To Sir, With Love

There comes a time in a young, over-privileged white kid's life where the need to learn, grow and achieve returns to you. The burn to prove oneself over again drives you to the point of yelling "Damn it! This is the year I'm going to turn things around and chase after what I really want!"

Well, that happened to me five years ago. I went to uni; got a degree and now I'm the proud owner of a low-paying, entry-level job.

So this year when the thirst of knowledge returned, I slapped it in the face with a cold dose of reality – the reality of community college. Ahh community college, the bastion for those moderately interested in a topic, and only willing to apply one weekend day, or several weeknight's worth of application to it.

Knowing all this, I still entered my one school day with high hopes, a keen mind and no hangover. I was reeking of dedication. Sadly, dedication seemed to be the one quality missing in my fellow class mates, and teacher.

After twenty uncomfortable minutes of six people sitting in a silent classroom, our teacher entered with a bag of biscuits and wearing track pants. Perhaps this is the community college equivalent to the tweed jacket with leather elbow patches?

Two hours into what could only be loosely classified as work, I hear the cry of a child very close behind my head. 'What the…? Why am I hearing a baby's voice in a…' It was the French lady's husband and daughter. Apparently he'd had enough of being at home with the child, and decided that walking into the classroom and holding out the roaring toddler was the best way to handle his situation.

Like every good mother, Frenchie took her baby in her arms and briefly comforted her…before she turned to the teacher "So we have lunch now, yes." Notice how I didn't end that sentence with a question mark? That wasn't a mistake.

After 45 minutes of non-class time bliss, our return was marked by a mystery. Inbu, the Philippine photographer, did not return and a missing student in a class of six is blindingly obvious. I was sad for our teacher, the slow pace and zoo like conditions were not all his fault. He had tried his best and kept nerdy IT jokes to a minimum, but I also understood Inbu's decision to skip the rest of the "class"….or did I?

At 3pm, two hours after lunch, Inbu strolled sheepishly back into the room. Shocked at his return, the teacher naturally asked "Inbu! Where've you been mate?" To which he replied "Oh, I fell asleep." It would appear our student M.I.A. had taken a three hour nap in his car on the side of the road missing half of the course.

I think it was half an hour after the South African decided to leave for a surf that I concluded I would have a more rewarding experience relaying the chronicles of Inbu to my mates than actually staying. I made my awkward apologies for not attending next week's class and ran home.

School's out suckas.

My Life After Milan

As we approach another weekend, I can't help but reflect on the glorious one just past. It was three nights  full of high hopes, glitter, the most powerful wind machine ever invented and then shoved at the end of a stage, and a young man named Milan.


Yes, I was swept into the glory that was the Eurovision Song Contest 2010.


Every year this event gets a little more magical, and 2010 surpassed all expectations. Who can forget the stage invasion during Spain's performance? Or the lovely lady from Azerbaijan whose dress lit up during her power ballad? Or just how boring it was when someone was actually talented?


Before going into the comp, I had my money on Lithuania...for no particular reason other than the idea of them winning tickled me. I was not let down by their performance, though victory eluded us. I can't help but feel a little cheated, I mean - look at these lyrics:


We've had it pretty tough
But that's ok, we like it rough
We'll settle the score
Survived the reds and 2 world wars
Get up and dance to our Eastern European kinda funk!
 
Testify.
 
However I must admit, though my loyalties to Lithuania were strong, there was one man for me that stole the show...Milan Stanković of Serbia.
 
Representing a previously wartorn country, this androgynous performer had everything a Eurovision talent should have.
 
*A questionable appearance - "is this person good looking, or really bad looking?"
*That ultimately leads to..."hmmm, I'm strangely attracted to it"
*A haircut that looks as if done by a relative. An angry relative
*A completely naff wardrobe
*Questionable back up singers &/or dancers
*Questionable sexual orientation.
 
Yes, Milan had it all. And though he was robbed of the Eurovision title, he will go on in my heart for at least six months.
 
 
 

R.I.P. Happy Travellers

Today I mourned the loss of an old friend…my pair of brown Havaianas. Is it wrong to be sad over two pieces of six-year-old rubber? I think, no.

Why? Because it’s not just the shoes I’m saying goodbye to, it’s all those times I had staring down at my feet in those shoes around our happy world. Walking through Egyptian sand, hanging off the side off Thai boats, trudging through Glenworth Valley mud - places my feet may never be again.

I should have seen it coming, the plug had been blowing over and over again for the entire summer but still, when the strap actually snapped this morning I was forlorn. I even considered taping or gluing it back together. Deeper consideration lead to the conclusion that my appearance was already leaning a little close to hobo these days and thus, ‘Operation Glue’ was abandoned.

So, in honour of the little fellas that have carried me across the world and all around Sydney, I dedicate the below track of awesomeness – Ramblin’ Man by Hank Williams Snr:

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x1by83_hank-williams-ramblin-man_music

SIGH. Gym Music Set To Get Worse

Let's hope they outlaw Scooter.



Australian Gyms Face 1,500 Percent Hike in Music Royalty Fees

Music Lady Love

I have never met a woman who doesn't like Stevie Nicks.

In fact, most females would even admit to having a slight lady-crush on the top-hatted gypsy. But why? Usually women folk are divided by successful examples of our own kind...so what makes Nicks different?

Madonna - polarises women into those who idolise her achievements, to those who feel she is a praying mantis-like-harpy capable of eating her young, and incapable of singing in key.

GAGA - definitely divides. You either dig the weirdness or are scared by it.

Britney - sigh. Poor ol' crazy Britters. After her dismal Circus tour, America's sweetheart, turned white trash idol, turned outbound mental patient is more deserving of yawns than gasps of delight or disgust.

Kylie - pop robot. Fabulous for the dance floor...but do any of us feel like we really know Kylie? Sure she's good fun on a Saturday night, but unless you're a gay man in Soho circa 2003, you're probably not snuggling up in your room with a copy of Fever.

And perhaps it is this element of intimacy that's missing with Kylie that makes Stevie Nicks so damn likable. In every song her heart's front and centre. With Rhiannon we're right with her being the unattainable spirit, with Little Lies we're the weak lover breaking up, and with Seven Wonders...well...hmm... maybe we're just watching her freak out after too many lines.

Could she be the once-drug-addled, rock n' roll, everywoman? The 21st century, female Hamlet...in awesome boots, long skirts and a top hat.

A Logie. An award, not a disease.

If the Emmys and a footy club presentation night were to sleep together, then The Logies would be their ugly bastard child.

Australian television's night of nights represents so many things to so many people. For young Home & Away stars its their big step into wider fame, and also their chance to make out with a star from Neighbours. For Bert, its a chance to reminisce on the times when he had real hair. For the rest, its a time to reflect on the year that's passed and get hammered free of charge.

And this year for journalists, in particular The Age's Catherine Deveny, it calls to attention the desperate need for a SARCASM font or key, that allows readers of binary produced messages to recognise that the author is not 100% serious.


I by no means condone what Deveny said in regards to the Rove comment...but must admit to a chuckle when reading her post about Bindi Irwin. In the case of the latter remark - lighten up Australia...she wasn't actually hoping that an 11 year-old was gonna get some at the Logies.

And so to return to the point of my blog - I call on all those clever computer type nerds to pull themselves out of their current game of World Of Warcraft, and ply every minute of their monitor-lit hours into the invention of - SARCASM THE FONT. Surely it can't be too far from Comic Sans?




Sidebar: Yesterday it was reported that Elvis Presley actually died as a result of chronic constipation. Kids, please take it easy on the double-decker cheeseburgers and peanut butter. Dying on the toilet well before your time is just not rock n' roll...think of all the 'Best Of' albums you'd be missing out on plugging.

Is love really a mix tape?

I currently have three mix tapes on the go... and one 3 album swap. I'm firmly residing in music research heaven and hell all at the same time.

Whilst I drag my sorry ass across my own library and those of the good people at the AV Club, NME etc ad nauseum... I consider the time and effort I am putting in to each of these discs and arrive at the question posed by many a teenage girl before me - Is love really a mix tape?

Basing the answer on my own experiences of making and receiving, the maker at the very least wants the receivee to think their cool.

One never hands over a mix containing Michael Bolton's seminal soft rock classic "How Can We Be Lovers" unless of course the title of the mix is "Soft Rock by Cocks".

How far you read into each track of course, is dependant on the person. If the shy guy at work hands you a mix with Hall & Oates "You Make My Dreams Come True" on it - JOY; if your ex hands you a mix with "Where The Wild Roses Grow" or something by Pantera...hmmm run.

In primary school a boy once rang my bestie and played Guns & Roses "Patience" down the line in order to get him to go out with her...a live mix tape...ballsy.

In conclusion...I think the proof is in the mixed pudding. If it's a disc full of awesomeness (including at least one cover and one classic) then you've got your self some love there. If the disc features three songs by the one artist, the mixmaster either needs some schoolin...or probably just doesn't like you all that much.

5 THINGS I'VE LEARNT FROM GAGA

As we're saying goodbye to our favourite Lady this week, I thought now was a good time to reflect on the top 5 things I've learnt from GAGA:

1. Pants are not always necessary.
2. Shoulder pads however, are very necessary.
3. Music and art belong together.
4. Only cissies and hobos wear comfortable travelling attire.
5. The best way to kill a no-good-fella: poison, poison, poison.

Attached is pic of two friends and fans of GAGA who reported that the girl was indeed a lady.

Bye Bye GA GA.

John Butler Studies Family, Musical History on 'April Uprising' - Spinner

John Butler Studies Family, Musical History on 'April Uprising' - Spinner

dawww...my online cherry.

Being a self-obsessed, under-achieving media type I had a self google today to see how I'm going, and came across my first published article... EVER.

Back in 2004, I was a bored receptionist working on the front desk of Elle Magazine in London. On my 60th consecutive day of googling pubs in Soho, I came to the conclusion that if I was still answering phones at the age of 50, I would kill myself.

So, rather than becoming the first person to go postal whilst wearing a Sony Ericcson headset, I decided to follow my heart and become a writer. Having no experience or expertise, I took my first stab at writing with travel... the only thing I knew anything about. My topic - San Sebastian, a place that was and is a total obsession of mine.

http://www.travelmag.co.uk/article_615

HAR MAR...WHOOPS

Is there anything more awkward than realising halfway through a conversation that the person on the other end of the phone is not who you thought they were?

The answer is yes - having a a conversation with a person who thinks you're someone else up until the point where you ask them if you can start recording the chat.

I discovered this universal truth just the other day when I called Sean Tillman aka HAR MAR SUPERSTAR two days before the actual scheduled time...(I blame my English forfathers for giving two days of the week a T at the beginning and a day at the end).

Well apparently HAR MAR has another friend named Katie that he likes to get fresh with, because the conversation went from borderline dirty to arctic freezeout.

He graciously went on with the interview, but it was like getting blood from a very unfunny stone.

Keep an eye on a future Drum Media mag for my hilarious review of 8 minutes of pure awkard.

I am Jack's pleasant Thursday.

Totally buoyant the last two days... can't really explain why... I think talking to two very spiritual men - John Butler and Xavier Rudd - over the past week has totally lifted my spirits and given me good perspective.

I think also being able to put the perogative pen to paper has helped as well. All you other writers out there would know about the writing zone...

Will I be brought down off my cloud when I have to start the old transcribing routine?? Listening to one's voice over an over, and pinpointing exactly where you sounded like a total douche can be a bit crushing.

...especially looking to the awkward pauses that filled my convo with Rudd. Nothing like a bad phone line and an early morning to make talking to a stranger awesome.

JAAAAAAAAAAAAANE SAYS - Drum Media 02.03.10

JANE’S ADDICTION
ROLO TOMASSI
The Enmore Theatre
22/02/10

On a night celebrating alternative ‘90s rock, it seemed an odd support position for UK ‘mathcore’ outfi t Rolo Tomassi. Combining screamo with classical and prog rock infl uences, the set was jarring and disjointed, making it a diffi cult listen. The visual drawcard is tiny frontwoman Eva Spence, who dances and thrusts like a lithe bird across the stage, her little body oddly juxtaposing her guttural screams. Not everyone’s cup of musical tea, but the total physical commitment from all fi ve members is to be admired.

They’ve seduced us and broken our hearts so many times before and, for a few, the wounds from their 2009 cancellation were still fresh. Thankfully this time round Jane’s Addiction came, saw, and rocked the shit out of The Enmore. With house lights going down, a sea of men in black shirts swarmed forward towards the stage, and quietly all band members bar one casually took their place. Blinding back lights and thumping drums accompanied the entrance of a bejewelled Perry Farrell who was immediately the showman, shimmying, swigging from a wine bottle and jumping onto speakers.

Opening with On The Beach and Mountain Song, it was a night that drew heavily on their older material, totally ignoring 2003’s Stray. Through the self-controlled echoes of Farrell’s vocals, and intense solos of guitarist Dave Navarro, we were drawn into their wonderful world of elegant grunge; any bad blood between the two apparently faded as they tousled and teased each other for the spotlight. Bassist Eric Avery however, stayed fairly stationary on the wing driving the bass rather like a gridiron defence and shining strong in Ted, Just Admit It.

Providing theatrics and a sense of gothic romance was a giant screen projecting clips of Kevin Bacon, old burlesque acts, and a sultry Juliette Lewis. Dancing twins in silk kimonos also appeared for Three Days and later replicating the cover of Nothing Shocking, the whole production feeling very L.A.

Howling vocals, long psychedelic jams, driving riffs and pummelling drums - it was all there, perhaps breaking best in the encore’s first track Stop. Followed by an acoustic calypso-fl avoured Jane Says, Navarro and Farrell perched themselves on the edge of the stage as the crowd went nuts, singing along brimming with nostalgia, before signing off with Chip Away.

THE DRUM MEDIA MAGAZINE 02.03.10