The end of year holidays are all about it being too cold to venture outside, and being miserable because you forgot to stock up on food and now it’s too cold to venture outside. So you curl up in your pyjamas with a warm cup of something you managed to salvage from the back of a cupboard, and plonk down in front of the TV.
Alternatively, for people living in the southern hemisphere, where the end of year takes place during the summer months, it’s all about it being too hot to venture outside, and curling up with something you fished out from the back of the freezer.
Chances are, in both case scenarios, you’ll end up in front of the TV, watching a soppy film about how a family reunites, a hopeless bachelor(ette) or a single mum/ dad finds true love, an icy scrooge thaws out…yaddah yaddah yaddah.
When you’re stomach’s left growling after those small screen tidbits, you’ll want to sink your teeth into something slightly more satisfying. I give you my top three Classic Holiday Season Movies.
Love, Actually is, obviously, not even remotely on the list.
- Gremlins (1984)
- National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
- Home Alone
I don’t know about you, but these days, no matter where I turn, there’s always something to make me angry or sad.
And it’s wintertime. Oh, how I loathe Winter: apart from providing the ideal conditions for long, mournful walks in the dark, the season’s no damn good.
There’s a transport strike on as well right now. So I’m somewhat trapped in the middle of nowhere, i.e. utterly house bound. Even if I venture out, there is only so much entertainment the neighbouring supermarket, library and post office can whip up.
Snuggling my portable radiator – which I am seeking to name – and my laptop, bundled up like a woolly layered cake, I tackle my current lack of professional activity, wade through pages of job offers, and respond to them between sips of lukewarm coffee.
Once that is done, I heave a sigh – not one of relief – and brainstorm story ideas, read up on the day’s current events, listen to loud, angry music …
I shuffle through computer files, looking for a story to rework or an old picture I forgot even existed, into which I can breathe new life.
<——-Like this one…part of a really fun shoot: over an hour spent climbing on chairs and tables at a famous fast food chain diner one Saturday morning. Featured: the lovely and ever so talented boys from Sydney band The Mischief.
Once I’ve gone through all my files twice (but still left something to chew on for a rainy day), the nostalgia kicks in. My memory cross fades back to a time when a great day involved uncovering a really nifty rock for my collection, or winning the pogs off every other kid in my class, and coming home to this in the evening —>
Good times. Now, I’m wondering “what next?” “How much could I get for my old pog and rock collection today?”
Or “How come the Golden Girls were always so cool? Why don’t I keep ice-cream stocked in the fridge at all times for midnight emergencies?”
At this point, I realise that I’m envying the lifestyle of retirees, very lively ones for sure, but nevertheless…From the sandbox to the condo in seconds.
I’ve gulped my way through about 5 litres of caffeine by now, have googled names, found out that in the sixteenth century, the King of France moved the beginning of the year from March-April to January, googled more names, and wound up watching the creepy videos Youtube keeps recommending for me.
Line up in pairs, hold hands and play nice…The end is in sight. I have – amazingly – made it through yet another day. I just have to wait a few more hours for the caffeine buzz to finally wear off. Perhaps I’ll whistle a tune to bide the time. Perhaps I’ll chant a few words of wisdom too. These for example, drawn from Life of Brian:
So always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath
Life’s a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke, it’s true.
You’ll see it’s all a show
Keep ‘em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.
(excerpt from “Always look on the bright side of life”)
Just a day in the life kids, just a day in the life.
PS: If you have any really cool name ideas for my radiator…
Kid Bombardos, The Popopopops & co. inaugurate first Friday at a revamped Flèche d’Or
La Flèche d’Or in Paris was my favourite venue. It was free yet offered a fantastic lineup and a welcoming atmosphere. I almost lived there for several months. Apparently, a few months after I left for Sydney in ‘08, management sprang an entrance fee on punters and the security folk posted at the door went from chummy to crummy.
Although I was basking in a completely different scene Down Under, the news came as quite a blow. An even bigger shocker was the announcement that, like many venues nowadays, it was being shut down due to mounting complaints about noise pollution from residents. That happened sometime in spring.
And then, rising from its ashes…perhaps a bit melodramatic…thanks to new management and after supposedly costly soundproofing work, the venue was scheduled to re-open. I was glad, but having only known the pre-charge, pre-dodgy security era, I had concerns about feeling alienated from the old haunt.
The doors of the venue located rue Bagnolet swung open once more on Monday, November 23. On Friday, I gave in to curiosity.
I was familiar with only one of the bands in the lineup, but remembered their performance from a festival I attended this summer in Paris. I decided to brace myself; tackled the cold, and prayed for the public transport service to be on my side to see a young group from Bordeaux, Kid Bombardos.
From the outside, la Flèche looked the same. There wasn’t much of a queue when I arrived- the combined effects of an entrance fee and the early hour. The guys at the door were friendly enough, as were the ticket girls. Inside, the stage and ceiling were shy of the golden frame which used to crown the stage and the glitter ball which deflected the strobes’ rays into rainbow freckles across the room.
The bar had been moved back a notch in the room to increase capacity in front of the stage. The toilets were the same, just painted black. (I hear a guitar riff coming on.)
The DJ was either battling severe depression or has a bizarre notion of how to warm up a room, resorting to the complete back catalogue of Radiohead, on a Friday night. After one hour of Thom Yorke’s moanings, it sounded like Karma Police was the closest we were ever going to get to a feverish-party-frenzy mode.
- First up, Dax Collector: a couple of boys, retro sunglasses, a fair-isle sweater and keyboards…
- Next, Kid Bombardos. People were moshing for the first time that night. I think that’s always a tell-tale sign…
- Finally, The Popopopops! They sound like their name, full of fizzy energy.
- Click on the following links for more pictures of:
I have stacks of pictures gathering virtual dust on my hard drive. I hope to get round to sorting them someday. In the meantime, here is a shortlist of my favourite portraits so far.
All of these were taken in Sydney, mostly at the Annandale Hotel, on Parramatta Rd. I used to live just a few bus stops away and would scoot up for my gig fix whenever I could.
Enjoy, and head straight to my flickr account if you’re keen on seeing more shots.
Bridgemary Kiss, Oxford Arts Factory, 2008.
End of Fashion, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
The Panics, UTS, 2008.
Alice in Chains, Soundwave Festival, 2009.
Lions at your door, Annandale Hotel, 2008.
Tennis, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Yves Klein Blue, Annandale Hotel, 2008.
The Mischief, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
In Flames, Soundwave Festival, 2009.
The Dolly Rocker Movement, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Ranger Spacey, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Papa Vs Pretty, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
The Scare, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Art Vs Science, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Regular John, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
The Model School, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Gideon Bensen, Annandale Hotel, 2008
Sherlock’s daughter, Annandale Hotel, 2008.
The Holidays, Annandale Hotel, 2008.
Delta Spirit, Annandale Hotel, 2008.
Hungry Kids of Hungary, Annandale Hotel, 2009.
Une seconde de plus, et je tire la gâchette de mon mini fusil à pompe /lime à ongle – on trouve vraiment de tout au téléachat maintenant. Un coup sec dans le crâne. Ping.
Les miettes ensanglantées de ma frêle composition viendront s’encastrer auprès des dépôts de substances vert de gris qui ornent déjà de leur frais ton pastel les murs de la pièce.
Non, allons plutôt voir un autre studio Madame. Merci bien.
Même si j’apprécie fort le comité d’accueil de cafards intermittents qui a entonné avec enthousiasme et polyphonie ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ le temps de la visite– chorégraphie à l’appui…
L’avantage avec le célibat, et donc de l’appartement de célibataire- le bachelor pad en anglais, c’est le côté ‘éternelle découverte’. C’est le voyage en terre inconnue, sans plan de métro.
Ça commence avec le mode d’emploi du frigo, le compartiment du bas, par exemple. Il ne s’agit guère d’une section VIP pour légumes en mal de reconnaissance.
Il a pour fonction primaire de permettre aux carottes de préserver leur potentiel phallique. J’entends par là qu’ils ne se laissent pas ramollir au premier signe de froid. Parce qu’une carotte fripée, même une ballade de Jean-Luc Lahaye ne pourrait rien pour la ramener d’entre les atrophiés.
Aussi, est-il bon de vérifier les niveaux du froid. Ce n’est pas sous prétexte que tu as placé un aliment dans la boîte magique qu’il est assuré de connaitre un paisible destin de comestible cryogénisé. Tu n’es en rien à l’abri d’une putréfaction en technicolor, ou d’une transformation de ton réfrigérateur en Palais de Glace à la Docteur Jivago.
On devient mathématicien. Toi aussi tu sauras calculer l’angle d’ouverture parfait te permettant de faire une sieste en plein après-midi, à l’abris des regards indiscrets de ton acrobate de voisin de vis-à-vis, en partant de son poids au km2 (la tète en bas) rapporté à la hauteur de l’immeuble, divisé par l’heure d’hiver. E=Mc Solaar. Fastoche.
Tu feras la découverte de cultures provenant d’aires géographiques diverses. Le voisin situé latitude sud vient manifestement du nord, ce qui le pousse à entreprendre des travaux d’ébénisterie entre 2 et 3 heures du matin, au son de chant de hiboux bulgares.
Tu t’improviseras arbitre pour des sports dont tu ignorais jadis l’existence. Grâce au curling, tu ne verras plus jamais ton balai et ta bouilloire du même œil. Avec ta nouvelle maîtrise du baromètre réfrigérant, tu t’entraineras dans le confort de ton propre salon/ salle a manger/chambre à coucher/ douche, en attendant que le sport s’exporte par-delà des frontières du Canada.
Tu rejoindras la trépidante équipe de bowling sur gazon, dont les membres sont impressionnants d’agilité pour leurs 110 ans.
Tu auras peine à te souvenir de la vie avant les jeudis soir passés une tasse de chocolat chaud au poing à comptabiliser le nombre d’arcades sourcilières réduites en carpaccio à l’issu d’un match de foot australien.
Tu apprendras qu’il est beaucoup plus difficile de s’électrocuter que ne le prétend la rumeur populaire : un quart d’heure à faire le moonwalk dans un lavomatic inondé sans recevoir la moindre décharge. De même pour le fer à défriser laissé à chauffer sur le bord d’un évier imprégné de vapeur : même pas une étincelle. Intox de toute évidence.
Dressé à l’usage du bon vieux réchaud à gaz depuis tes plus tendres années, tu découvres le potentiel de destruction atomique du micro-onde.
Il avait pourtant l’air plutôt innocent perché en haut de ta kitchenette. Tu ignorais que l’ajout d’une goutte d’huile au fond du Tupperware vaudrait à tes courgettes à l’ail une mention dans la rubrique des faits divers.
A la suite d’une soirée popcorn qui tourne mal – lésions pulmonaires irréparables, etc. – mais a l’avantage de tester la rapidité d’intervention des pompiers, un reporter te harcèle de coups de fils, à l’affût d’une histoire qui mettrait en cause un robot ménager et l’intégrité d’un, ou plusieurs, de tes membres.
Et l’aspirateur- qui en a dupé plus d’un avec son faux-ami de patronyme- n’aspire pas. Il faut le nourrir à la petite cuillère et lui faire des gazouillis d’encouragement pour venir à bout des quatre cucarachas dans le vent qui ont tenu à emménager avec toi– tu les as affectueusement surnommés les Beetles.
Dedicated to you my friend, you who have at some point stared at the phone, longing for a call to put an end to your misery.
Here is a selection of well known, obscure and surprising songs about the much loved and equally loathed communication device to listen to, while you wait for the real deal to chime.
This band’s name is sure to ring a bell -
You know my name (Look up the number), The Beatles
Leave a message after the (Tu)tone -
867 5309/ Jenny, Tommy Tutone
The lyrics, the backflips, the …oh just watch, it’s eighties fabulous -
Call Me, Go West
Ring ring ring ring ring ring ring, this phone’s got a peel-
Banana Phone, Raffi
Dial F for Funky -
Never There, Cake
Sprinting after courier pigeons, blowing smoke messages and-
Hanging on the telephone, The Nerves
Try 867 5309 on the off-chance that Debbie is flatsharing with Jenny -
Call me, Blondie
Who you gonna call? -
Ghostbusters, Ray Parker Jr.
A couple of weeks ago, I spent about half an hour at the newsagent’s, flipping my way through the glossy pages of the higher end fashion mags.
They all have something in common: they pride themselves on their unique outlook, their unique style, their unique models, etc. So be it: twins are unique, in their own similar sort of way after all.
For the past three years, the unique look (for girls in western metropolitan areas) has been a bohemian- 60s baby doll- rock- 80s trash mash up. The shorts paired up with stockings are slowly being phased out by stilettos. Podiatrists and chiropractors world-wide breathe a sigh of relief as the recession drifts away with the incoming tide of twisted ankles and spinal injuries.
Also, if you happen to not have trouble with your eye-sight, I recommend you give your retina a swift poke with an ice-pick: retro- frames are all the rage, don’t you know?
Then there’s the more urban (or suburban depending where you live) look: designer track suit and limited edition runners, or something of that nature. I’m not sure, I think bling may have come and gone, or may even have migrated to boho-trash quarters.
These looks, along with the timeless rasta/ bongo look, V-neck and blazer look, ‘Euro-trash’ fur coat look, are not so much ‘unique’, or new as they are means for individuals of acknowledging the codes of a social group.
This is where I get patronising: by following these codes, individuals are demonstrating their adherence to the common beliefs and values of this group and showing their desire to be seen as a part of it. They are conforming to established norms.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with this. Not that I am in any position to judge even if there was something wrong with this. I wear jeans and bathe. I’m sure this has met the general requirements of a social group out there, and that its universal chairperson has chalkedup one more for its global membership figures.
This diatribe was brought on by a comment made on a Bruce Springsteen performance, saying that the ‘The Boss” had a lame and conformist stage presence. Someone else pointed out that Lady Gaga (ugh) is better. I set out to prove that Springsteen was conforming neither at the time, nor would he be considered particularly conformist by today’s standards.
But is it worth it? Need I point out that he just seems to be doing his own thing? Need I ask since when doing your own thing and not adopting a clearly identifiable un-cliché (and therefore Uber cliché) attitude is proof of a conformist attitude?
I shan’t. I will simply politely agree to disagree. And find out if membership to that social jean & soap -loving group entitles me to any benefits.
Or, “Do I need to update my ears to listen to your virtual song?”
I have many CDs. I’m looking at them right now. They’re stacked on my desk in groups of about 15.
I tried sorting them according to colour, but realised I’d never find anything that way, and gave in to a highly unoriginal, but tried and tested method. “The old alphabetical ploy”, as Inspector Clouseau would say.
I have the first CD my mother ever bought me, I have the first CD I ever bought with my own money, the first dodgy one-hit-wonder summer single.
When I acquired an mp3 player about four years ago, I grudgingly and painstakingly transferred a great number of songs to the computer, and that’s when I realised a new era was beginning.
A new disjointed chapter in the history of the music industry: In the not-so-distant past, songs were often available in single format, but not always. Now, all of a sudden, songs are units lost in space and time. No need to pin them to an album, no need to release them in a particularly organised fashion, no need to ever publish them on a physical object.
There are good aspects to this:
-digital distribution and airplay as they are now massively practiced are fantastic- and relatively cost-efficient- means for beginners to be heard;
-thanks to an ever-growing online social networking community, bands learn to control their image, communicate with their public, and get instant feedback;
-also, you no longer have to pay for the 6 songs you don’t like on a 12-track album.
However, functioning on a solely virtual basis has its limitations. Here’s what a fellow blogger had to say about the predicted death of the physical music market.
As someone who always goes for the CD, rather than the download, I feel increasingly alienated by bands who are absent from the physical market. Furthermore, now this is only a hypothesis not actually being a musician, I believe that:
-virtual distribution, from a creative point of view, is letting quite a few musicians get stuck in a rut, because if there is no physical object, an entity in need of creation, at the end to look forward to, when do they turn the page and start something new?
Finally, a quick word about the tracks which inevitably fail to meet our approval on albums: I’ve noticed that when you go back, sometime later, with a fresh set of ears, those B-sides can become your all-time favourite tunes. It’s the ‘When Harry Met Sally’ magic of music. Then again, if you hand-picked one song out of the virtual galaxy, and therefore chose to mercilessly let sleeping notes die in the black hole of the cybersphere, don’t be surprised if you miss out on the delightful feeling of rekindling an old and underestimated friendship.
Time, in the shuffle repeat world of music, can go by extremely slowly. We still stuck listening to the Beatles, traditional folk songs and Beethoven.
Time, in the molto allegro world of music, can go by extremely fast. Wow, was MGMT’s big break 2 years ago already? I’ve heard Time to Pretend in so many film scores, it seems like the two kids have been around forever. And did you know they were Genesis fans? (click on the link, it’s not a Wikipedia page)
Basically, I can’t seem to remember what I was listening to in 2005-2006. So I cheat. Ah yes, The Killers’ Hot Fuss, My Chemical Romance’s Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, Weezer’s Make Believe. OK.
These were the musical circumstances in which I discovered The Bravery, or rather stumbled across their phoenix album at my local library.
I’m not quite sure how many times I listened to that album. I was pretty happy when they came up with a new batch of songs a couple of years later. Not being much of a groupie, I frankly couldn’t have recognised them off a poster if I hadn’t seen them play live at the Metro, Sydney in June ‘08 -which I left with an embarassingly huge crush on then emaciated and scowling bass player Mike Hindert.
Today, I learnt that they’re coming back, and have already begun spreading new tunes.
Here’s a first clip, directed by the band’s very own bassist extraordinaire.
A definite snuff-movie, stop-animation, silent-era vibe to it, don’t you think?
** Title quote by William Makepeace Thackeray (1811-1863), English novelist.
It’s one of those weeks.
The kind of week that blends into itself and with every week that preceded and those to come. That’s how you end up in November, wondering where August, September and October went.
It’s all a big, swirly ice cream sundae that you were looking forward to. It was there, waiting for you to lock your whetted lips around its creaminess. You got up to grab a spoon, and by the time you came back it had melted down to a sticky, marbled mess.
That’s what my months feel like. That’s what this week feels like. I still try and keep track of the days. Tomorrow, I know for a fact, is Wednesday, for example.
Simon & Garfunkel- Wednesday Morning 3am
I hope to relive the days when weekend pandemonium was held back by the sole hurdle of a Friday. I never really ‘got’ all those Friday jokes at school by the way…What’s Damian the Dragon’s favourite day? Fry day…oh dear.
The Easybeats- Friday on my mind
