Wednesday, December 24, 2008


For Christmas this year I would like:

Tuesday, December 23, 2008


Andre Rieu

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the classiest chick on the block. I like my wine cheap. My hair unbrushed. My humour crude. But one thing I do hold in high esteem is my musical taste. It has been with great care that I have ensured my iPod and the likes of Chingy/Rihanna/Fat Man Scoop never come in contact with each other

Oh yes.

Yet recently, my ears have been abused. And whom is to blame for this abuse? It has a smarmy expression, an enormous cranium and has changed the violin from an instrument of beauty to an instrument of marketing.


It all began in 2007. I was a virgin back then. It was only a few months later that this overpuffed, talentless cretin came into my music radar when my own step-mother contracted Rieu-itis.

And began a fan club.

And then recruited 300 people.

And then single-handedly organized the Get-Andre-Rieu-to-Adelaide petition and was featured in the Advertiser.

And then went to see him for the fourth time in concert.

It was shortly afterwards that this fandom began to pervade into my own life. That following Summer, I suffered hours of Andre Rieu stereo blasting on a houseboat trip with my stepmother and father. Endless hours of Andre Rieu DVD footage. Constant references to Andre's favourite foods during dinner. I survived this horrible ordeal - albeit battered and bruised - but I survived. Until the next time..

Exhibit A: During one of my step-mother's fan club luncheons, I was approached by a guest. The conversation went as thus:

"I'm Lizzie. This is my son who died in the war (points to badge). He didn't really die in the war, he got murdered and pushed out a window. I'm going to find out who those bastards were. But I've got Andre, Andre saved my life."


This was a shaking experience. So some foreigner with an enormous head who artifically ices over Aami Stadium in the middle of December is lifechanging. Well, now I know.

Exhibit B: At Carols by Candlelight, I was sent to retrieve the Eski from the car boot. My step-mothers keys, to my horror, had an Andre Rieu keychain with that one, startling caption written on the back...

"Happy Birthday to Me..."

As you can see, my life is slowly being ruined by Andre Rieu. And for what? I can say this much:
Andre Rieu is, in every sense of the word, a talentless bum.

There are many - many more - that rave about his "musical genius". Look. Andre Rieu is this - a coverband. A coverband, who instead of playing in a shitty pub, has a fuckload of money and a plane that airmails Austrian clydestales to artifically-iced concerts all around the world. That covers classical music.

I youtubed his shit, and all I see is some douchebag with a violin with one giant theatrics set behind him, smiling at the....

OH GOD. And this is what hit me. The smile.

For those of you who are familiar with the works of Maddox, you will understand. For those of you who aren't, please take 3 minutes to indulge in this piece of reading material ->

Observe; the pedo-smile.

To summarize:

From now on, I'm going to live in my closet with a T-lock over the handle until I know the world is safe again from the raping clutches of Andre Rieu.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

2007's Deathly Melbourne Trip.

The month is May 2007. We have Nine Inch Nails tickets, minimal cash, a hearty stock of Whiskey and energy pumping through our veins. Thus begineth = THE MELBOURNE TRIP.

We catch a bus to Melbourne. I am the only girl in a group of six males.

The problem of catching a bus with six blokes is the tesosterone overload makes men do stupid things. Like irritating 100% of the bus for eight solid hours.

5.30am: We arrive in Melbourne. We hang out in a park for while before we can check in. We are suddenly ambushed by a MASS GROUP OF JOGGERS.

Dylan serenades joggers.

We go check into our hostel and have communal nap for about four hours. Jordan steals some milk. Got to keep our calcium levels up after all that bus travel, after all.

We all decide to go to the 'Melbourne Bar and Bistro. By 'decide', I mean James forced us. This place is pretty much the worst, most unhygienic cesspool of salmonella in the world.

We eat here regardless, as we are still drunk from the bus ride, and hungry.

Mmmm, tapeworms.

9:00pm later that night: We run into disturbing buskers at the riverside.


10.00pm: Everyone's pretty drunk by now, and it is time for more reckless behaviour. Michael and Ben share their whiskey with local Melbourne thugs and later get rolled by said thugs. We find twelve cartons of orange juice. James steals V from a supermarket.

The guys "make friends".

Ben gets really really really really really drunk. Drunk to the point where walking in a straight line seems impossible. We pretend he is a local cripple and stride 10 paces ahead of him for the remainder of the evening.

I stand on a bridge over a freeway.

We go to the Crown Casino. And it's about here that the Dylan identity crisis begins. Dylan's actual ID has been denied. Apparently, his ID is not actually him, even though it actually is.

After 30 minutes of us explaining to the clearly mentally challenged Crown Casino staff that Dylan REALLY IS Dylan, police enforcement is called in. They clarify that Dylan is no fraud.

Dylan walks out of Crown with triumph. "I AM ME!!" He roars.

6:00am: The next morning, James get us kicked out of our hostel for trying to sneak another addition to our pack - Luke Pilla - into the hostel. We are so fucked with exhaustion, yet we get up red-eyed and bleary and walk down the road to a little asian hostel above a supermarket.

The Elizabeth Hostel.

This place is FULL of crazy, pot-smoking people. Everyone smokes cigarettes constantly, in every room - even though it is banned. People leave shit lying around, like x-rated porn, cigarette butts in bottles, about a hundred flyers in the stairwell and dirty laundry.

A random guy pierces his own nose with a thumbtack in front of us, then slams his nose in a cup of Whiskey to 'sanitize' it.There's two pieces of cutlery provided for use between four floors of people staying there.

This place is so fucking cool it's ridiculous.

If Bill behaved, we sometimes let him inside and fed him scraps.

The next day we adventure. All the kids, minus Bill and Dyl.

Grass adventures.

Really cool fun idea 1: Jumping into the grass. And discolate knee for second time.

Really cool fun idea 2: Jumping off bunkbeds trying to take in-action shots.

Really cool fun idea 3: Burn Jordan with home-made 'flamethrower' while he is passed out. Set off fire alarm for the fourth time..

Really cool fun idea 4: Pick up shitfaced Melbourne chicks.

Really cool fun idea 5: Get drunk and decide that, in a room full of strangers, the need for wearing pants is unnessecary.

Really cool fun idea 6: Fuck up Nine Inch Nails.

And then there was "Keith," one of the rooms we stayed in... Keith's decorations, including sock, stuck on with peanut butter. Weed and alcoholic paraphernalia can be seen scattered around the place, as well as illegally-acquired potplant.

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Quotes from the trip:

- "Skinny little ferrets"

- "This aggression will not stand."

- "Cocky parrot."

- "The English royal family is German!"

- "Because this, this is the brotherhood of man."

- "I'm cracking skulls..."

- "Keith is an art gallery."

- "Let's go to the Bar and Bistro."

- (Michael's random bout of violence as he smashes eggs in a carton with his fist).

- "Can I come here later? I don't.. know.. much." (Mi Goreng)

- Forum thread: "The story how one guy FUCKED up the nine inch nails concert"

- "Angry Bill"

- "W'ere just talking about Greek philosophy man..." (reply) "I don't fucking care!"

- "8.90, only at Cafe Primo."

- "Where's that bitch gone???" (James' picking up skills.)

- "Miwanda"

- "General Kingshott's Balls." (uh..)

- "Nate the Snake"

- "Bill, my pants are in the fridge aren't they....."

- "We are the best people we know, and if we didn't know us, we'd hate us."

- "You know what she's doing? She's having a gooooooooood time."

- "Can we have some free toast?"


- "Guys, we gotta go. (5am in the morning)"

- "(on the tram) RUN!"

- "Here's a trick I learnt in school..... (throws up a beer bottle that crashes on table)

- "Have a beer."

- "I AM ME!" (Dylan walking out of the Crown triumphantly)

- "Can we have some money for petrol to Bendigo?"

- "You've said Karl Marx about 7 times!"

- "Excuse me, I graduated last night."

- "Since you cunts have been gone 12 cops in SA have been laid off"

- (To karaoke people) "No, no you don't have to pay us, we'll sing for free"

- "Can we have a radio show, we present both sides of the argument"

- "I'm going to steal this milk." (steals milk.)

An older post pt. 1/5

There are a select few individuals in this world that should have been exterminated from the gene pool.

People like the "musician" Mika.

I find Mika extremely offensive in many ways.

Firstly, his name. I suppose having parents name you "Mica" in the first place is cruel enough. But changing the "c" to the "k" just to have a more marketable title is not the best of ideas. For example; search for "MIKA" in Google Images, and you'll see what I mean. Cough Japanese girl beaver shots.

Secondly, his music. Let's analyse his hit single, insert invisible quotations, Love Today.

I've been crying for so long,
Fighting tears just to carry on,
But now, but now, it's gone away.

Pretty deep lyrics. I might have been touched by the fact that Mika is "fighting the tears just to carry on" if I wasn't so distracted by this constantly annoying screeching sound.

Oh wait, that's just his voice.

Everybody's gonna love today,
Love today, love today
Everybody's gonna love today,
Anyway you want to, anyway you've got to,
Love love me, love love me, love love.

What... poetry.

Thirdly, Mika is a menace to the media world. Last Thursday evening, I thought it was safe to turn on the television to watch the ending of "So You Think You Can Dance," until to my horror the host announced there would be a "special guest" performing. Mika, I want the three minutes of my life I wasted watching your lip-synching stage-prancing shit back.

Fourthly, his lyrical connotations.. are... well...... an excerpt from "Lollipop" by Mika.

Yo Mika. I said,
sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down,
I said,
sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down.

Sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down,
sucking too hard on your lollipop,
or love's gonna get you down.
Say love, say love,
or love's gonna get you down.
say love, say love,

But most importantly, my reasons for not liking Mika as a musician all come down to his voice. Mika has nearly no singing abilities whatsoever apart from a high-pitched falsetto wail. People have said in reviews that Mika's voice is comparable to that of Freddy Mercury... no.

And anyone who aspires to be a princess, quote; "I want to be like Grace Kelly", is very questionable.

For free kittens (and a really really really annoying tune stuck in your head for the next few hours) click here!!!!!

In summary, Mika please just get out of the public eye.

Go and return to London, re-assume your real identity as "Mica" so your twelve-year old fans googling your name don't keep stumbling across hardcore Asian porn, and please stop wearing those tight pants.

It hurts my eyes.

An older post pt 1.


So there was this article in The Advertiser today that was talking about "Internet" language (at least the 23923920329 article they've done on this...)

They had taken comments from people's myspaces and used them as examples ie;

lol lol

yer ill get bak 2 u



and translated them. Translation for the above was:

Laugh out loud. Laugh out loud.

Yes, I'll get back to you.

In my arrogant opinion.

Kiss kiss.

..... So let's just see that again.

lmao = in my arrogant opinion.

I am overwhelmed with disgust. So what the fuck does 'rofl' translate into then? Rape on fresh lawn?

Officially lost all respect for The Advertiser. Forever.



“Parklife: the music is good, but the drugs are GREAT,” was the most accurate thing I heard all day while strolling around Botanic Park for Australia’s mid-spring dance festival, Parklife.

It was Adelaide’s turn for the national dance festival this weekend, and with a sore lack of Goldfrapp on the bill, it was interesting to see how Botanic Park’s hospitality would pan out. Yet with a beautiful 29 degree day to work with, and a blinding sea of orange legs already piling in through the gates, things were looking up. Needless to say, whatever the turnout was - I was going to have a good time. I had spent hours toiling over four fucking metres of green tulle, and my hands were suitably pocked and bloody from sewing needles and I was going to party the shit out of this fairy outfit whether I wanted to or not.

With my two fellow Parklife fairies, Reezor and Eleazor, we strode in ready to unleash the carnage..

Early in the day at the Water Stage we had local indie/rock outfit The Touch. As the festival had really just started, most people were still relaxing under trees lining their guts with $10 cans of Smirnoff (I do not jest, $10 a can – effing robbery!) rather than dancing about. Yet the quintet had still managed to amass a decent crowd, complete with a handful of devoted fan girls with “The Touch” lovingly branded on their butt cheeks. Aw, what Things took an interesting turn mid-set, when one of the giant stage sheets came loose in the wind and fell on top of their drummer. Oh, how I love chaos..

Next up was US duo Neon Neon. Equipped with mini electric guitars and two highly conspicuous vocalists, their set of Summer-infused electro pop was so perfect for the Parklife formulaic it’s a shame they didn’t have a bigger crowd. Perhaps this was because everyone was over at the Air Stage going nuts over Grafton Primary’s I Can Cook. Grafton Primary may have lacked the charisma to rival Neon Neon, but what they did have under their belts to unleash on the crowd was Joshua Garden – their Star-Wars-nerd-on-ecstasy resembling front man adorned in a sparkly gold hat.

Ah yes, such spectacles as these only truly make sense, and are appreciated, at dance festivals. I think I even heard some drunk bitches to the left of me croon how "hot" he was. Well hey, if skeletal runts float your boat when you're pinging on a cocktail of pills, woooohoooo. We make the walk over to the Earth stage to check out the last few minutes of Slyde, but there’s no-one really here apart from a few punters snoozing on the lawn and a man wearing a Barney the Dinosaur cape with a joint stapled to it. Ahem. After some subtle sabotage (in which Eleanor tore off a corner), we moved on, only to then be cornered by more freaks who wanted to take photos of us with their phones. We stole ciggarettes from them and ran away.

On the other side of the park, electro/new wavers Ladytron were setting up. This group had been gathering some of the biggest hype of the day, and now had the crowd size to match it. Yet in spite of expectations, Ladytron turned out to be a very disappointing live act. ?" The climate may have been to too hot for Scottish vocalist Helen Marnie, as she just looked miserable on stage. It took a lot for me not to tell at her to "cheer the fuck up". Perhaps her performance can be blamed on the horrendous sound engineering they received. The sound quality had been unsavoury all day, but this group suffered more than anyone. The guitars were too distorted, the poor girls were barely audible and their charming Scottish drawl was like a distant white noise amongst the boom of the speakers. Still, they drew one of the most impressive crowds of the afternoon, and Ghosts was a highlight.

It was at this point of the day that the atmosphere grew in a couple of notches in weird. Maybe it was because the drugs were kicking in, or maybe it was because everyone had been in the sun for five hours and now had heatstroke – either way I was in no way prepared for a raver approaching me and asking; “Can you imagine life without kneecaps?” and then insisting on writing a rice recipe in my notepad. I took this as a signal to drink more, so at once beelined to the soft, cushiony safety of the bar. Ahhhh, bar.. you scary pillheads can't hurt me here...

It was now dusk, the perfect ambience for mashup pop veterans Soulwax. Fronted by Belgium brothers David and Stephen Dewaele, the two disc jockey’s otherwise known for their work in 2 Many DJ’s, Soulwax is a group certainly acquainted with the motions of performing at festivals. As the sun slowly crept away, the steadily mounting crowd was fed with tracks like E-talking and NY Excuse.

Night had set in – now it was time for the fun to begin. People had de-spectacled, diluted pupils were fully exposed and a tense anticipation was aloft. To be blunt, everyone was fucked. And what better way to kick things off than with electro clash extraordinaire Peaches at the Water Stage.After trying to use my media pass to get into the barrier next to the stage, and failing (so what if I had two drinks in my hand? SO WHAT?", with my tail between my legs I walked over with the rest of the cretins.

After a slightly embarrassing introduction, where the MC encouraged the audience a few too many times to give Peaches the welcoming fanfare she deserved, she finally pranced onto the stage. With her band dressed in mirror ball jumpsuits and the leading lady herself in what appeared to be a giant yellow loofah, she was by far most aesthetically impressive artist for the day.

Clambering onto amps, crowd-surfing and seducing punters beneath her with her microphone groans, all who were witnesses to this set definitely got their serving of ‘the teaches of Peaches’.

“This one’s for the ladies!” she screamed, launching into Shake Yer Dix and provoking chest shimmies everywhere. Performing a set of most of 2003’s FatherFucker, no hit song was left untouched. Even Kick It was duly included, her famed duet with Iggy Pop with Peaches’ keyboardist filling the role of Iggy’s vocals. He wasn’t too bad either, as everyone went crazy for this one before busting a move to set finale Fuck the Pain Away. Perhaps the definitive point of the show was Peaches announcing mid-set; “I don’t need your lights, I’ve got my own!” and hitching up her skirt to reveal a conveniently placed light in her crotch.

Ah, gotta’ love her guts.

The buzz was now overwhelming, and everyone was ready for Dizzee Rascal. It felt like every single bloody person in the festival rushed over to the Earth Stage, as the crowd was so dense within minutes it’s impossible to get in. “What’s my name, what’s my naaaaaame?” Dizzee asks the crowd, before launching into He’s Just A Rascal's drill sergeant chant. With his set backed by a wide screen of his video clips, I couldn’t help but feel that this was pretty lazy effort in terms of backdrop. Still, when the ever-so-infectious Calvin Harris duet Dance Wiv Me came on at the end, the crowd transformed into a giant, heaving mass of movement. Not particularly wanting to leave the festival covered in a thick slime of mosh pit sweat, I decided to watch from the lawn.

With the festival done and dusted, everyone filed out either to party some more, or home to nurse their dirt-caked feet to wait til next year.

I myself went home at watched Rage drunk off my ass.


The Grates at The Gov, ow!

Adelaide: we’ve got great food, but tiny water bottles. That is at least according to The Grates exceptionally lovely front-woman, Patience Hodgson. “This must be for a baby or something,” she breathlessly announced to The Gov’s sold-out crowd last night, holding up a miniature Mt. Franklin bottle. Given that the 21-year-old vocalist had just bounced around for the past twenty minutes like a toddler on twelve jugs of red cordial, it was no surprise she was breaking out in a sweat.

It was Adelaide’s turn for a serving from the Brisbane three-piece’s national tour tonight, and we were there ready and waiting to have our Teeth Lost, and Hearts won … over.

Upon arrival to The Gov at half past nine, we were disappointed to learn that both the support bands, John Steel Stringers and The Vasco Era, had been and gone for the night. Perhaps the Gov had pushed the bands on earlier in a bid to respect that the Sunday night crowd (likely hungover from the night before). Not to mention that the balmy weather had also turned the venue into a furnace. I managed to locate a source of breeze near the beer garden door, albeit it being next to a really, really scary couple dancing like they were on crack, and anxiously waited.

As the stage lights dimmed, two rotating 8-point stars were unsheathed along with the projection of a globe with “The Grates” branded across it. At once, the Converse’d feet below worked up to an excited shuffle. Then, with an entrance truly in Grates fashion, the leading lady herself Patience ran on stage in a combination of both star-jumps and hair flips, followed by guitarist John Patterson and drummer Alana Skyring and a backup bass player. The red lighting was especially harsh on the stage, perhaps to help hide the large burns marring most of Patience’s left arm. Yet sashaying to and ‘fro in her pink frock before any chords had even been plucked, she was clearly having a ball already.

Opening with Gravity Wont Get You High’s early hit Science Is Golden, the trio instantly smashed through the stickiness of the night with vibrant aplomb. You’d think that Hodgson had an annual subscription to Cottee’s, because the energy of this chick is amazing. She bounced, she bounded, she head-banged, and all the while still growled her way through lung-belting vocals without a breath. “We’re so happy to be here! Thankyou! They don’t call it Radelaine for nothing,” Hodgson chuckles with screwball charm, before pouncing on a punter below and clambering on his shoulders to holler out Carve Your Name.

Midway through their set, it becomes clear just how much this group have grown since their garage days in ’04 and ’05. Last time I saw this group was a few years back at Big Day Out, when no-one really knew who they were. Nowadays, Patience’s vocal palate is much stronger, they’ve got bass undertones, their songs are sounding a lot more polished and their fan base has certainly grown double-fold. Yet despite their surge in popularity, their music still maintains that kid’s-birthday-party charm. Their oldest tracks, Trampoline and Sukkafish were some of the most warmly received for the night, and the band seemed equally as happy to play them with toothy grins.

If a set rollcall of all their top songs wasn’t enough to please the fans, Patience had prepared for this – with a throng of party tricks! This included a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon, a voodoo staff with a plastic skull attached and a number of raspberries blown at the crowd. The people in front of me seemed happy at least – the spiky haired woman furiously punching at the air and her thick-necked, mulleted boyfriend desperately trying to keep up. It was at this point that I began edging away from them for fears of being knocked out.

Wrapping up the night with recent JJJ favourite Burn Bridges, followed by an encore of 19 20 20, the band bashfully burbled their way through the last few minutes of their set. “Wow, thanks so much guys,” Patience once again gushed, before prancing away like a deer in a forest. It was a sad sight to see their cheery faces walk off, but a real experience in itself to see just how much this group has absolutely skyrocketed since I last saw them. Something akin to a mother bird seeing her babies leave the nest and fly away…. sniff.

Great show, great music, and a lot of promise for this band. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I speak for everyone in that room in saying that Patience Hodgson is the most indescribably cute thing alive.

Just sayin’.