to exposing myself more socially.

My relationship with film is a complex one. I enjoy film immensely, yet I have no idea how to critique (or engage with) it. Film could treat me very poorly and I would have no idea, or if I did, would never say anything. I'm just not assured enough with film, I lack the confidence to be assertive around it. I guess you could say I feel beneath it. This is opposed to (what I see as) the more solitary experience of music, where I am very comfortable. As a result my experience with film is limited. I've watched films, but I've never truly got to know them.
That, however, was hopefully going to change during the Film Festival. I was to become experienced. I wanted to be involved, attached, absorbed, plugged into film. There was certain screenings I had my eye on and I had an inkling that they would be very compatible with me. I was keen to have something new to focus on, something that would enliven and inspire me.

So I've been seeing films. Well, to be more honest, I've been attending films. I've been present at their screenings, but am unsure if I've truly understood what I've experienced. There have been times where I've felt that the relationship was starting to flourish, but others where I have felt perplexed.
I wish I could just express what I think and feel, but the fear of making a mess is too great. The thing is I expect these films to come to me. I don't understand how it could possibly work the other way 'round. This may have a great deal to do with my perspective, although maybe it's just laziness on my part? I want the film to just immediately take me by the hand, I want it to let me snuggle up beside it and to whisper soft things in its ear. I want to experience its love and love it in return, however, apparently, you must decide to risk your heart for love to find you, and I'm just not willing to take the risk. Unless I can change my attitude I don't know whether I'll ever becoming engaged with film. It's an aspect of life I may have to do without.

Around Here The Only Thing That Ain't Blue Is This Guy

I think it's fair to say that up until last week I have been completely embarrassed about my existence. Restraint has been my raison d'être. While most people make "to do" lists, I make "don't" lists. You name it, at some stage in my life, I have avoided it. I guess you could say I've lived an active passivity. The most obvious display of this has been with my attitude to the opposite sex. My doctor says that I am "living a life on hold" due to the fact that my existence seems to revolve solely around waiting. When I was around 14 or so I decided that it would be quite nice to have a girlfriend. Unfortunately, attending an all boys' school coupled with being a complete social retard ensured that implementing that decision wasn't going to be so easy. Since that time I've seen having a girlfriend as the primer to my existence. I couldn't possibly even contemplate trying to accomplish anything else until this was achieved. Of course, due to other ideological concerns I felt to actively pursue this goal was both morally and ethically suspect. And so I've waited. Perched on some convoluted principled high ground. Like a fucking idiot.

But this is set to change. This week past there has been a significant shift. A re-birth, if you will. I'm feeling good. Constantly restricting myself hasn't proved fruitful. It's just made me miserable. There's been a review; restraint, restriction and fear of regret have been cast aside. It's time to become a freedom lover. I'm feeling content and ready to present the whole man I am to the world at large.
The thing is I'm a great guy. I've got some positive attributes. I shouldn't be hiding my light under a bushel, I should be waking up strong in the morning, being more assertive with accomplishing my goals. Or start actually setting goals...
I'm not talking about anything sexy here, I'm being quite general, don't get the wrong idea. The whole "When I was around 14" stuff was just to illustrate an embedded mindset and indicate what a significant metamorphosis this is. This is about becoming pro-active across the entire life spectrum. No more descending into shame spirals, just implementing positive action rainbows. There's a multitude of colours for me to embrace. I'm blue no more.

I Keep Losing Heart

Back around mid-2002 Lisa and I jumped a train down to Brighton for the launch of the second issue of the hip music publication Careless Talk Costs Lives. The magazine was the baby of former Melody Maker renegade Everett True. True's idea was to publish 12 issues, counting down from 12 to 1, by which time the quality of the journalism expressed within the magazine will have destroyed, through shame, the rest of the (deplorable) British Music press. A noble idea, but unfortunately one that didn't quite work (True's subsequent magazine is titled Plan B).
DJing at the launch of this issue was Mia Clarke of Brighton's very own Electrelane. Electrelane were a band whom I felt a reasonably strong affinity with, regardless of the fact that I didn't enjoy their music so much. What I did enjoy so much though was Mia Clarke's cute looks and sexy physique. Not to mention the great selection of tunes she played. I was smitten. On the train back to London I harangued Lisa endlessly with questions about whether a Brick Lane Indian was an appropriate place to take Mia on a first date, where would be the best destination for Mia and I to spend our honeymoon and whether Mia would want me coming on the road with the band or not? I spent a restless night pining for my new love and wishing she was by my side.
The next morning I pulled out the old acoustic guitar and composed Love Song For Mia Clarke No.1, a sweet, toe-tapping ditty that wouldn't have been out of place on an early Belle & Sebastian record. The idea was that I would compose a concept album that followed the progress of our relationship. The album would culminate in a funked up cover of Bryan Adams' Everything I Do, I Do It For You; a rendition of which I would perform on our wedding day as part of my vows.

Several weeks later whilst in a Liverpool Street Station WH Smith flicking through the latest issue of the lesbian lifestyle magazine Diva, I discovered that trying to attract Mia Clarke might be a little more difficult than first expected. According to the magazine Mia Clarke was a lesbian. This was a problem, although I had always wanted to be a lesbian, at the time the dream was far from becoming a reality, and so it seemed that once again I had been thwarted in my search for happiness. I resigned myself to having lost her and scrapped any further plans for the album.

Years passed, Electrelane records were released, some of which I found mildly enjoyable. I even managed to summon the strength to go see the band in Melbourne one time. I had consoled myself with the idea that if I couldn't be with Mia at least there wasn't going to be some other arsehole putting his grubby hands all over her. I had thought the pain was over until just over a week ago Mia Clarke was interviewed for Pitchfork Media's Guest List section. In the interview Mia states that the best time she has had this year was when "My boyfriend and I took a boat out onto Lake Michigan". YOUR WHAT? It seems that Mia Clarke was in fact totally hetero and Diva magazine had played a cruel joke on me. Careless talk cost lives, as they say, however, this new information has rekindled my hope. I think it's time to implement Plan B.

Solitude: The Eleventh Commandment

Yesterday I saw the film Into Great Silence - a documentary on a French Carthusian monastery. In my younger years, I had what could best be described as monastic fantasies. This doesn't mean that I was into monk sex, rather that I was seduced by many aspects of monasticism, particularly the Medieval eremitic variety. Whilst my contemporaries were boozing up and whoring around, I was dreaming of living on a rocky outcrop off Newfoundland in the 1600s, wearing a hairshirt and whipping myself with a poorly constructed (yet brutally effective) cat o' nine tails. At the time this seemed like an option I was forced to contemplate, albeit it one that I found significantly intriguing. The idea soon proved unsustainable though. When you've decided that masculinity is your sin there really isn't enough penance in the piggy bank to cover it. The other problem was that I didn't actually believe in God, I was just into it for the lifestyle. Something which the church frowns upon.

It is this lifestyle, however, that still fascinates me to this day. Hence the reason for seeing Into Great Silence. Cathusian Monks aren't hermits in the strictest sense of the term, although sounding oxymoronic, they're appropriately described as a community of hermits. This is due to their monasteries being situated in secluded areas, their strict adherence to the Rule of St. Benedict and emphasis on contemplation in solitude. Contrary to common perception they do not take a vow of silence, yet only talk when it is strictly necessary. As someone who periodically views indulging in anything heavier than oxygen and water as decadence, the idea of necessity has some serious resonance. Each monk acquires a task for the upkeep of the monastery whether it be chopping firewood, stitching robes, cleaning, maintenance or food preparation. With little purpose and worth in life, and little clue on how to obtain it, I find the idea of being assigned a routine of benevolent tasks has a definite appeal. I may not have the physique of a natural wood-chopper, but what I lack in butch and I can more than make up for in unwavering commitment.

The film certainly brought back some memories. The glories of my youth may not be conventional, but have a certain non-conformist sheen in retrospect. Romanticism is nothing to be ashamed of, and with Into Great Silence my heroes have finally been given the celluloid treatment they deserve. However, alluring as this existence may be, the fact that I view its appeal through a lens of defeat rather than enthusiastically embracing its central ideological principle indicates that it may not have been an appropriate path to choose.

They Call Me Mr Carbohydrate, It's The Only Thing I Can Digest.

Yesterday whilst exploring the Williamstown area, I decided to kill two birds with one stone and also continue my search for the perfect chip. Without delving too deeply into my life's loves, it's fair to say that chips hold a special place within my heart. There are some hungers that can only be satiated with a pile of chips. Forget the pyramids, forgot the man on the moon, chips are humanity's greatest achievement. When I was in India several years ago, a friend of my father's said to me over dinner "Aloo is the king of the vegetables", and, to me, chips are its godly form. The chip is the educated, spiritually nourished potato. It is what all good potatoes aspire to be. Pomme de terre: apple of earth, the apple is Garden of Eden, the earth is Mother Nature, the accomplished potato is the chip, there is truly no other food with this much soul.

The perfect chip is one with a bit of crunch, but not one that is over-cooked to the point where the soft potato goodness on the inside has dispersed. Also, a good chip will maintain its crunch even when smothered in lemon juice (first preference) or WHITE vinegar (don't touch me you balsamic freaks). Salt is required as well. A good quality sea salt is a major enhancement to any chip.

Williamstown Mussels has a board out the front claiming that "many would say" it has the finest fish and chips in Melbourne. However, I had no interest in their seafood, there was only one thing on my mind as I entered the shop. I looked up at the menu to see that a minimum chips was $3. The portions in an average fish and chippery are much larger than a fast food chain and so I was positive that this would be enough. I ordered, paid the proprietor and threw the change back in my pocket without any thought. Several minutes later two packages came to the counter. "Two regular chips?" the lady said looking in my direction. I assumed that two regular was the minimum and thought nothing else of it. Before leaving the store I took a quick peak inside the packages to see whether they had provided me with any lemon wedges. Alas, they hadn't (despite having a large bowl of them sitting in the middle of the kitchen). Luckily at each table inside the shop was a bottle of white vinegar, so I quickly opened up the packaging and splashed the vinegar liberally over the chips. I headed outside and across the road to the park.

Once finding an appropriate bench to rest myself I was stuck by just how odd it was that they had provided me with two parcels. I thought that the portions in each one of them were reasonable and that for a minimum chips they had been mightily generous. I also pondered how I was going to get through them all. Having the stomach capacity of a malnourished 8 year old Somali girl at the best of times, it would be a significant effort just to get through the first one.


The chips were reasonable and nothing more. Many were lacking in crunch, some had become flaccid with the vinegar and the overall texture was far from spectacular. The salt used to enhance the flavour was cheap and lifeless. However, I gave them kudos for the amount of chips they were willing to provide for $3. I finished the majority of the first package and picked through the second looking for the best ones. The chips had failed to excite me and by this stage my attention had been captured by the old fashion confectioner across the road. I found an appropriate depository for the remainder and headed over towards the confectioner to see what other delectable treats I could find. On sale were some small jars of boiled sweets that I thought would make excellent gifts for the Ellis sisters. I reached into my pocket to pull out the change from the fish and chip shop only to notice that there was only $14 remaining from the $20 note I have given them. It seems they must have thought I'd asked for two minimum chips and that their portions weren't so generous after all.

Echoes In A Shallow Bay

Weekends are for exploring. Whenever I have some spare time on a weekend I like to choose a part of Melbourne I'm unfamiliar with and see what I can find. Obviously, public transport is the best way of making the trip. Public transport routes are the veins of a city. Its elemental components will always be found along (and on) them. Aside from this, an intimate knowledge of a city's public transport network is an essential aspect to one's survival. You never know when you will need to get a train, bus or tram outside the usual routes you use, and as my mother always says "it is better to be safe than sorry". So today I decided to get the train over to Williamstown.

Williamstown was one of the earliest European settlements around Melbourne and Nelson Place strip maintains a quaint Victorian era charm and several of the business are self-described as shoppes.


Unfortunately, it seems that attitudes in the area are of a similar vintage to the architecture.


Whilst strolling along Nelson Place, attempting to make my Welsh roots as inconspicuous as possible, I noticed a shipping tanker making its way out through the bay and decided to take a stroll down the pier to get a closer look. Back in my mid-teens my father organised for himself and I to jump a shipping tanker to Tasmania. One reason for this could have been that he was too cheap to pay for the airfares, but the more likely reason was that he thought the first hand experience of some real men at work might be a decent shot in the arm for my waning masculinity. It wasn't particularly successful, however it did begin a bit of a fascination with shipping tankers for me. For a long period in the late-nineties I was convinced that jumping a tanker was a serious option for escape from my then isolated existence. The months alone at sea wasn't too far removed from how I was living at the time, and the thought of all the exotic ports to dock had a certain romanticism to it. Of course, the soul destroying menial tasks and undoubtedly inedible food was never factored into the fantasy, but reality should never get in the way of youthful dreams.

Wrapped Up In Books (Reprise)

Reader's Feast is my favourite Melbourne bookstore. It may not have the cred of Brunswick Street Bookstore, or that little nook up the top of Bourke Street that I've forgotten the name of, or any other independent bookstore for that matter. But what it does have is a members' card that totals up your purchases every six months and gives you a gift voucher to the value of 10% of what you spent over that period. As well as that what it also has is the best linguistics section of any store in town, and it is this section that I find myself scurrying over towards almost every occasion I visit.


As I've spent a good deal of time in the section, what has become apparent to me of late is that David Crystal of the University of Bangor (North Wales) has become ridiculously prolific. It seems every 3 or 4 months he's got a new book on the shelves regarding some linguistic theory or language oddity. For those who don't know, David Crystal is sort of the John Peel of the English language - a bit of a doddering, slightly eccentric all-seeing-eye. Listeners to Radio National's Lingua Franca programme would be quite aware of him. Today, whilst perusing the shelves, I noticed his latest book By Hook Or By Crook: A Journey In Search Of English. The book is a bit of a travelogue of Crystal's as he fuffs around English speaking parts of the globe picking up on linguistic characteristics he finds striking. It's a book that has possibly been written many times before, however I doubt with such expertise, insight and quirk.

I tucked the book underneath my arm and headed across the store to the Fiction section. There was something I needed to investigate. A couple of months ago I received an email from Kat McLeod upon her having returned from a holiday in the United States of America. In this email she informed me that she had read a book on the flight from LA and that the main character had reminded her of me. The book was The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night-Time by Mark Haddon, and so I googled its title in order to find out some more information about why she would think such a thing. What I found was this:

The story is written in the first-person narrative of Christopher Boone, a 15-year-old boy living in Swindon, Wiltshire in 1998, who is described as having Asperger syndrome, although the behaviour he displays throughout the novel suggests a more severe condition on the autistic spectrum.

Kat insisted that her comments were not intended to be offensive and that I should read the book myself. Just as I located the book and reached out to take it off the shelf I heard a stern voice behind me say "Excuse me, have you been taking photos of our shelves?", turning around I replied in a meek voice "Umm...yes", the lady then asked me why I would be doing such a thing? "Umm...well.. I have this blog, and I write stories about things I do, and sometimes I like to illustrate with photographs". "Oh, that's alright then", she said, "That's great!". Although apparently not great enough for her to ask for the address.
I turned back around, plucked The Curious Incident... from the shelf and began to read a few pages. As I did so I started to realise what Kat had meant and felt quite flattered, so flattered, in fact, that I decided I would purchase the book and read it in its entirety.

La Pastie De Les Dieux

Because of chips, potato is pretty hard to beat when it comes to judging which is the best vegetable. However, pumpkin comes pretty close. Roast it, fry it, throw it in a curry, do what you will with it, it is amazing. Near Justine's shop, Monk House Design, on Lygon St. up in East Brunswick there is a pâtisserie that makes pumpkin and cumin pasties.


It was several weeks ago that Justine informed me of this place and their astonishingly brilliant idea. So yesterday I went to go visit Justine and eat my second pumpkin and cumin pastie.

Stumble Then Rise On Some Awkward Morning

I do a lot of public transport. My trusty iPod is my sole companion, and while I tend to partake in a fair amount of shuffling of feet and mouthing of words, I long to express myself in a more uninhibited way. When I was in New York I purchased a dual headphone adapter. Kate Shum and I were attempting to organise to be on the same flight back to Melbourne from LA. I thought with this double adapter we'd be able to watch dvds or listen to music without disturbing the rest of the passengers. Unfortunately, Kate and I weren't able to get on the same flights and so the adapter was discarded to the bottom of my haversack and forgotten like a shithouse birthday present.
Last night I went to see the film Breach with Katy Stevens. This morning I awoke, had a shower and jumped the 109 into the city. Yesterday I created a playlist for my iPod of all my favourite upbeat numbers. The list is a real toe-tapper and I struggled to contain myself from singing along enthusiastically and shaking my sweet thang in front of my fellow commuters. As the tram moved up Victoria Parade I thought to myself that the thing that would loosen my inhibition would be if I had company. Now it is awfully rude to listen to music whilst in the presence of a friend, however if somehow both of you were able to listen to the same music that would not be rude at all. In fact, to my thinking, that could be quite fun. And so I thought about this double adapter, and I also thought about Katy Stevens. She has a (self-proclaimed) reputation as a dancing queen, and so the prospect that she might be sympathetic to some PT groovitude is not outside the realm of possibility.

The reason I was heading downtown was to have a few words with the good folk at the Centre of Adult Education (CAE). They had just released their second semester course guide and my interest in learning Swedish had been rekindled. Back in 2004 I studied Swedish at the CAE and it was in this class that I met and became inseparable from a young Alice Farmer (that was, however, until she kissed some 40-year old dad-rocker and I refused to speak to her for a month). What was also notable about this class was its teacher, Dr Mindy Mcleod. Dr Mindy's PhD is in Runology (the ancient alphabet of Germanic languages), and as well as teaching Swedish, she teachers German and French (Romance languages aren't beneath her). Aside from this she is a bubbly, pigtailed cutesy machine. Basically she is the greatest person to have ever lived, and Alice and I became obsessed with not only winning her praise, but also her affection. The reason I headed down to the CAE was to ask if they were offering concession rates for the class as it was not listed in the guide. This could have easily been done over the phone, however the Degraves Street, Flinders Lane, Centre Place axis is considered the hip place to be nowadays and I was keen to see how my new hoodie underneath round-neck jumper look would fly with those-in-the-know (well, I think). Much to my astonishment the receptionist there informed me that the CAE are not offering concession rates on the Swedish class. I was so bitterly disappointed by this that I forgot to ask whether Dr Mindy would be taking the class. I'm still keen to take the class, but I may have to shake down my mother for the cash.

Regaining my composure I headed up Swanston St towards Borders. I thought a spot of magazine perusal would sooth me. There was once a time when I would devour every word of every music magazine I could get my hands on. These days, Plan B (not stocked at Borders) aside, there are no music magazines even worth spiting on. I can hear someone screaming "WIRE!", but, come on, people who buy Wire are only buying Wire so they can be seen buying Wire. 84% of the music it covers is unlistenable. Not that I want to harsh on anyone's experimental buzz, but seriously, give us something to whistle in the shower, motherfuckers. There is one point of contention here and that is Venus Zine. Venus Zine is predominately a music magazine, however, for some odd reason the staff at Borders believe it to be a "female interest" magazine. Obviously the staff at Borders think that anyone who is into "chick music" must be a lesbian. Now I have no problem with reading female interest magazines. In fact I'm an avid reader of Bust, Bitch and even the Jewish Feminist quarterly Lilith magazine, however just because Venus Zine focuses mainly on female musicians doesn't mean that it should be deemed solely "female interest". The staff at Borders need to quit with their hate crimes.
Whilst scanning through the lastest issue of Venus I spotted out of the corner of my eye, tucked behind a pile of ID magazines, the latest issue of The Believer. This month's issue is the music issue and not only does the issue contain the indie-boy wet-dream of Miranda July interviewing Khaela Maricich from The Blow, but there is also an interview with my current man-crush and hero/obsession Kevin Barnes from Of Montreal! I was in hysterics. The magazine must be purchased. Unfortunately, it was the ridiculously expensive price of $24.50. I decided that the only option was to search the city for a cheaper copy. I had 20 coins in my pocket and the hope was that I would be able to find the magazine for under $20 and have a enough change over to buy a deuce of Freddos for Amy and take them to her work. I started at Missing Link, I'd seen copies of The Believer in there before and thought that there was a good chance that they would have the music issue in. Alas, it was not to be. I mean, motherfuckers don't even stock Plan B anymore, my hopes were a little high. Let me just say I have an underlying suspicion of Hardcore kids, there's something not quite kosher about them. Although I share some sympathies, I definitely come from a different school. My next move was Metropolis. Once again I was thwarted, however, to my utter delight I did manage to discover Butt magazine, which uses the same font for its title as Bust magazine, but is, like, totally gay. It was only a few minutes into flicking through the magazine that my day was made by learning that Owen Pallett "is a total cuddle slut". At this moment I received a text from Kerrie-Dee informing me that she was in Mag Nation and if I was downtown I should come hang out. I hadn't even thought of Mag Nation! I took this as a sign that a copy of The Believer would be there and would be of an acceptable price. I was so confident that I even purchased some Freddos on the way. So while Kerrie-Dee flicked through magazines full of fuckwit fashionistas she oddly described as "cute", I searched each centimetre of both levels of the store determined to locate the magazine. For a store dedicated solely to magazines, Mag Nation has a pretty narrow selection. I won't go into details, but let's just say that if they don't cater for my needs then they just don't cater. The inability to locate this essential issue really got on my goat. So much so that I decided to "fuck it" and just go pay the $24.50 for the magazine. If this wasn't a big enough injustice, I stopped by Amy's work to give her the Freddos only to be told that she was not working today.

Although I've Picked The Thorny Path Myself.....

Dear Kevin,

How are you? I must say I really enjoy your music. If you check out my last.fm page you'll see that I listened to you quite a lot this week. It's been one of those weeks where an album like Hissing Fauna... has felt appropriate. You know, you get burdened with these thoughts, your shoulders ache from the weight of your life, and sometimes the only response is to just explode like a champagne cork, jump around and expel it all in a high-camp singing voice. Actually, it has been No Conclusion from the Icons, Abstract Thee EP that has really affected me this week - although we try to break the loop it's always stuck repeating. I always thought things would change somehow as well, but life is what you make it, as they say, and maybe guys like us just find implementing that change a little too difficult? I think you and I are quite alike, we just want to emote 'til we're dead. I think the lyrics on Satanic Panic... especially I feel very comfortable with. Songs like Will You Come And Fetch Me, Climb The Ladder and Your Magic Is Working I'd have no problem pinning to my sleeve. They're very sympathetic words.

Your time in Norway is well documented in song and I too have an interest in the Nordic region. Last year I attempted to move to Sweden. You could say it was to be a sentence of sorts in Stockholm. There were certain things I was running away from, but that sort of attitude never really works, does it? The move failed miserably, I ended up moving around London, Montreal and New York for a while. I'd be reasonably happy to just keep moving. I tend not to cope well with being stationary. This is probably why I like trains so much. I'd love if you could write a song about trains. You have a purpose when on public transport. You're heading somewhere, but the journey is not in your hands. There's probably a metaphor in that. An inability to desire control. The thing is I'm actually an excellent car driver. Most people don't know what an excellent driver I am. When I have a passenger I tend to drive very cautiously. However, when it's just me in the car I am able to drive with a bit more commitment and I have ample skill and control. Because of this skill and control no-one would ever be in danger whilst driving with me. Yet for some reason I feel inhibited to act in a manner of which I know I am capable. My relationship with control is a complicated one. I guess you don't get to be in a situation like mine at my age without some unresolved issues.

I love the way you look at the moment with your rosie cheeks and blue sparkled eye shadow. I think you look fierce. I'm starting at a new university next semester and am thinking that for the first day I will utilise your look. I'd like to be a bit more bold with my appearance. I don't think shrinking away from life is doing me any favours. Impressions don't make themselves. Inspired by you I've started painting my nails again. They're blue with sparkles. Some people tend to frown on that sort of thing, but I know you understand. It's nice to make an effort sometimes, you know? It would be a shame to be like Morrissey and just wear black on the outside because black is how you feel on the inside.

Anyway, I have some things to do, and I'm sure you are busy as well. Hopefully you'll make it to Melbourne some time soon as it would be great to see you perform. Say hi to Alabee and Nina Twin for me. I hope you are all well.

Yours Sincerely,
Grant