Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Consolation Prize
So, I realize I may have ranted a fair bit last post. Please accept this picture as my apology.
Till next time!
Till next time!
Aimless Bile Projection: Musings on Music
I never thought I’d sound like a parent, but what the hell has happened to music these days?
I remember when I first got interested in music on my own, and not just in the awesome offerings found on the Smash Hits ’93 compilation that I was given for my birthday in about year 3.
In retrospect, and in its defence, it was actually a pretty thoughtful gift from my parents, seeing as it was in fact 1993 at the time and they obviously wanted me to stop listening to their Fleetwood Mac and Black Sabbath vinyls and be interested in my own generation of music (which was a tactic that half-worked. I still love the Mac, and Ozzy is rad!).
I really liked a few songs on that album, particularly Ace of Base’s “All that She Wants”. A fine track from a band that died as a result of their own kitsch around the late ‘90s, as far as anyone cares. At this stage my musical experience was limited to whatever I heard in my parents car on road trips, and if memory serves it was probably a whole heap of Barnsey, Farnsey and assorted other Aussie pop acts of the ‘80s-‘90s (the ‘Bogan’ era, I call it, because of the exponential rise of Pub Rock bands over conventional mainstream pop- thus bringing their pub-roots fan-base with them), which, because of my lack of outside knowledge, were alright by me, and I enjoyed them enough. I do also recall winning an R.E.M. tape at a Blue Light Disco for ‘dancing’ really well (when in fact I was just eating hot chips and wandering around in my own world- I fear it was a pity prize). I loved that R.E.M. tape, because it had “Everybody Hurts” and a few other songs on it, and I really dug the edginess and the slightly optimistic melancholy of the tracks. Not that I would have been able to describe it like that at the time.
So, my musical knowledge and appreciation solely based on a whatever was around, my family moved into the city from the country where we’d been living for 4 years, where you could actually get a radio station at home. I was 11, and I was soon to start my musical education at the hands of my much older and far more alternative cousin who lived in Canberra.
Let me just admit straight out that I didn’t understand a lot of music the first time I heard it, and my cousin had some pretty eclectic tastes, which only compounded the issue. But I came at music without prejudice simply because I didn’t know about ‘genres’ or even what was cool at the time. I was an empty vessel, ready to be pumped full of the hot, juicy goodness of sweet tunes.
Because of my cousin’s taste in music, I got a good education in ‘90s grunge; the old faves like Nirvana, Silverchair, and Alice in Chains; some progressive weirdness from the likes of TOOL and Primus; and even dabbled in the confronting (for an 11 year-old) offerings from Mike Patton and his various zany musical outfits. At the same time I had made friends at school with a Malaysian-Chinese guy who, unsurprisingly, was into Rap. He helped me to understand the merits of early 90’s gangsta rap, and tried to convince me that the death of Tupac Shakur was the greatest loss that music had suffered; in fact, I’m sure we had a raging argument about what was sadder- the death of Kurt Cobain or 2pac, which was resolved after we agreed to listen to one song from each artist and decide for ourselves.
My friend Allen played me 'Dear Mama' which I found actually quite touching, and there was a certain subtle edginess in 2pac’s music that made me realise that you didn’t need crunching guitars to sound angsty. I showed him “Come As You Are”, which I thought at the time was such an inclusive-feeling song and made people like me who found it hard to fit in feel like we didn’t have to care what other people though. Ironically, on retrospection, it seemed Kurt cared a little too much what people thought. I’d also like to point out that I was 10 when he died, and didn’t notice. All the Nirvana I ever heard was post-Kurt.
Anyway, from there we travelled to Snoop Dogg and his entourage, and eventually on to Eminem. I will to this day vouch for Eminem- he might be white trash living off a musical style pioneered by impoverished black artists, but he knows it, and he steps up to the plate and delivers lyrically. So much so that I actually forgive him 8 Mile. Sort of.
Allen had started something then, and I decided to investigate further. It was only when I watched the Family Values Tour video at my mate’s house that I expanded my horizons even further. The inclusion of Ice Cube on that tour was a stroke of genius on the part of Korn, who I knew from their Follow The Leader album already associated with him, though I didn’t understand the link. I followed Ice Cube back through his catalogue all the way to The Predator, and eventually to where he started- Niggaz With Attitude, or N.W.A. I don’t care what anyone says- Ice Cube was the progenitor of true Gangsta Rap. Ice T may have broken out with gangsta-laced hip-hop a little earlier, but Ice Cube’s rhymes were always far superior in my opinion. When he wanted to, he wrote poignant and affecting lyrics and had a knack for a nasty bass line. He did also write about ho’s and smoking huge amounts of weed, but then Nirvana had several songs about incest and implied sexual abuse. It’s a thang I suppose.
His defection from N.W.A. due to being essentially cut out of their profits despite writing most of the lyrics effectively ended the group’s career, but it was only the beginning for Ice Cube and Dr. Dre, easily the two most talented rappers in the group. Ezy-E succumbed to AIDS from his unfortunate drug habits, and MC Ren certainly slipped out of sight; but Ice Cube and Dr. Dre became industry behemoths, and I would argue that they are the last of the great rappers. The new crop, starting with a man named Curtis Jackson, of whom you may have heard, signalled the end of intelligent conversation between me and rap. But I will get to that a bit later.
Around this time I was struggling to find a job- for some reason I was unemployable, even at the local grocery chains. I really tried, but for most of high school I was stuck on a small (but still appreciated) allowance from my folks. With this in mind, I was never in a position to buy CDs at a store, and decided instead to buy them mail order. One company was offering 4 CDs for $20 when you sign up, with no maximum membership time. So I looked at the albums available on the back of the magazine, and chose four that I thought I would like. These turned out to be fateful choices, each for different reasons.
I chose TOOL’s Aenima, mainly because I’d heard snippets at my cousin’s and on the radio late at night and it was mind boggling stuff. The title track alone to me was like absorbing LSD through the ear, a comparison I was not able to make until much, much later.
I also chose Fear Factory’s Demanufacture simply because a band called FEAR FACTORY had to be exciting, or at least entertainingly stupid. This was probably the most challenging album I had at the time, because I had never heard anyone growl in a song the way Burton C. Bell does on that album. For months I never got past the title (and first) track on the album. Since then I have had far more intimate experience and have a deep appreciation for the art of the death metal growl, but at the time I had never heard anything like it. I loved the syncopated guitar and kick drums though, and appreciated the skill involved a lot later when I took up guitar myself.
Another was Rage Against the Machine’s Evil Empire, which introduced me to rap-metal (in its larval state I suppose). It was hard to get into for another reason- it was almost too groovy, and confused my ideas of what was rap and what was metal. I understood better once I had their self-titled album. RATM successfully crossed over the genre divide as only a few acts have ever done. Ice T’s band Bodycount became a source of amusement for both metal acts and rap acts, despite Ice’s good intentions. On a side note, if you’re after a fine compilation representing some of the best rap/rock mixups ever, try to get your hands on the Judgement Night film soundtrack. It will blow your mind.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfTg4Fcza58
Finally, I got Live’s Secret Samadhi, which due to its subtle and not-so-subtle psycho sexual lyrics really eased me into just how music could be used as a tool to shock as well as entertain, something that attracted me to Marilyn Manson in my later years of high school. I actually had a friends copy of Antichrist Superstar confiscated by my Dad who though I was worshipping Satan (a misconception I would otherwise have nurtured- except that I wanted my CD back), and got it back when I reminded him that it was his Black Sabbath vinyls I had listened to when I was younger. Touché!!
Skip ahead to the late 00’s, and I had well and truly cemented myself in good stead with all types of music- anything with an edge to it that I could appreciate on some level, I liked. I played guitar in both a Nu-Metal band and a Progressive Black Metal band, and I thought that there was nothing I couldn’t listen to and enjoy on some level. From Johnny Cash to Cannibal Corpse, from the Deftones to Air, from Fleetwood Mac to Wolves in the Throne Room [hyperlink em], I liked everything that made me feel something. But then I noticed that everything I was listening to was old- it was good, but it was a snapshot of my past, or of a memory in some way. What was happening to music around me was bad… it was wrong and seemed about as genuine as a smile painted on a bomb.
This is the question- have I just gotten old, or is music really just terrible these days? Have I stopped adapting to music like I’ve stopped growing?
When I switch the radio to Triple J all I hear is rubbish: watered-down brit pop, angsty lesbian indie, crass ‘Ostrayan’ hip-hop and bloody, bloody Jack Johnson knock-offs! Triple J, you used to be cool! What happened? In the late ‘80s, Triple J (or Double J, as it was then) actually played N.W.A’s Fuck Tha Police on repeat for 24 hours as a protest to the FBI trying to ban the song in the US as some sort of indirect treason! Doing that now would be unthinkable- even for a non-profit station. But it’s not only the (ex) alternative station that has changed. The line-ups of the Big Day Out festivals have, on the most part, weeded out all the controversial or just plain interesting artists that we in Oz barely ever see and have replaced them with the safe options that will bring vapid teeny-bopping girls and pre-metro-males into the D-barrier. NIRVANA actually came out on one of the earliest ones- now what do we get? Sure Rage Against the Machine came a few years ago, but that was after breaking up and re-forming and unfortunately that didn’t entirely make up for the utterly crap line-ups that have happened before and since.
Check it:
Big Day Out 1997 Line Up
Toured nationally NZ/Aust except where indicated
INTERNATIONAL ACTS:
SOUNDGARDEN
THE OFFSPRING
THE PRODIGY
FEAR FACTORY
SUPERGRASS
SHONEN KNIFE
LEMONHEADS (Auck)
PATTI SMITH (G.C., Syd, Melb)
JON SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION (Melb, Syd)
ROCKET FROM THE CRYPT (Syd, Adel)
APHEX TWIN (Melb, Syd)
AUSTRALIAN/NZ BANDS (two or more shows):
YOU AM I
POWDERFINGER
BEASTS OF BOURBON
TIDDAS
DAVE GRANEY & THE CORAL SNAKES
BOO BOO MACE & NUTCASE
SUPERJESUS (Aust. only)
SNOUT (Aust. only)
THE CLOUDS (G.C., Syd, Perth)
INSURGE (G.C., Melb, Syd)
SCREAMFEEDER (G.C., Syd)
EVEN (G.C., Melb, Adel)
DROP CITY (G.C., Syd, Adel)
SEVERED HEADS (G.C., Syd)
DLT (G.C., Melb, Syd, Adel)
OMC (Aust. only)
FSOM (G.C., Melb, Syd)
BEXTA (G.C., Syd, Adel, Perth)
POCKET (G.C., Adel, Perth)
FRENZAL RHOMB (Melb, Syd, Adel, Perth)
THE FAUVES (Melb, Syd)
THE MAVIS'S (Melb, Adel)
Justin Bieber. Justin F%*(%*G Bieber. I’m sorry Usher, but you have bought yourself a soul-less boy robot, who, unlike Astro Boy, does not have sweet lasers or a nuclear engine or the ability of flight, but instead his weapons are a simpering eunuch voice and the lyrical prowess of a Hallmark card.
I saw someone comment on TV the other week that simply singing “Baby, baby, baby” 20 times in a chorus to a girl will not stop her from breaking up with you, will probably get you chucked away for harassment, and the perpetration of which a brick to the face is the only appropriate punishment. And they way that the female teen population reacted to this ‘tard was infuriating. I got in trouble from my girlfriend for calling him an “insipid little ****” while sitting on the couch when I saw him the day the tween riot broke out over him in Sydney. Was that harsh? Probably, I mean, he wouldn’t be popular without fans, and perhaps I was just voicing my disappointment that so much energy and excitement went in to something/someone that is essentially devoid of anything interesting, or even good.
And voice modulation! Jesus, give it a rest, everybody! I blame Cher, who used it first in “Do You Believe in Life After Love” or whatever it was called- it was terrible. Then Madonna, followed by Akon, and now pretty much everyone with serious studio backing is either made to or chooses to use voice modulation as a gimmick, and not just as an aid (which is still despicable), even Miley Cyrus. It’s boring, and lame.
Hey people, how about you actually get some skills or give up? Chris Cornell mimicked the sound on Cochese with Audioslave, but he didn’t need voice modulation, he can actually SING. Huh.
Kristoffer Rygg from the bands Ulver, Arcturus and Head Control System rivals Mike Patton in terms of melodic singing ability, yet also did three black metal albums with Ulver before they turned to lounge-core; actually becoming one of the foremost proponents of the black metal scream. He and Mikael Akerfelt from Opeth have vocal skills that have actually astounded vocal experts who claim that reaching both melodic and growl ranges should be impossible, or at least render them literally speechless after a few minutes- yet Opeth have been known to play 2.5-hour gigs! I dare you to tell me that there is anyone else out there that can do that from today’s new artists. Even Whitney Houston couldn’t keep up to her old standard and made a fool of herself when she performed here.
Maybe I’m just losing touch and there is genuine merit to this music. But I like pop music, mostly. I even dig a few of Britney’s nuggets, and have been known to download a Veronicas song or two. However, the majority of new releases today I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I like music with an edge you can hold onto; something on which to grip so that the song takes you somewhere. I find that music today just has you whistling a pointless tune, or you get utterly senseless lyrics stuck in your head: “Oh, oh oooo mamaaaa, Ga ga oo la laaaa” Etc. Maybe artists these days do have something to say, but they just aren’t saying it. But maybe this generation has finally succumbed to the bland ignorance of world issues, or honest emotions for that matter, that is typical of the iGeneration? I know that’s a broad generalisation, but with a public obsessed with talent shows that have might showcase skill but also have about as much heart as a 20-year-old corpse, and with mass-production costs and the iTunes Store dictating what is worth selling, maybe music just isn’t as important to people these days. Maybe we as a civilisation have been flooded with so much information that music is now just background noise, and not a campfire by which to crowd around and better see each other’s faces in the night?
As I write this I’m listening to Green Day’s ‘21st Century Breakdown’ on the radio, and I sincerely hope that they comprehend that they are part of that breakdown. Sure, they might still have the right intentions, but humorous jibes at an establishment so preoccupied is mostly wasted. The bleak angst of Dookie has fled for a radio-friendly pop-rock sound that disguises…. Nothing whatsoever?
That, essentially, is what I think has happened to music today. Occasionally something will surprise me, but people en-masse have fallen in love with the relatively vanilla music that is around today. No-one flocks to a venue to get lost in a transcendent experience (without chemical assistance anyway); live venues are dying and people have given up being challenged by music, are no longer ready to feel like they should be doing something more than telling their crush:
“Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby…”
Peace OUT!
I remember when I first got interested in music on my own, and not just in the awesome offerings found on the Smash Hits ’93 compilation that I was given for my birthday in about year 3.
In retrospect, and in its defence, it was actually a pretty thoughtful gift from my parents, seeing as it was in fact 1993 at the time and they obviously wanted me to stop listening to their Fleetwood Mac and Black Sabbath vinyls and be interested in my own generation of music (which was a tactic that half-worked. I still love the Mac, and Ozzy is rad!).
I really liked a few songs on that album, particularly Ace of Base’s “All that She Wants”. A fine track from a band that died as a result of their own kitsch around the late ‘90s, as far as anyone cares. At this stage my musical experience was limited to whatever I heard in my parents car on road trips, and if memory serves it was probably a whole heap of Barnsey, Farnsey and assorted other Aussie pop acts of the ‘80s-‘90s (the ‘Bogan’ era, I call it, because of the exponential rise of Pub Rock bands over conventional mainstream pop- thus bringing their pub-roots fan-base with them), which, because of my lack of outside knowledge, were alright by me, and I enjoyed them enough. I do also recall winning an R.E.M. tape at a Blue Light Disco for ‘dancing’ really well (when in fact I was just eating hot chips and wandering around in my own world- I fear it was a pity prize). I loved that R.E.M. tape, because it had “Everybody Hurts” and a few other songs on it, and I really dug the edginess and the slightly optimistic melancholy of the tracks. Not that I would have been able to describe it like that at the time.
So, my musical knowledge and appreciation solely based on a whatever was around, my family moved into the city from the country where we’d been living for 4 years, where you could actually get a radio station at home. I was 11, and I was soon to start my musical education at the hands of my much older and far more alternative cousin who lived in Canberra.
Let me just admit straight out that I didn’t understand a lot of music the first time I heard it, and my cousin had some pretty eclectic tastes, which only compounded the issue. But I came at music without prejudice simply because I didn’t know about ‘genres’ or even what was cool at the time. I was an empty vessel, ready to be pumped full of the hot, juicy goodness of sweet tunes.
Because of my cousin’s taste in music, I got a good education in ‘90s grunge; the old faves like Nirvana, Silverchair, and Alice in Chains; some progressive weirdness from the likes of TOOL and Primus; and even dabbled in the confronting (for an 11 year-old) offerings from Mike Patton and his various zany musical outfits. At the same time I had made friends at school with a Malaysian-Chinese guy who, unsurprisingly, was into Rap. He helped me to understand the merits of early 90’s gangsta rap, and tried to convince me that the death of Tupac Shakur was the greatest loss that music had suffered; in fact, I’m sure we had a raging argument about what was sadder- the death of Kurt Cobain or 2pac, which was resolved after we agreed to listen to one song from each artist and decide for ourselves.
My friend Allen played me 'Dear Mama' which I found actually quite touching, and there was a certain subtle edginess in 2pac’s music that made me realise that you didn’t need crunching guitars to sound angsty. I showed him “Come As You Are”, which I thought at the time was such an inclusive-feeling song and made people like me who found it hard to fit in feel like we didn’t have to care what other people though. Ironically, on retrospection, it seemed Kurt cared a little too much what people thought. I’d also like to point out that I was 10 when he died, and didn’t notice. All the Nirvana I ever heard was post-Kurt.
Anyway, from there we travelled to Snoop Dogg and his entourage, and eventually on to Eminem. I will to this day vouch for Eminem- he might be white trash living off a musical style pioneered by impoverished black artists, but he knows it, and he steps up to the plate and delivers lyrically. So much so that I actually forgive him 8 Mile. Sort of.
Allen had started something then, and I decided to investigate further. It was only when I watched the Family Values Tour video at my mate’s house that I expanded my horizons even further. The inclusion of Ice Cube on that tour was a stroke of genius on the part of Korn, who I knew from their Follow The Leader album already associated with him, though I didn’t understand the link. I followed Ice Cube back through his catalogue all the way to The Predator, and eventually to where he started- Niggaz With Attitude, or N.W.A. I don’t care what anyone says- Ice Cube was the progenitor of true Gangsta Rap. Ice T may have broken out with gangsta-laced hip-hop a little earlier, but Ice Cube’s rhymes were always far superior in my opinion. When he wanted to, he wrote poignant and affecting lyrics and had a knack for a nasty bass line. He did also write about ho’s and smoking huge amounts of weed, but then Nirvana had several songs about incest and implied sexual abuse. It’s a thang I suppose.
His defection from N.W.A. due to being essentially cut out of their profits despite writing most of the lyrics effectively ended the group’s career, but it was only the beginning for Ice Cube and Dr. Dre, easily the two most talented rappers in the group. Ezy-E succumbed to AIDS from his unfortunate drug habits, and MC Ren certainly slipped out of sight; but Ice Cube and Dr. Dre became industry behemoths, and I would argue that they are the last of the great rappers. The new crop, starting with a man named Curtis Jackson, of whom you may have heard, signalled the end of intelligent conversation between me and rap. But I will get to that a bit later.
Around this time I was struggling to find a job- for some reason I was unemployable, even at the local grocery chains. I really tried, but for most of high school I was stuck on a small (but still appreciated) allowance from my folks. With this in mind, I was never in a position to buy CDs at a store, and decided instead to buy them mail order. One company was offering 4 CDs for $20 when you sign up, with no maximum membership time. So I looked at the albums available on the back of the magazine, and chose four that I thought I would like. These turned out to be fateful choices, each for different reasons.
I chose TOOL’s Aenima, mainly because I’d heard snippets at my cousin’s and on the radio late at night and it was mind boggling stuff. The title track alone to me was like absorbing LSD through the ear, a comparison I was not able to make until much, much later.
I also chose Fear Factory’s Demanufacture simply because a band called FEAR FACTORY had to be exciting, or at least entertainingly stupid. This was probably the most challenging album I had at the time, because I had never heard anyone growl in a song the way Burton C. Bell does on that album. For months I never got past the title (and first) track on the album. Since then I have had far more intimate experience and have a deep appreciation for the art of the death metal growl, but at the time I had never heard anything like it. I loved the syncopated guitar and kick drums though, and appreciated the skill involved a lot later when I took up guitar myself.
Another was Rage Against the Machine’s Evil Empire, which introduced me to rap-metal (in its larval state I suppose). It was hard to get into for another reason- it was almost too groovy, and confused my ideas of what was rap and what was metal. I understood better once I had their self-titled album. RATM successfully crossed over the genre divide as only a few acts have ever done. Ice T’s band Bodycount became a source of amusement for both metal acts and rap acts, despite Ice’s good intentions. On a side note, if you’re after a fine compilation representing some of the best rap/rock mixups ever, try to get your hands on the Judgement Night film soundtrack. It will blow your mind.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfTg4Fcza58
Finally, I got Live’s Secret Samadhi, which due to its subtle and not-so-subtle psycho sexual lyrics really eased me into just how music could be used as a tool to shock as well as entertain, something that attracted me to Marilyn Manson in my later years of high school. I actually had a friends copy of Antichrist Superstar confiscated by my Dad who though I was worshipping Satan (a misconception I would otherwise have nurtured- except that I wanted my CD back), and got it back when I reminded him that it was his Black Sabbath vinyls I had listened to when I was younger. Touché!!
Skip ahead to the late 00’s, and I had well and truly cemented myself in good stead with all types of music- anything with an edge to it that I could appreciate on some level, I liked. I played guitar in both a Nu-Metal band and a Progressive Black Metal band, and I thought that there was nothing I couldn’t listen to and enjoy on some level. From Johnny Cash to Cannibal Corpse, from the Deftones to Air, from Fleetwood Mac to Wolves in the Throne Room [hyperlink em], I liked everything that made me feel something. But then I noticed that everything I was listening to was old- it was good, but it was a snapshot of my past, or of a memory in some way. What was happening to music around me was bad… it was wrong and seemed about as genuine as a smile painted on a bomb.
This is the question- have I just gotten old, or is music really just terrible these days? Have I stopped adapting to music like I’ve stopped growing?
When I switch the radio to Triple J all I hear is rubbish: watered-down brit pop, angsty lesbian indie, crass ‘Ostrayan’ hip-hop and bloody, bloody Jack Johnson knock-offs! Triple J, you used to be cool! What happened? In the late ‘80s, Triple J (or Double J, as it was then) actually played N.W.A’s Fuck Tha Police on repeat for 24 hours as a protest to the FBI trying to ban the song in the US as some sort of indirect treason! Doing that now would be unthinkable- even for a non-profit station. But it’s not only the (ex) alternative station that has changed. The line-ups of the Big Day Out festivals have, on the most part, weeded out all the controversial or just plain interesting artists that we in Oz barely ever see and have replaced them with the safe options that will bring vapid teeny-bopping girls and pre-metro-males into the D-barrier. NIRVANA actually came out on one of the earliest ones- now what do we get? Sure Rage Against the Machine came a few years ago, but that was after breaking up and re-forming and unfortunately that didn’t entirely make up for the utterly crap line-ups that have happened before and since.
Check it:
Big Day Out 1997 Line Up
Toured nationally NZ/Aust except where indicated
INTERNATIONAL ACTS:
SOUNDGARDEN
THE OFFSPRING
THE PRODIGY
FEAR FACTORY
SUPERGRASS
SHONEN KNIFE
LEMONHEADS (Auck)
PATTI SMITH (G.C., Syd, Melb)
JON SPENCER BLUES EXPLOSION (Melb, Syd)
ROCKET FROM THE CRYPT (Syd, Adel)
APHEX TWIN (Melb, Syd)
AUSTRALIAN/NZ BANDS (two or more shows):
YOU AM I
POWDERFINGER
BEASTS OF BOURBON
TIDDAS
DAVE GRANEY & THE CORAL SNAKES
BOO BOO MACE & NUTCASE
SUPERJESUS (Aust. only)
SNOUT (Aust. only)
THE CLOUDS (G.C., Syd, Perth)
INSURGE (G.C., Melb, Syd)
SCREAMFEEDER (G.C., Syd)
EVEN (G.C., Melb, Adel)
DROP CITY (G.C., Syd, Adel)
SEVERED HEADS (G.C., Syd)
DLT (G.C., Melb, Syd, Adel)
OMC (Aust. only)
FSOM (G.C., Melb, Syd)
BEXTA (G.C., Syd, Adel, Perth)
POCKET (G.C., Adel, Perth)
FRENZAL RHOMB (Melb, Syd, Adel, Perth)
THE FAUVES (Melb, Syd)
THE MAVIS'S (Melb, Adel)
Justin Bieber. Justin F%*(%*G Bieber. I’m sorry Usher, but you have bought yourself a soul-less boy robot, who, unlike Astro Boy, does not have sweet lasers or a nuclear engine or the ability of flight, but instead his weapons are a simpering eunuch voice and the lyrical prowess of a Hallmark card.
I saw someone comment on TV the other week that simply singing “Baby, baby, baby” 20 times in a chorus to a girl will not stop her from breaking up with you, will probably get you chucked away for harassment, and the perpetration of which a brick to the face is the only appropriate punishment. And they way that the female teen population reacted to this ‘tard was infuriating. I got in trouble from my girlfriend for calling him an “insipid little ****” while sitting on the couch when I saw him the day the tween riot broke out over him in Sydney. Was that harsh? Probably, I mean, he wouldn’t be popular without fans, and perhaps I was just voicing my disappointment that so much energy and excitement went in to something/someone that is essentially devoid of anything interesting, or even good.
And voice modulation! Jesus, give it a rest, everybody! I blame Cher, who used it first in “Do You Believe in Life After Love” or whatever it was called- it was terrible. Then Madonna, followed by Akon, and now pretty much everyone with serious studio backing is either made to or chooses to use voice modulation as a gimmick, and not just as an aid (which is still despicable), even Miley Cyrus. It’s boring, and lame.
Hey people, how about you actually get some skills or give up? Chris Cornell mimicked the sound on Cochese with Audioslave, but he didn’t need voice modulation, he can actually SING. Huh.
Kristoffer Rygg from the bands Ulver, Arcturus and Head Control System rivals Mike Patton in terms of melodic singing ability, yet also did three black metal albums with Ulver before they turned to lounge-core; actually becoming one of the foremost proponents of the black metal scream. He and Mikael Akerfelt from Opeth have vocal skills that have actually astounded vocal experts who claim that reaching both melodic and growl ranges should be impossible, or at least render them literally speechless after a few minutes- yet Opeth have been known to play 2.5-hour gigs! I dare you to tell me that there is anyone else out there that can do that from today’s new artists. Even Whitney Houston couldn’t keep up to her old standard and made a fool of herself when she performed here.
Maybe I’m just losing touch and there is genuine merit to this music. But I like pop music, mostly. I even dig a few of Britney’s nuggets, and have been known to download a Veronicas song or two. However, the majority of new releases today I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I like music with an edge you can hold onto; something on which to grip so that the song takes you somewhere. I find that music today just has you whistling a pointless tune, or you get utterly senseless lyrics stuck in your head: “Oh, oh oooo mamaaaa, Ga ga oo la laaaa” Etc. Maybe artists these days do have something to say, but they just aren’t saying it. But maybe this generation has finally succumbed to the bland ignorance of world issues, or honest emotions for that matter, that is typical of the iGeneration? I know that’s a broad generalisation, but with a public obsessed with talent shows that have might showcase skill but also have about as much heart as a 20-year-old corpse, and with mass-production costs and the iTunes Store dictating what is worth selling, maybe music just isn’t as important to people these days. Maybe we as a civilisation have been flooded with so much information that music is now just background noise, and not a campfire by which to crowd around and better see each other’s faces in the night?
As I write this I’m listening to Green Day’s ‘21st Century Breakdown’ on the radio, and I sincerely hope that they comprehend that they are part of that breakdown. Sure, they might still have the right intentions, but humorous jibes at an establishment so preoccupied is mostly wasted. The bleak angst of Dookie has fled for a radio-friendly pop-rock sound that disguises…. Nothing whatsoever?
That, essentially, is what I think has happened to music today. Occasionally something will surprise me, but people en-masse have fallen in love with the relatively vanilla music that is around today. No-one flocks to a venue to get lost in a transcendent experience (without chemical assistance anyway); live venues are dying and people have given up being challenged by music, are no longer ready to feel like they should be doing something more than telling their crush:
“Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby… Baby, baby, baby, baby…”
Peace OUT!
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Inebriation Palpitations; Or My Life for a Jäger-Bomb! (PART 1)
I thought that it was high time I wrote down a few of my memories of my time as a borderline alcoholic, before my crippling addiction to energy drinks burns out my brain.
Let’s call it…
Inebriation Palpitations; Or My Life for a Jäger-Bomb! (PART 1)
I have to admit that my entrée into drinking was a little slow. I didn’t like beer, wine made me sick and bourbon tasted like dish-washing liquid to me. I could manage vodka and lift, but that was about all for me until I turned 17 and discovered GIN. Really not the typical drink of the Australian male but I knew what I liked and I liked Gin, Lemon Lime and Bitters. It was also, unfortunately, one of those drinks that gets harder and harder to order as the night wears on:
1st drink: ‘Could I have a Gin, lemon, lime and bitters please, with a little bit of ice?’
6th drink: ‘Could I have a gym, lemon, thyme and Smithers please? No Mice!’
10th drink (depending on the dodginess of the establishment and its regard for responsible service of alcohol, this could also be the 20th drink):
“hey. HAY! Yeah, I wanna hav a drimk. Of GIN. With a Straw. And a LEMON. DON”T YOU PUT F%&^* ICE IN THAT, I’M WATCHING YOO! What? Get your hands off me! Police brutality! Pol- ***THUD***”
Needless to say, becoming steadily more speech-deprived and wanting a complicated drink (complicated for a bar that advertises “$2 JUGS OF DILUTED ETHANOL” Out the front), eventually stopped working for me. I broke up with gin and went looking for another bitter lover.
It was around this time that I caught up with a brother of an ex girlfriend, let’s call him Gordon Freeman, for the sake of good (or otherwise) reputations. He’ll know who I mean if he reads this. Gordon and I had become pretty good friends, or at least amiable acquaintances, through our shared love of Manga and First Person Shooters. What good relationship isn’t built on these things? Initially, we were just going to meet at a Canberra pub called the Phoenix for a quiet cider and some chit-chat. At the time I didn’t mind a cigarette and the Phoenix was one of the few pubs in Canberra that still let you smoke indoors (many had voluntarily banned it way before the law came in). They also played pretty decent alternative music over the PA, but didn’t make a big deal of it, and it was never an advertised draw-card like some other places. Thus, it was a quiet, yet still pretty happening place to have a pint, and they had Bulmer’s on tap. Having not quite graduated to beer yet, cider could easily be passed off as beer and I could still be seen to be an Alpha-Male of sorts in the establishment.
We then saw a couple next to us order some shots of tequila, followed by a shot of Red Bull as a chaser. This intrigued me, as Tequila had previously signalled death, and an embarrassing vomit out the window of my mum’s car after eight straight shots of putrid Six Shooter Silver a few years prior. We decided to give it a shot. Or three.
By the time we decided it would be a fantastic plan to drive Gordon’s Dad’s beaten up Falcon to Kingston because there was a pub there with a dart board, I had far more tequila and Red Bull in me than I ever imagined I would. I don’t actually remember that drive too well, but I do remember getting to the pub, ordering another shot of tequila and a Corona chaser each, and heading to the aforementioned dartboard.
Our game barely resembled the darts played in the Motherland, more of a game of 'how close can you get the dart to the centre whilst throwing it as hard as you can':
After being politely asked to leave by a rather burly security guard (and considering the state we were in, and how many dart holes were now in the parquet below and around the board it was very polite) we hopped back into the Faclon, which we had now dubbed ‘La Cucaraca’ because of the way it hopped hilariously over speed bumps at 60km/h and drove back to the city for a few more pints of cider. At this point I don’t quite remember what happened, but I ended up face down in the porcelain trombone for about an hour.
I was ill. And drunker than I’d ever been in my life up till then. I had had about 6 beers, 1.5L of cider and a number of shots in the double figures somewhere. I decided that it was time to call it quits. Now, if you haven’t been in Canberra in winter then you probably don’t understand how cold it can get at night. I think that -6C without snow is pretty harsh, although I suppose I’ve never lived in Canada. Regardless, it was so cold on this night that the balls hadn’t just fallen off the brass monkey, he’d gone and gotten neutered or possibly had a sex-change. I stumbled to my little blue Pulsar which I’d helpfully parked right outside the ACT Magistrates Court, thinking it would deter villains, and just sat in the passenger seat with the door ajar for about 10 mins. Unfortunately, being drunk, I passed out and woke up about an hour later because I was slowly dying of hypothermia. How I didn’t get raped, mugged or even accosted by the constabulary still astounds me today.
I had rationalised in my head the idea that driving home would be safer than cabbing it because someone might break into my car if I left it there all night. Obviously, I was disregarding the fact that I had passed out with the door open not an hour earlier and hadn’t been bothered.
I managed to get onto the main highway and decided that what drunk people usually do wrong is drive really, really fast, so I would just stick to the speed limit. Unfortunately my sense of inertia was dulled and I found that going 100km/h felt like Warp-flippin’-10 Scotty, so I trundled along at 60… At one point I even turned on the A/C just to keep myself awake. I finally peeled off and got home, and promptly started purging at the side of the house.
I was actually having a fantastic time as far as vomiting goes, and feeling a lot better. Little did I know I was making a bit of a racket, and my house mate came out of the house with a BANG of the back door:
After being kindly escorted inside by my unimpressed housemate, I passed out in bed and didn't wake till midday the next day.
Feeling fine, I decided to start the day with some juice. This was a poor idea, apparently, and the acid in the juice made me instantly nauseous. I rushed to the toilet, only to realise that what I needed to do was going to come out of the other end. So here I am, naked apart from my boxer shorts around my ankles, trying not to breathe in the fumes that were threatening to overwhelm me.
Unfortunately that was a battle I lost, and I promptly found myself yelling down the toilet vomiting up the half a glass of juice I had five minutes previous. Eventually, weeping and shuddering, I simply clutched the bowl and lay on the floor, wallowing in my own self-pity. I managed to press the flush button before passing out again for a half hour on the floor of the toilet until I could move again and drag myself to the couch to convalesce.
At that moment I vowed that drinking is never worth the price you pay, and that being a usually sensible chap, I wouldn't be drinking like that ever again.
*SIGH* What's that about a road to a bad place and it being paved with good intentions?
Come back for PART 2 of INEBRIATION PALPITATIONS or, MY LIFE FOR A JAGER-BOMB, in which I chronicle my adventures being kidnapped by bats in Brisbane, moving to Melbourne to drink for free, and how I lost my flag on the West Gate Bridge!
Peace Out!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Nouveau Cat
For many millennia human beings have enjoyed the company of the Felus Catus, more commonly known as the Swamp Moggy. Whilst in past civilisations, such as ancient Egypt, people may have gathered around to ROFL whilst pointing at a particularly funny hieroglyph of a cat poking it's head out of a hole in the ceiling with the witty subtitle "Amun-Ra cat is watching you castrate eunuchs" or some such thing, modern man missed out on sharing the hilarity of trying to keep a borderline psychopathic/homicidal fur-covered narcissist under some sort of domestic control with other people without eventually having to say "well, look, it was funny at the time, you had to be there".
(ASIDE: I didn't realise this until just now, but someone has actually dedicated a site to Ceiling Cat... wow. http://www.ceilingcat.com/. Cats even have power over our internet memes! Probably more so than any other pet, that's for sure.)
True, the story about how your cat had a conversation with you while you were doing the dishes, or the look on its face when it brought home a particularly gruesome eviscerated marsupial for your attention does lack a certain lustre when conveyed in simple words.
Then came ****THE INTERWEBS****. It should have a theme song of it's own. In fact, this might suffice: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9vrfEoc8_g
Suddenly the face of shared media is changed, and you can now direct your friends' attention to a hilarious video you found or uploaded, and ROFL together in mutual appreciation at the questionable behaviour of a beloved companion animal. YouTube has brought us such gems as:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qff9V27Weaw
and:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JynBEX_kg8&feature=related
Personally, I spend nearly 99% of the time on YouTube looking at videos of cats. There is just something about the way that they seem to simultaneously be dead serious whilst acting like an overripe banana in a microwave that makes them compelling viewing. Even in real life, I often catch myself provoking my cat in to committing acts of violence against me, simply because, despite a notable depletion in my band-aid supply, seeing them crack it at you with the ferocity of a pissed-off mountain lion jammed into a wiry insanity of a small 4kg housecat is ever so morbidly amusing.
I'm fairly certain that in between eating and cleaning herself and complaining and hissing at the dog, my cat sleeps and dreams of only a few simple things:
This has led me to ponder just how a typical pet cat's brain and motivation centres are set up. I think the below diagram adequately illustrates the working sectors of a cat's brain; the size of the section is directly related to the time they spend either acting on or thinking about each subject therein:
The thing is, despite, or maybe even because of, the unfathomable psyche of the cat, they really do make good companions. Some would say that they lack the intelligence of dogs and I would certainly concur that they lack the loyalty of the canine; but for millions of people just in this country that is exactly their attraction. A dog needs to be entertained, driven, led. A cat prefers you to feed them, provide a warm part of your body to leech heat from, and occasionally have you groom them when they can't be bothered doing it themselves. For my money however, I prefer the cat simply because if I was going to choose someone to be lonely with it would be something that, due to its immense ego, almost fails to understand loneliness and through that hubris actually makes a reassuring friend. My cat's general response to being left alone all day is to sleep on a lawn chair in the sun and stalk introduced species of bird that alight on the deck. Even in the face of the completely random and medically insane behaviours that we witness in cats, when it comes to the important things, they are masters of their craft.
'Oh Don Piano' indeed...
(ASIDE: I didn't realise this until just now, but someone has actually dedicated a site to Ceiling Cat... wow. http://www.ceilingcat.com/. Cats even have power over our internet memes! Probably more so than any other pet, that's for sure.)
True, the story about how your cat had a conversation with you while you were doing the dishes, or the look on its face when it brought home a particularly gruesome eviscerated marsupial for your attention does lack a certain lustre when conveyed in simple words.
Then came ****THE INTERWEBS****. It should have a theme song of it's own. In fact, this might suffice: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e9vrfEoc8_g
Suddenly the face of shared media is changed, and you can now direct your friends' attention to a hilarious video you found or uploaded, and ROFL together in mutual appreciation at the questionable behaviour of a beloved companion animal. YouTube has brought us such gems as:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qff9V27Weaw
and:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JynBEX_kg8&feature=related
Personally, I spend nearly 99% of the time on YouTube looking at videos of cats. There is just something about the way that they seem to simultaneously be dead serious whilst acting like an overripe banana in a microwave that makes them compelling viewing. Even in real life, I often catch myself provoking my cat in to committing acts of violence against me, simply because, despite a notable depletion in my band-aid supply, seeing them crack it at you with the ferocity of a pissed-off mountain lion jammed into a wiry insanity of a small 4kg housecat is ever so morbidly amusing.
I'm fairly certain that in between eating and cleaning herself and complaining and hissing at the dog, my cat sleeps and dreams of only a few simple things:
The thing is, despite, or maybe even because of, the unfathomable psyche of the cat, they really do make good companions. Some would say that they lack the intelligence of dogs and I would certainly concur that they lack the loyalty of the canine; but for millions of people just in this country that is exactly their attraction. A dog needs to be entertained, driven, led. A cat prefers you to feed them, provide a warm part of your body to leech heat from, and occasionally have you groom them when they can't be bothered doing it themselves. For my money however, I prefer the cat simply because if I was going to choose someone to be lonely with it would be something that, due to its immense ego, almost fails to understand loneliness and through that hubris actually makes a reassuring friend. My cat's general response to being left alone all day is to sleep on a lawn chair in the sun and stalk introduced species of bird that alight on the deck. Even in the face of the completely random and medically insane behaviours that we witness in cats, when it comes to the important things, they are masters of their craft.
'Oh Don Piano' indeed...
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Job Interviews
I hate interviews.
Let’s get it straight from the start- I know how to prepare for one, and, generally, what to say. But it always bugs me that when they ask me to describe my skills I can’t be completely honest.
I understand that meeting targets and working well within a team, and good customer service are important to a potential employer, and these are all things I can do. But when I get asked about my skills, essentially I have to lie.
Because my real skills would totally make the interviewers simultaneously poop, wizz and cry with joy.
This is a normal interview situation:
There I am, at the end of the table in a cavernous, emotion-destroying room filled with people just waiting to judge me; trying to witness my Awesomeness© free of charge.
Just once I want to walk into an interview room and hear these words:
“I’m afraid that due to new recruitment policies, we’ve had to change our interview format. Instead of questions based on your response to selection criteria, your interview will now be based around your knowledge of the‘90s Grunge scene and its influence on the Nu-Metal era; Ninjas and Ninja-related topics, such as Seppukku, katanas, invisibility, nocturnal habitats and beheading; your technique for defeating Dr. Robotnik at the end of Sonic the Hedgehog 2; and at the end of the questioning you will be given 3 mins to make a statement of claims on this position using only a freestyle guitar solo.”
Seriously - this is the REAL reason you should employ people- Cos they have SKILLZ (the z is important; it implies skills that really matter, such as pulling sweet Superman-air off a jump over a sea of fire and not merely your knowledge of Excel macros. Or mail merge.).
I would literally be Prime Minister of the Solar System by now if I was only ONCE hired on the basis that I know TONS about ninja weapons, I can ollie like 3 steps in one go and that I could totally beat you at Street Fighter 2 (as long as I use Ken).
Oh yeah, and by the way, I reckon Ken was over at my place this morning, Shoryuken-ing the SHIT out of my car, cos it overheated just as I got in to drive to a job interview (the reason for this post, like, DUH). So here i was running to catch the train in my sweet pimped out job-getting-suit, sweating like a captive drop-bear in a 44-gallon drum, and when I get to the station, the bloody Metro staff are DISMANTLING the freakin' ticket machine, so I was forced to use out-of-date food stamps from WW2, which, let me tell you, brought back memories of the trenches.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I get on the train finally and becuase I've been running I'm like, sheened with sweat and so I prepared for my interview by thinking stabby-knife thoughts at my car, thinking how I was going to have to get my suit dry cleaned AGAIN and completely emptied my mind of anything of any relevance to the task ahead.
Needless to say, that because I live in some sort of luck-vaccuum, actually worked in my favour. Now, if I'd actually had time to read my notes I would have probably just walked straight into the pub and woken up on a flatbed train carriage steaming out accross the Nullabor. As it is, I think I did OK. I credit the Awesomeness©.
Anyway, come back for more later ya Zealots. I've got a wholeSAC SACK of goodies for yaz.
Peace OUT!
Let’s get it straight from the start- I know how to prepare for one, and, generally, what to say. But it always bugs me that when they ask me to describe my skills I can’t be completely honest.
I understand that meeting targets and working well within a team, and good customer service are important to a potential employer, and these are all things I can do. But when I get asked about my skills, essentially I have to lie.
Because my real skills would totally make the interviewers simultaneously poop, wizz and cry with joy.
This is a normal interview situation:
There I am, at the end of the table in a cavernous, emotion-destroying room filled with people just waiting to judge me; trying to witness my Awesomeness© free of charge.
Just once I want to walk into an interview room and hear these words:
“I’m afraid that due to new recruitment policies, we’ve had to change our interview format. Instead of questions based on your response to selection criteria, your interview will now be based around your knowledge of the‘90s Grunge scene and its influence on the Nu-Metal era; Ninjas and Ninja-related topics, such as Seppukku, katanas, invisibility, nocturnal habitats and beheading; your technique for defeating Dr. Robotnik at the end of Sonic the Hedgehog 2; and at the end of the questioning you will be given 3 mins to make a statement of claims on this position using only a freestyle guitar solo.”
Seriously - this is the REAL reason you should employ people- Cos they have SKILLZ (the z is important; it implies skills that really matter, such as pulling sweet Superman-air off a jump over a sea of fire and not merely your knowledge of Excel macros. Or mail merge.).
I would literally be Prime Minister of the Solar System by now if I was only ONCE hired on the basis that I know TONS about ninja weapons, I can ollie like 3 steps in one go and that I could totally beat you at Street Fighter 2 (as long as I use Ken).
Oh yeah, and by the way, I reckon Ken was over at my place this morning, Shoryuken-ing the SHIT out of my car, cos it overheated just as I got in to drive to a job interview (the reason for this post, like, DUH). So here i was running to catch the train in my sweet pimped out job-getting-suit, sweating like a captive drop-bear in a 44-gallon drum, and when I get to the station, the bloody Metro staff are DISMANTLING the freakin' ticket machine, so I was forced to use out-of-date food stamps from WW2, which, let me tell you, brought back memories of the trenches.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I get on the train finally and becuase I've been running I'm like, sheened with sweat and so I prepared for my interview by thinking stabby-knife thoughts at my car, thinking how I was going to have to get my suit dry cleaned AGAIN and completely emptied my mind of anything of any relevance to the task ahead.
Needless to say, that because I live in some sort of luck-vaccuum, actually worked in my favour. Now, if I'd actually had time to read my notes I would have probably just walked straight into the pub and woken up on a flatbed train carriage steaming out accross the Nullabor. As it is, I think I did OK. I credit the Awesomeness©.
Anyway, come back for more later ya Zealots. I've got a whole
Peace OUT!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
First Post Anxiety
I feel like I should be writing something insightful, daring and witty here that will grab your attention like the icy seep of cold seawater into your swimmers at the beach. It’s harsh and jarring, yet compelling- I mean, in for a penny, in for a pound eh? Your gonads have already retreated to somewhere behind your eyes so why not immerse yourself and see just how much you can take?
With that succinct and entirely confusing segue out of the way, I’d like to welcome you to GIANT ANTS ATE MY HOMEWORK, my first blog and my claim on the information age. Having avoided Twittering to the best of my ability (and as such missing out on serious media coverage Dammit!), I’ve decided to use my mutant powers to entertain and incite thoughtful exchange, soaring imaginations and potential hate mail and self-humiliation through a blog instead.
Anyway, I didn't have much time, or, let's face it, motivation, today- but I did a self portrait to help ease you into my world. KY would have been quicker, but messier. This is me:
I know what you’re thinking right?
And you’d be correct.
As far as introductions go, it’s not as good as when ninjas fell out of the sky to Earth and were promptly introduced to the awesomeness of Seppuku for the first time, but it comes close!
I hope you tune in again, I'll be updating regularly. To be honest its a relief to have somewhere to expunge all the little atoms of borderline-insane babble that come out of my mouth. Somehow telling the cat doesn't really feel fulfilling.
Peace out!
With that succinct and entirely confusing segue out of the way, I’d like to welcome you to GIANT ANTS ATE MY HOMEWORK, my first blog and my claim on the information age. Having avoided Twittering to the best of my ability (and as such missing out on serious media coverage Dammit!), I’ve decided to use my mutant powers to entertain and incite thoughtful exchange, soaring imaginations and potential hate mail and self-humiliation through a blog instead.
Anyway, I didn't have much time, or, let's face it, motivation, today- but I did a self portrait to help ease you into my world. KY would have been quicker, but messier. This is me:
As far as introductions go, it’s not as good as when ninjas fell out of the sky to Earth and were promptly introduced to the awesomeness of Seppuku for the first time, but it comes close!
I hope you tune in again, I'll be updating regularly. To be honest its a relief to have somewhere to expunge all the little atoms of borderline-insane babble that come out of my mouth. Somehow telling the cat doesn't really feel fulfilling.
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