Monday, April 27, 2009


At last, a musician who really blogs! Just a wee bit in love with her >>

So sick of being sick. Feels like brain is coated with mucus and can't think properly. On another note two shifts off work allowed me to finish Ocarina of Time. Take that Ganondorf! At the risk of running into some fucked paheal images on Google, here is the badass..

"Great Deku Tree - The Great Deku Tree has been keeping a big secret from all the little faeries in Kokiri. It has been revealed that the Great Deku Tree is actually Pedobear in disguise. It is a well known secret that teh Great Deku Tree lied about the curse just so it can has Link all for himself."

Tomorrow I hit the streets to interview buskers for a new piece I'm doing for Merge magazine. I think I'll need to be drunk. Mmmm, avo and toast noms.

Normally I am an elusive Facebook-er. I do not add those I do not know. But upon stumbling across John Birmingham's profile last year, aka the author of "He Died With a Felafel in His Hand," a book that changed my writing style forevermore, my mouse cursor immediately went to add him. So the other night, guess who crops up in my Facebook chat. What the hell.

Enter Miranda fangirl mode.

M: "Hi, I just wanted to say that you've been very influential to me as a writer for the past four years and I loved your book."
J: "Thanks!"

J then dashed off to attend to a bed-wetting infant, murmering slurs of Napisan and late nights. Next day I get a friendly e-mail informing me that a complete bed change at 3.44 was the go. Regardless that the context was about weak badder control, totally fucking chuffed. I love him. Read his blog via the link to your left and up a bit --->

All these amazing writers popping up in my circuit has made we want to go to this in Syd-er-nee: Someone come with and we'll party.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009


The first time I saw Melbourne’s Children Collide live in the flesh, singer Johnny McKay worked up such a flurry in the mosh that he had to beg not to have unruly punters kicked out. So to the surprise of no-one, when they returned to play at Rocket Bar on Thursday night it happened again.

In Adelaide for their Farewell Rocketship Tour, the moment the Eastern rockers struck the first guitar chord the crowd catapulted forwards like a pushing, heaving, feet-flying, sweaty animal. And Rocket Bar is not a big venue to accommodate such frivolity. Two songs into it, McKay was already playing Surrogate Gig Mother. “Please, just calm down everyone and we’ll all be cool,” he asked.

It’s not hard to see why this trio have been leaving head casualties around the country. With the success of debut LP “The Long Now” last year, they’ve caused quite a rumble on the likes of JJJ and Rage, not to mention being the most hotly-anticipated act last month at Adelaide Uni O'Ball.

Earlier in the night we had Syndey support act Regular John. How to describe. Well, they looked nothing short than a bunch of skeletons that had survived puberty on a strict diet of Nirvana. As such, it was a surprise when they begot a tight set of guitar fringed with a metal touch. It sounded sort of like a love child between Kasabian and Guns and Roses. Though I spent the majority of the show envisioning force-feeding them cheesecake, a highly impressive set overall.

At 10.43 (How's that for fuckin' precise!) we had Children Collide. Opening with “Social Currency”, the lads worked their way through LP The Long Now with highlights being tracks like “Farewell Rocketship” and “Skeleton Dance”. Bringing forth meaty rock riffs peppered with violent guitar swings, these guys don't perspire sweat - only pure RAWK. You have to give it to them, no matter the crowd size or venue, high energy levels are never absent in a CC show.

These were the kind of people we had in the crowd tonight. “Play 'Across the Earth'!” a punter, obviously drunk, yelled two songs after it had already been played. "We're not doing it again mate!" McKay retorted. Much lolz.

As the gig got progressively more hectic, things were only made worse when the bouncer tried to interject. Obviously nobody told him that standing on stage, blocking view of the band, is a very bad idea. "Fuck off De Niro!” became a commonplace phrase from the punters behind me, as they then hurtled it at the bouncer every song break. If these guys weren’t insufferable enough, next up was radio personality “Fitzy.” I don't think I need to indulge into much detail to convince you how utterly shit he is..


But I will share his 'rock star antics' all the same. Supposedly, Big Brother and a slot in breakfast radio allows you to behave like this: to throw ice at the security guards and prop yourself up like a footy player on my friend. After finally hitting one with an inch of an ice fragment, he roared in triumph and scanned the room with a huge smile for an applause. He received none. Aside from a justly hissed request to "go fuck himself" from Evon. And back to his little NOVA 919 cave he went. Which he should never leave again.

The set finished with favourite “Chosen Armies”, in which McKay sang into his guitar creating an eerie vocal feedback like a 21st century Jimi Hendrix. A fantastic gig, with five-star gusto from the band as always. And a relief in the end to escape the overwhelming testosterone.

I look forward to seeing the carnage Children Collide create next time they perform.

And seriously, if I see Fitzy at another gig I'm going to bottle him in the fucking face hollering 'YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN EVICTED IN THE FIRST WEEK' over and over... I mean, ahem.

Sunday, April 19, 2009



Burnt schnitzel. Dexter. Smoking Dunhill's out of my bedroom window without the fly screen. 30 mosquitos now inside. Ashing into the gutter and the leaf litter catches on fire. Temporary panic - put it out with leftover goon found under my bed. Splash cheap wine on the dog. Basil confused and now smelling like a 15 year old emo. An unattainable boy.

eventful photos from an uneventful weekend.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Are you ready to Wark?

Live at the Zoo. You've all heard the horror stories. Alleged gang-rapes, clogged toilets, 8 overdoses, band cancellations and asthma attacks from the dust. Everything that could have gone wrong went wrong. This festival has either ruined Adelaide forever, or made it.

Behold: an insider's perspective.

There was much pre-anticipated failure. The event hadn't exactly kicked off - minimal tickets were sold and hired staff were getting agitated. And what about pegging a tent into a barren desert? Running water? Band timetables?

As the Easter weekend dawned closer, ticket holders were feeling impending doom. Except for us. Hell, if we can survive being homeless in Argentina for two days, we can survive this!

Stocked eski? Check. Hidden liquor under the spare tire? Check. Rehearsed "I'm VIP, how dare you search my car" expressions? Check. With iron fists and fearless hearts, on Saturday morn we tore up the freeway to face the carnage.

Hit 2pm: We arrive to "The Dust Bowl".

It was then time to negotiate our tent. Ten minutes into it, we're struggling to keep our strong demeanors about us. Pegging a 5-man canvas to dust and rocks is fucking difficult. Not to mention the people we have had the misfortune to set up next to: a group of dirt-ridden scum sitting on dusty, half-broken deck chairs yelling "PARALOWIE REPRESENT" and "SAVE THE WHALES". It's not hard to see who the latter quote was targeted at.

I am soon turned upon due to my pink shades.

"Hey pink glasses, do youse have a boyfriend? He wants to know," one of the dust ladettes asks me, pointing to a filthy cretin behind her flashing me a three-toothed smile. I soon decide these people should have been aborted at birth.

Hit 3pm: our tent is finally erected. But not our spirits - It's vodka o'clock.

None of us have got a timetable, so we decide to check out the elusive VIP tent that apparently offers free food and beverages. We later discovered this "free food" to be vat coleslaw and three-day-old sliced beef. Salmonella risks aside, having a four-walled area to escape from airborne dirt was luxury.

While in the Media tent, I am approached by a PA assistant who asks me when I will be ready for interviews. I am puzzled, as I am far too drunk to construct intelligent conversation. I reply with a slur of "Hhsmmm... I forgot my gear." Another success story for work evasion!

Sean makes the mistake of asking me to spray him "just a bit" with a water pistol. To me this translates as "cumshot the shit out of me"

Outside of the VIP tent, pupils are dilating on a mass scale. The dust is getting worse. And this is when we meet Captain Feathersword... you should have seen his teeth.

The whole shambles of the festival is starting to become apparent by now. The staff behind the bar have no idea what to do when we show our VIP passes. In fact, they aren't even sure where the VIP tent is. To resolve the matter they throw a bunch of food and alcohol tokens in our direction. Yep, we'll take that.

Post-beer coupons:

As the sun begins to sink into the horizon, we return to the tent for more drinks. Our bag of grapes becomes acquainted with Vodka and generic-brand Cola. A "Live at the Zoo" martini.

Here we are checking out Muph & Plutonic. Or Muff and Vaginatonic'' according to Sean, who is strongly opposed to Aussie hip-hop. Unsurprisingly, given the demographic of the Live at the Zoo largely originate from Adelaide's northern suburbs, M&P draw one of the biggest crowds for the night. Lots of "get the fuck ups" ensued.

The next few hours of the night are a spectacular blur.

It involves: Me, Kat, Van She Tech and the Lost Valentinos behind the decks. Guys in lycra animal print suits. Our ravished selves dancing like ravers on the stage for 2 hours. Getting the sound guy up with us. Cigs. Chris Brown is dead. Too many Bacardi & Orange cans.

And it's no surprise to anyone that I barely remember any of this.

We finally tear ourselves away from the dj tent and learn that Cut Copy has been cancelled. Apparently the "barrier" (which was a shitty parade gate they use on Anzac Day) got pushed over and 2000 punters surged backstage. Or something.

The Cutters have left the building, and the pillheads are left dazed and confused. The night ends cramped in a band van heading back down to Adelaide with a Korg synth on my lap and a bunch of crazed, drunk musicians quoting Al Pacino movies. No se cuando, no se donde.

DAY TWO: We arrive back in the desert. All the tents are covered in even MORE dust. The toilets have completely ceased to flush. There is rubbish everywhere. I had a rummage through our eski and find no less than one roll of toilet paper, a pair of sunglasses, a half-eaten watermelon, 1/4 of a bottle of vodka and two kilograms of red dust.

I'm feeling pretty grateful that I had access to a shower this morning, as our tent buddies didn't have the same luxury. Yes, they drove to KFC in Murray Bridge to wash themselves from the disabled toilets hand basin.

We soon head to the main stage and find these babes playing, bare-foot and using their guitar pedals like a second foot. This is the Perth teenage prodigy Tame Impala.

With the dust spray in the air, the sun beating down on our backs and their psychadelic, 70's-inspired guitar licks bursting through the air, it made for an amazing show.

Followed by good-vibe bringers Van She.

The afternoon was rolling away once more, and with bands like Evermore and Augie March left on the bill, we decide hanging in our tent in our own delerium is a better option. I'd rather sit in a filthy sleeping bag in a humid tent that watch that fag in a top-hat.

Around 8pm, after we've been LOLing at the dumbest things imaginable out of tiredness (shadows, sleeping bags and techno music), we decide to get the fuck out of this god forsaken place and drive home. I feel the gravitational pull of a shower and bed calling for me. It's time to scrape the dirt out of the cracks of my feet, eat a toasted cheese and avocado sandwich and chocolate eggs.

Live at the Zoo. Absolute shambles, but damn was it fun!