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Live Music Is Dead. Try mime.
Greetings fellow blogophiles and welcome to my first blog of the One-ders (Stupid name for a decade...should have just called it Gary). Seeing as we have reached such a historic time of the earth’s cycle, I feel I must write about a topic that matches the importance of the age we live in....How could Russel not win Survivor?!!...I mean he played the game hard, found immunity idols...and all those other grade A sucka’s comfortably rode on in on his coat tails. I call shenanigans on that!! That dude was bad-ass! Sheesh!!....In fact I think that this topic is far too important for my humble little blog space so I’ll just move onto something infinitely less significant. The closure of live music venues. Now as we all know, our favourite Collingwood drinkery, The Tote, was recently closed due to insane liquour licensing laws that I don’t pretend to understand. I can’t say that I was a regular visitor to the Tote, but on the occasions that I did go there, I had an incident free, drunken orgy, fun filled night with balloon animals, colouring books and colonic irrigation (Translation: I liked going there). And so did many others it would seem, as countless Facebook protests were made so that...well ...the people who agree with the protest could see that others agree with the protest (Seriously....what’s the point of protesting on a network that’s designed to keep out intruders...grrr). But still, mice were clicked in their thousands and revolution was in the air... right?....Was it bollocks! As someone who has tread the proverbial boards of many a venue (Inc. The Tote) and at times played to...shall we say... meager audiences, I am completely aware of which people in my social loop were live music go-ers and which were going along with the proverbial facebook flow (Use of proverbial so far: 2) It caused me great annoyance to see people joining groups like Save Melbourne Music, when we all know that a on Saturday night they would much rather be singing Summer Of 69 at the top of their voice at some god awful place that dribbles a thimble of house bourbon into a pissy little plastic cup. But I don’t have a problem with that. You wanna get fucked up and listen to a D.J playing Blister in The Sun for the nine millionth time then go nuts. Just don’t pretend you are some live music loving bohemian that is disgusted with the destruction of our art maaaan. But the problem still isn’t that. The problem is Melbourne.
Now Melbourne...You know I love you. In fact, the other week I went on a boat down the Yarra for the first time and had an all round lovely day. I love everything about you including your wonderful hockey team (www.melbourneice.com). But boy howdy! Do we like to pat ourselves on the back as the kings of live music. We love the idea that we are pure art on a stick so much that we wouldn’t ever dare admit that maybe....just maybe...a shit load of our bands suck. But surely none of our bands could possible suck...we’re Melbourne! We're a live music city so it's gotsta be all good right? Not to harp on too much about Facebook groups, but I saw people joining groups such as “From now on I’m doing all my drinking at live music venues”. I mean seriously, what the hell is that?! Like it’s a chore to go drinking at a live music venue? It shouldn’t be something you go out of your way to do. It should be fun....fucking entertainment!! Not something that is so hard to do it warrants some sort of life changing public proclamation. Now here’s the reason why people don’t go to see bands on an extremely regular basis....alot of bands are boring (Yeah...I went there. Insert sassy finger click here). Because of this, give all live music a go, Melbourne attitude we have, what we have actually done is created an environment where it is o.k for shit bands to get up and do nothing original or entertaining for 30 minutes. This may have been fair play in a different time but now.... the world has changed. I can feel it in the air. I can smell it in the water. Venues can no longer afford to keep our shit bands going, so it’s either do it well or get the fuck off the stage. To the three musicians that might actually read this; If you look at your band and honestly say to yourself that you are not doing anything new or entertaining then get better or give it up. Because it ain’t just about getting up and having fun anymore. Unfortunately. Venues can’t afford it. It’s shit, but that’s the way it is. I say this as a musician who realises that on occasion, I have been way more than average up there on the proverbial boards (Meaning I have been shit). But now, alas, I realise that I must step up to the proverbial plate so to speak.
Places like Sydneys, The Sandringham Hotel, have instituted a pay to play policy. Meaning that if you can’t bring 60 patrons along then you’ll have to pay them 200 wing wangs. Now this sucks…but who am I to complain? I don’t have to run a venue. I just gotta show up, play a few songs, make a dick of myself for 40 minutes, get drunk and go home. I don’t even want to imagine the kind of financial pressure the guys that are letting us make noise in their venues are going through. And if I can’t get 60 people down there then really, I shouldn’t be doing it at all.
So there you have it. This is the kind of financially aware decade we are living in. It sucks, but that’s just the way it is. What once could be viewed as a bit of fun, now has to be seen as providing some sort of service. And as sickening as that sounds , it’s something to think about. How will bands cut their teeth live in the One-ders (Gary), I wonder? More studio time? House parties? Street parties? Pool parties? Lego Parties? I dunno. I’m not a scientist (Tell me if you get that reference anyone), but just a thought to the three people in bands that may read this. Tis a desperate age we live in. No more just getting up on stage for the fuck of it because you are damaging the whole live music deal. Something my own band very much has in mind….but we’ll probably still suck….at least we’re thinking about it….but only proverbially.
Anyway….Fuck Paul McDermott.
Cheers,
Marvel
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Dear Diary
Greetings sexually violent droogs and welcome to this intimate look at the real Marvel. I have decided this week to just post a few pages of my award winning diary, to give you all a no holds barred look at the man Rolling Stone Magazine dubbed “Irrelevant”. Enjoy.
Dear Diary-
Day started off like any other. Violent self gratification in the shower whilst weeping and applying lipstick. All while the sweet sounds of Jessica Origliasso and that twin sister bitch of hers serenade me from my radio. I made my way to the Dan O’Connell for my usual morning pint of crème de menthe and moved swiftly onwards to Scienceworks for my weekly visit. I like to regularly visit Scienceworks to remind myself how shit it is and how I should never go there. It’s a great place to view the wonders of Science with state of the art, brilliant displays filled with fun filled activities like...rolling dice to prove the laws of probability and cutting bits of paper to prove the laws of...papery cutting. Or you could see if you can outrun Cathy Freeman...just like you could when I visited it in Grade 5. And I still can’t... and it’s still shit. The best part was the Hot Chips in a Bag exhibit...and when I realised that this was not a display but instead was the canteen, I resumed my previous level of disappointment (Although the chips were nice). Of course this particular visit was different as it contained the Star Wars, Where Science meets Imagination, exhibit and like everyone else that was there, I proceeded to skip over all the educational content and head straight towards the Millennium Falcon models. And Diary...it was fucking ace. I would have queued for days and gone through infinite poxy, string based displays, just to see the binoculars Han used on Hoth. It also really reminded how much I don’t give a shit about the prequels as I skipped past anything with the word Naboo on it. Obviously the organisers felt somewhat the same, as Padme’s outfit was tucked far far away in a dark corner gathering dust and resentful remarks. I was almost able to convince myself one weekend that I enjoyed Revenge Of The Sith...but then I realised it was because I was out of my brains on Meth and I was convinced it was an alternate reality where Mr. Lucas wasn’t an insane, deluded twat. In the extremely overpriced Star Wars souvenir store, we came across an Obi Wan doll that resembled Mr. Lucas more than Mr. Guinness. I then realised that I had inadvertently stumbled across George’s master plan. To digitally insert himself into the film as Old Ben. He must be stopped diary! And as we have previously discussed many, many times , I’m the man to do it.
After I was all Star Wars-ed out and had finished seeing the glorious sights of sunny Spotswood, I made my way to a roller derby rink to watch...CHICKS BEATING THE FUCK OUT OF EACH OTHER IN SHORT SHORTS!!! Now as you well know diary, I like to present myself in a pretentious, dignified manner... But no one can resist the allure of chicks...on skates...beating the fuck outta each other. I decided to support the Reservoir Dolls over The Dead Ringer Rosies. Not only because of the Tarantino reference, but because I enjoyed the leashed antics of a certain player by the name of Foxy Terrier. It was actually a pretty entertaining game when I figured out the rules and the atmosphere and theatrics were perfectly complimented by the fact that it had a bar. The Dolls won apparently, but by the end I was so plastered my interest could only be held by a hot dog fused with bacon bits. It was also a great place to meet women...but not those kinds of women.
http://www.myspace.com/melbournegrindgirls
Also, great bands think alike, as the band I enjoy sucking up to the most at the moment (Kill The Matador) were there. Diary, you should check these guys out as they are fucking amazing live and obviously they are not adverse to chicks beating the fuck out of each other on skates.
http://www.myspace.com/letskillthematador
After that diary...I went and got merry at the Dan again and was surprised to find out that I was another year older. Shit eh.
And as usual diary...Jessica still hasn’t replied to my emails. She just doesn’t seem to care that I have been sending her two emails everyday for four years. How could she hurt someone who loves her so much? All I have ever wanted is a tiny sample of her hair and I think the fact that I sent her a package filled with every single hair on my body, more than makes it fair trade. I’m sure she has now realised by the pictures I have sent, that I have taken to carving her name into my flesh for every day I receive no reply. I am starting to run out of space seeing as Origliasso is not the friendliest, length wise surname and for a dedicated carver to resort to just cutting in her initials seems, well...just plain silly. But still, I long for her touch and I will love her until the day I die. I bet she hasn’t even bothered to pass these messages onto her sister like I asked.
Well, I must go Diary as I have to go meet uncle McDermott for a birthday dinner. I still haven’t forgiven him for what he did to me and I can’t even look at an umbrella handle without gagging.
So until next time diary,
Goodnight.
P.s: I also met my favourite newsreader Mal Walden the other week. I told him that he was, in fact, my fave, whilst I was in a rather drunken stupor. He didn’t seem overly impressed. Didn’t get to ask him whether he thinks he would win in an oiled wrestle between him and Peter Hitchener. Next time diary...next time.
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The Cult Of Shitnicity
Greetings flocks of poisonous monkeys and welcome to more inane drivel in a Marvely blog based format. Let me start by quoting a wise ol’ prophet named Paul Anka. Paul once sang a duet with a yellow girl called Lisa about how to destroy the evil monsters of advertising. His exact words were
To stop those monsters 1-2-3,
Here's a fresh new way that's trouble-free,
It's got Paul Anka's guarantee...
Guarantee void in Tennessee.
Just don't look! Just don't look!
Just don't look! Just don't look!
Just don't look! Just don't look!
The good people of Springfield so absorbed the message of Paul’s song, that they paid no more attention to the monsters resulting in their untimely demise. Thus proving that music still has power in the cartoon world and that Homer enjoys sprinkles. The reason I bring this up is because in the music world, we have our own monsters. Not that this is surprising or anything. Obviously 99% of music is absolute rubbish made by untalented twerps in some deviously complex scheme to get laid... and that’s fine. Everybody does everything because of ulterior motives and I’m not suggesting that the only people who make tunes should have purely artistic reasons (Partly because it would most likely be pretentious crap). Everyone has different tastes and whatnot. I’m just saying the problem has evolved over the years and in my opinion, a new super breed of awfulness has emerged that not only has absolutely nothing to offer but its shitness, but revels in that fact. And the problem here is that we now reward these god awful artistic monstrosities with attention. So just like the Lard Donut Lad they thrive and unleash horror upon the public. I personally am talking about the Brokencydes and Millionaires of the music world (I’m sure you have your own monsters. Please fill them in here ________). In my teeny years I would have felt personally affected by music of such a dreadful calibre, so I have built up an impenetrable layer of crusty cynicism and don’t give the slightest of shits about bad music anymore. Seriously...I don’t care. Everything is rubbish to someone and as a try hard musician myself, I have not only created rubbish, but have been jealous of other rubbish creators that kick my rubbishy arse with their rubbish. I am the worst kind of hypocrite and I’m cool with that. All I am really interested in now is how things have changed. Maybe it was because I was a wide eyed, fair haired optimist in my youth and I didn’t pay attention, but I don’t remember things being this way back in my day (Pass me my walking stick and big bowl of warm soup as I am officially ancient). I don’t remember obviously shit artists being rewarded with mass amounts of attention due to their shitness alone. I remember, vaguely, the scandal surrounding Milli Vanilli when I was a child. People felt personally ripped off because it wasn’t their voices on the record and the only thing the guys on the album cover brought to the table was their toned godliness. And so they fucking well should feel ripped off! Nowadays everyone’s voice is so manipulated and pitch corrected that you might as well just bring in Stephen Hawking to do your vocals. No one seems to care anymore. I remember when miming was frowned upon. Nowadays it’s completely accepted. Without question. Even that large buttocked lass from Destinys Child mimed at the Oscars. And no one cared...and I’m fairly certain she can sing anyway! Brokencyde, Millionaires, Short Stack... are shit. Surely everybody knows this (Aside from that vast army of delusional young Short Stack lasses who worship their every bowel movement). So the only thing they are possibly selling to the rest of us is interest at their lack of talent. And it’s working. Proving the old adage that any publicity, is good publicity. These “bands” (Ooh quotation marks...I’m such a bitch) are fucking huge at the moment. Even on this website, the reviews of the albums have 9 million more comments that any band with any actual talent. The majority of them negative but that doesn’t seem to be affecting their careers much now do it? Have we made that final leap into embracing things because they are shit? And of course it’s not just the music world that’s affected by this cult of shitnicity. How about the Hiltons and like of the world. The only thing this breed of person can do is slut it up and produce countless, untalented, addicted to meth in the womb, offspring while we wait for another videotaped sexual escapade in green night vision. And movies...Transformers 2 was fucking shit. It is a film that in my supreme nerdlyness I will bitch about until I am dead. But still people walked away from it saying things like “I mean it was shit, but if you just sit back and not care then it’s alright. Plus Megan Fox is a woman”. WHY WOULD I FUCKING BOTHER IF IT’S SHIT?!! WHY WOULDN’T I JUST GO WATCH SOMETHING GOOD INSTEAD? But we do keep watching. We watch and listen to all of it... just like slowing down to see a car crash. Everybody checks out a car crash, but didn’t we used to feel a little guilty about it? Am I hopelessly naive? Now I’m not trying to unite the masses in some sort of global “Look the other way” scheme. I’m just saying that if you truly hate this shit then nowadays, maybe the only effective solution is to tone down your participation. Maybe not leave an obviously negative comment on a review, maybe not blanket their MySpace’s with pictures of your genitals and maybe they will all fade into obscurity that little bit quicker. And most importantly, never, ever, write a massive blog on the subject detailing your every grievance because if you do that then...you...are just...as guilty...as...wait...
So as I was saying...here are the chords to that Chicago classic, If You Leave Me Now.
C Am Em
If you leave me now, you'll take away the biggest part of me
Em Am D G C
Ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo, no, baby please don't go
C Am Em
And if you leave me now, you'll take away the very heart of me
Am D G C
Ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo, no, baby please don't go
F(add9) Bbm F
A love like ours is love that's hard to find
Am F G C Bm E
How could we let it slip away?
F(add9) Bbm F
We've come to far to leave it all behind
Am F G C
How could we end it all this way?
Em Am Dm Fm
When tomorrow comes and we'll both regret things we said today
Fuck Paul McDermott.
Cheers,
Marvel
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Soundwave: superior. Constructicons: inferior.
Greetings fellow members of the legion of doom and welcome to one of my shorter rants. Just a quick one today to comment on my favourite Decepticon.... Soundwave. Soundwave was a Decepticon Communications Officer that lived to serve Megatron with complete loyalty and no ambitions of usurping him (Unlike that shifty Starscream...the saucy little bitch). His alternate mode was that of a Microcasette player that stored Decepticon spy cassettes. These included Ravage, Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Ratbat, Rumble (My personal favourite), Frenzy, Slugfest, Overkill, Squawktalk, and Beastbox. In the generation 1 series of transformers he was voiced by the legendary Frank Welker whose voice was heavily modulated to achieve Soundwave's distinctive, metallic monotone. In the latest film, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, Soundwave was repeatedly beaten and raped by a large slug like creature called Mr. Bay. Gone was his legendary Boombox form that we all loved and replaced by a large boring satellite that did nothing but hover above earth for that entire film all while two disgusting racial stereotypes called Skids and Mudflap ate up all his screen time with their gold teeth, monkey built proportions and inability to fucking read! In a recent study Massachusetts General Hospital and Harvard Medical School it was officially declared that anyone who liked Transformers: Revenge of The Fallen could qualify for a Disabled Living Allowance as they are clearly fucking retarded.
But fortunately for Soundwave he regained some credibility by having a festival named after him....a festival where A Wilhelm Scream play....and I’m fucking stoked. They’ll most likely do a sideshow that doesn’t involve Decepticons but if you truly love the ol Boombox you will get down there and show support as “Cries and screams are music to his ears”, (That was an extremely nerdy obscure Transformers quote for all of you playing at home). Festival wise though, it has been a long time since I have considered going to one of these things in Oz as it usually means I end up sitting through The Living End for the nine billionth time. But I’m excited to be excited for this as it reminds me of my carefree youthful, festival days where I would desperately try to sneak booze through the gates (Sigh...it used to be so much easier. I recommend the Ice vest full of Margarita. Works for me). Most of all, (As previously stated) I am excited for the return of the A Wilhelm Scream. The last time I saw them they blew my proverbial socks off and I am looking forward to being naked in the foot department once more. And as much as it may destroy some of my street cred...I (cough)...would maybe...kinda...like to see...My Chemical Romance.... Ahh fuck ya all!!! I liked the Black Parade but that could be all the shameless Queen-ness to it...and also as Cam said...bring on the pyro. Also seeing as my brothers from Hertfordshire (Gallows) have decided not to do the side show thing, I will have to see if that angry ginger bastard can project his anger over a large sea of Decepticon loving festival fans. And I’m sure they will. I might follow the sea of black leather to see the heaviness of Meshuggah as well.
But for me...that’s about it. I have seen Reel Big Fish twice before and thought they were fucking rubbish. I would have loved to have seen Faith No More when I was 14 but now...couldn’t give a shit. Janes Addiction can get fucked. Escape the Fate can get mega fucked. And Paramore can suck it...take that whatever way you want.
So hope to see you there...I’ll be the drunk guy in a Decepticons t-shirt singing Wilhelm.
Live like a legend and die like an asshole.
Fuck Paul McDermott
Marvel
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Musings on the divine (haircut)
Greetings fellow blog monkeys and welcome to the first blog of the new haircut. That’s right kids the legendary pointy bit atop my head has gone to meet its maker and I am now in that uncomfortable transitional period between hawk and attractiveness. After 6 or so years together I will miss the ol guy, but the idea of not being associated with dead shits who spray anarchy symbols on their parent’s double garage doors without investing any time into what that circled A actually means, is a wonderful thing and has given me extra bounce in my step. In my punk rock career I have met too few people with that haircut that could squeeze a coherent sentence out of their slack jawed drooling mouths. Some people say “It’s just a haircut dude, chill the fuck out, MASH is on in five” and that’s fair enough I guess. To me it represents the fun and stupidity of the scene, but to some it’s just a licence to be a fuckhead. That’s what punk rock has become these days. A mixture of fuckheadedness and mediocrity. Don’t get me wrong, there are still some great bands out there, but the energy and vibrancy seems all too subdued for my liking. What happened to the idea of seeing something like Jello Biafra with his white gloves on poorly miming a hostage interrogation scene....oh yeah...it’s waaay in the past...get over it Marv...that crazy Klinger! Ha!! He’ll never get out of the army!
I’d just like to see more bands taking bigger risks nowadays is all. Some do obviously, but a lot seem to think that a few boring songs you have heard a million times before and absolutely no stage presence gives you the right to get on stage and call yourselves entertainment. Or in the crusty world, where all you need to get on stage is pointy hair and a leather jacket your parents bought you that costs more than my entire wardrobe! Have you seen those guys that wear pants made entirely out band patches? Those things aint cheap and still your trying to maintain the image that you woke up next to a grouchy Muppet named Oscar! Plus...I mean shit...I had a Mohawk for all that time and I could never ever get it to stay upright in the same way that they did. And the imagery that’s conjured up of spending nine hours in front of the mirror to achieve hawk perfection seems contradictory, ludicrous and also... pretty damn funny.
A big problem for me in the land of punk rockington is that to me, it seems that some of my favourite bands from the 90’s era seem to think that releasing half arsed albums that deliberately smack of little effort is o.k. They seem to think that not trying to push themselves musically or creatively is acceptable because they were awesome in the past. No. Fucking retire. Being a bit shit may be mildly amusing, but if you are... then...why the fuck am I listening to you?
Ah fuck it...who cares...when’s MASH on?
Anyway get down to see the mighty Melbourne Ice play the Bears this Sunday at the Olympic Ice Arena. It’s one of your last chances for the year for some old time hockey and the Ice are killing at the mo.
Also...I get to go the Scienceworks Star Wars exhibit this week. So stay tuned for a blog of epic wookie proportions. Weee!!!
Fuck Paul McDermott
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