Photos: The Eastern Cape Of New Zealand

A Maori graveyard looking over the ocean. If you have to end up buried somewhere, I can't really think of a better place:

Album Review: Lost In The Woods - Down With The Sun

It seems like there was a time when albums were a definitive experience unto themselves. It was before I was born, in the sixties and seventies, when you couldn't find the latest Dylan record by clicking a few links. You went out to the record store (or, more likely, David Jones), came back with a miniature work of art - and make no mistake, those big Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, Bruce Springsteen and Van Morrison LP album covers were art, designed for and accessible to those kids in the quiet suburbs of the world, who wanted to be enveloped by somewhere completely different and beautiful - and sat in your bed, listening to the album on chunky headphones and reading every lyric and liner note, staring at the album cover, trying to untangle the secrets of this other world you're hearing.

Am I over-romanticising the past? Probably just a little. I only mention those imagined record-listening experiences, because Down With The Sun, by Sydney singer-songwriter Brian Yatman (under the name Lost In The Woods), should be listened to like that. It's not an album... it's an album.

For one thing, the painting on the cover, by Greg Rich, is a perfect evocation of the music on the record. A young kid wearing moose antlers is biting his nails - no, wait, playing a harmonica - in a clearing in the woods, as plumes of pink cloud and black smoke drift into the sky. A canoe rests against the water's edge, offering a way out of the soon-to-be-dark woods, and away from whatever they may contain. (The kid's wearing moose antlers... did he kill a moose? Does he even want to get out of the woods? Is he trying to get lost in them? Does he care that they're on fire? Or did he start the fire?).

Maybe you can see the Pink Floyd link. Think of Wish You Were - the entire album, not just the song - and that flaming man shaking hands on a gargantuan Hollywood lot. Once you've seen the cover - or, better yet, lay in bed staring at it - the music becomes completely, inextricably linked to that Storm Thorgerson design.

The painting gives you one world - in which kids wear moose antlers and possibly start forest fires - and the songs give you others; worlds where there are 'picadors at the rodeo jiving the sounds of the stereo,' where young girls set fire to Yellowstone National Park and 'smoke fills the dream of the grizzly bear,' where the 'world seems so wide... and we won't be denied.' There's the hope and urgency of early Springsteen: 'Let's ride the dizzy heights, don't worry if the light keeps changing.' There's another green world, a hollow earth, lightning bones, 'eucalptyus, smell of rain.' It's a literary album, where songs read like pages ripped from faded 19th century novels.

But what does it sound like? Often, like it should have been released on Sub Pop. The melodies burn and crackle like Holopaw or The Shins (listen to the chorus on The Hollow Earth Is Calling), the organic ambience like The Album Leaf or On Land-era Eno. In the slow, heavy acoustic guitar, there are hints of Gary Jules. In the quiet evocation of Sydney's inner west - the album must surely mark the first reference to MacDonaldtown station in the history of music - you can hear the two Tims - Rogers and Freedman - at their lyrical best. And, somehow, you can hear the birds calling and the Eucalyptus winds blowing out in the National Park near Heathcote and Engadine.

All the elements are there for a late spring afternoon spent in bed, wearing chunky headphones, experiencing an album. Down With The Sun, like those old records, offers up another world. And it's a beautiful one.

(Originally published at FasterLouder).

(Buy the album here. It's actually awesome).

Live Gig: INXS At Luna Park.

It'd be easy enough to say this was a night with two headline acts; there's the world-beating, global-rock-empire INXS of yore, with a sinewy, pale, hyperkinetic frontman oozing charisma all over the stage, and there's the new INXS, with a reality show contestant for a vocalist, and an album full of serviceable pop songs to promote. It was a little like that, as if there were two bands on stage, one looking to past glories, the other hoping for continued success.

But that would be a serious oversimplification, and an unnecessarily harsh one at that. It's true, there was a palpable tension between the dayglo 80s nostalgia and the urge to create something new and relevant, but that tension never got in the way of a good time.

And, indeed, that's what this new INXS seems to be all about: a good fuckin' time. (I imagine the old INXS had similar priorities, but I wasn't quite born when the band scored its first global hit in '83, so I can't be totally positive). And, good lord, a good time is what they deliver in abundance, to a crowd desperately hungry for it.

You can tell that this band - minus J.D. Fortune, their Mark Burnett-assisted acquisition - has been together for decades. That's obvious as soon as those lonely seconds of harmonica explode into the propulsive, urgent beats and bass of Suicide Blonde. As a show opener it's perfect, with a dirty rhythm and the opportunity for some serious rock god posing. (The only drawback: it's impossible not to remember that dorky-but-brilliant clip, and the unbelievable mullets that came with it... if you're not careful, you could spend the rest of the show imagining the entire band sporting business on the sides and a party at the back).

It should be noted that the crowd has absolutely lost its shit at this point. Barely seconds into the set, and the Luna Park punters are buckwild: thousands of hands in the air, girls paralytic from excitement, men stamping their feet, and screaming. Lots of screaming. Serious electricity. J.D. Fortune works the stage like he was made to do it - it's difficult to imagine the man before he became famous, so pronounced are his drunk, chain-smoking bad boy affectations (after the show, one punter opined to friends, as they walked by the ferris wheel, that 'that guy shouldn't try so hard,' but then admitted that he was 'still really cute though.' And that's about right).

The girls fall in love, and the guys wish they could still fit into a pair of size-28 black denims. It's really obvious: hiring J.D. Fortune wasn't a mistake, no matter what the circumstances, and how cynical and commercial some might think them. This guy is the real deal. Yes, he's a bit of a try-hard. Yes, he seems like a bit of a wanker. Yes, he does perform dubious rhyming dictionary beat poetry just before the encore. But he's a star, in that 1950s sense of the word. He's born to do it, like Craig David. He's everything a rock star should be.

He sets the stage on fire, bounding from stage left to right and back again, hopping on to foldback speakers, hugging his bandmates, lighting another cigarette, jumping into crowd of girls regressing to frenzied adolescence, lighting another cigarette, pouring out plastic cups of white wine for the crowd, telling stories about living in his car with his dog, lighting another cigarette. And the guy can sing. He attacks those opening lines of Mystify, so perfect with that bouncy, nearly-discordant piano from Andrew Farriss: 'All veils and misty / Streets of blue.' During the encore, he rips into Never Tear Us Apart like every word was written in his soul. He points a mockingly accusatory finger at the crowd during Devil Inside, and sings it like it was released yesterday.

But some of that Fortune magic dissipates when the band gets stuck into material from Switch. (I Like Your Old Stuff Better Than Your New Stuff, anyone?). The hooks and magic just aren't there... and neither is the history (how many times have you heard By My Side? Original Sin? Need You Tonight? New bloody Sensation? They've been played on radio tens of thousands of times, and with good reason: they're pop perfection. You've grown up on them. You've gone to backyard parties with INXS pumping. You've watched the film clips on Video Hits on a Saturday morning). It feels incongruous hearing these massive, legendary, nigh-ubiquitous singles squeezed between these new songs you haven't heard more than once.

But that's not the band's fault. You certainly couldn't expect them not to play their new stuff, and when they do play it, they always give it their all (as they always do. It's difficult to believe these guys, bar the singer, are at or nearing 50. They look a lot younger, and they play a lot younger too). There are moments - like the surprisingly moving Afterglow - that imply that the band should keep playing their new stuff, because soon enough - when the crowd gets used to it, and has time to build a relationship with it - it won't sound incongrous any more.

Perhaps it's more accurate to say there were two audiences tonight; the amped-up, nostalgic audience ready to fall in love again with songs they've known forever, and the slightly confused audience who can't quite remember the lyrics they're supposed to be singing along to. Luckily, with the help of a band who know how to get the job done, the former beat the latter. And the audience fell in love again.

(Originally published at FasterLouder).

Film: Tristan + Isolde

Tristan + Isolde is the story of young lovers torn apart by the cruel fate of living in a world divided by history, politics and geography. The details of the forces keeping them apart don't really matter: all you need to know is that the stars have conspired against them, and their love can never be. It's clear from the start - fate has pulled them together, and fate will tear them apart.

All that matters is whether you can give yourself over to the star-crossed romance. Can you engage with a tale of a forlorn young man who washes up on an Irish shore in a funeral boat - a funeral boat his friends and step-parents put him in after believing him killed in battle? Can you believe that he'd be found by a beautiful princess, who would tend to his injuries and rapidly fall in love with him? Can you feel their hearts breaking more and more as time goes by, as circumstance after circumstance attempts to destroy their fatalistic bond?

The answer will probably be yes. Only the cynic or the genuine unromantic would have trouble letting themselves go in Tristan + Isolde.

You may well find fault with an unsurprisingly bombastic musical score, or the occasional bout of self-conscious histrionics from the leads, or perhaps the heavy-handed direction of Kevin Reynolds (no stranger to heavy-handed ye olde times movies, having helmed Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves, Rapa Nui and The Count Of Monte Cristo). But the faults are a predictable - and perhaps unavoidable - by-product of a film dedicated to doomed young love. (Can you think of a film about doomed young love that doesn't involve self-conscious histrionics from the leads?).

Tristan, played by James Franco - a man who was cast in a James Dean biopic for very obvious reasons - is everything an audience could want: he's lovestruck, romantic, doe-eyed and spends a fair chunk of the film walking about with no shirt on. Sophia Myles, as Isolde, delivers a fine performance that is very nearly overwhelmed by her stunning good looks. Rufus Sewell - as the king Isolde is eventually set to wed, and Tristan's step-father - is in seriously good form, looking betrayed, defiant, loyal and, most impressively, genuinely in love.

You should know what to expect from Tristan + Isolde. If you're imagining sweeping shots of lush, green countryside, you're on the right track. There are the obligatory spurts of violence - this was the olden days, and those days were all about lopping someone's hand off in the name of your king. There are the scenes of merryment in the village, in which lots of people wearing hessian sacks drink mead from giant mugs and do jigs. It's all par for the course, and the film would feel strange without it. This is a film about romance, not film-making. And it delivers the romance.

Tristan + Isolde is out now.

(Originally published at Rouser).

Film: The Pink Panther.

For the most part, The Pink Panther isn't funny. Which is a desperate shame, because that's absolutely all director Shawn Levy seems to have aspired to; never mind Kevin Kline using two very different accents, forget about the half-baked plot, think not of the lack of chemistry between actors. As long as the film is funny, Levy might have figured, the punters won't care about the little things. And he's right. Comedies don't have to aspire to much to be brilliant. They just have to be funny.

But when you have a silly plot, dodgy accents and actors who look like they'd rather not be there, you better hope to the gods of comedy that you've got some laughs somewhere in the celluloid. A drama can get past a poor plot with a fine script or some brilliant performances. A horror movie can usually get by with a spooky soundtrack and some clever editing. But if a comedy doesn't click, you've got nothin'. A comedy exists to make people laugh, and so it's easy to forgive some big faults when you're in the throes of a serious belly laugh.

Indeed, when The Pink Panther is funny, it's easy to forget about the things so clearly wrong with the film. When a cyclist is hit in the head, through the incompentence of Steve Martin's Inspector Clouseau, the cyclist falls from his bike on to a fruit stand, and the fruit stand inexplicably explodes. It's the highlight of the film: a genuine act of surreal comedy, the kind of serious weirdness chronically lacking in a film that can't seem to grasp that audiences are far too smart for generic slapstick.

In the opening scenes of the film, an old woman is accidentally hit in the face and an old man in an electric wheelchair zooms backwards and stacks it over a railing, his terrified screams far more disconcerting than funny. Both incidents are the result of Clouseau's idiocy, of course. Kevin Kline speaks over the footage in a dubious French accent he inexplicably abandons ten minutes into the film, falling into a pompous English accent he has no problem with.

The plot involves a dead soccer coach (a non-speaking role for the typically charismatic Jason Statham), a Russian ex-military trainer, a ludicrously hot and stunningly boring pop singer (Beyoncé Knowles), a secret agent (played by the atypically unsure Clive Owen) and a big diamond. But then, the plot doesn't matter. It's Clouseau we're here to see. He's the source of the hijinks. He's the one we're going on the ride with. In the 1963 original, Peter Sellers' Clouseau wasn't just the main character; he was the film.

Steve Martin isn't quite up to the Peter Sellers standard, but he does have an admirable crack at making the character his own. Martin has a funny accent, a silly moustache and some occasionally funny scenes involving the punching of unsuspecting curtains. But his assistant Ponton (Jean Reno) and his secretary (Emily Mortimer) steal the show, the only real characters in a film jam-packed with uninspiring caricatures. Reno brings a frustrated, concern gravity to a film that desperately needs it to counteract Martin's silliness.

Alas, not even a top-notch cast and inexplicably exploding fruit stands can save The Pink Panther. It's just not very funny.

The Pink Panther is released March 9th.

(Originally published at Rouser).

Life: Drunken Sydney Idiots.

Last year saw thousands of drunken Sydneysiders splashed across frontpages the world over, their collective inebriated retardedness manifested in jingoistic chanting and beachside beatings of innocent young men and women. Yes, the Cronulla riots represented a genuine zenith for the grand old Australian tradition of hitting the piss and acting like a dickhead. The drunken idiot scene looked to be experiencing something of a renaissance, with hordes of angry youngsters coming into a scene desperate for new blood (both figuratively and literally).

But since that terrible December day, many of the up-and-coming drunken idiots of Sydney have been placed in prison – or worse, their mums have grounded them. As a result, the culture of boozing up, screaming at police, taunting people on the streets and throwing half-full bottles of beer at random things has deteriorated rapidly. Many critics are wondering whether this year will be the worst yet for a community already struggling with a variety of problems: cuts to Centrelink payments, increasing education rates and a police crackdown on buffoonery and thuggery – two of the hallmarks of the drunken idiot scene.

And yet, there remain some rogue practioners of this ancient Australian art. Despite decreasing levels of interest from the mainstream, these boozehounding fools still dedicate their Friday and Saturday nights to starting fights and smashing streetlights.

Scott Michaels, 23, a bank clerk from Marrickville, is one of those rogue idiots. Each weekend he can be found at the great pubs of the inner west: the Town Hall Hotel, the Duke in Enmore, the Vic On The Park… or wherever he’s allowed in by unattentive bouncers. ‘The Townie is the toughest to get into,’ he says. ‘Ever since they renovated the place, the bouncers have turned bloody strict. Two weeks ago they wouldn’t let me in ‘cause my eyes were red – just ‘cause I’d smoked a few bloody cones! Fuckwits!’

After being booted from the Town Hall that night, Scott thrilled the crowds of Enmore Rd. as he stumbled home drunk and stoned. He tried to start a fight at the Oporto Chicken carpark, screaming obscenities at some male university students. ‘Why don’t you fuckwits go and get some dogs up ya’?’ was the highlight of the tirade, Scott impressing those listening by instinctively pluralising the classic ‘get a dog up ya’’ lined made famous in David Caesar’s Idiot Box. ‘It just came to me,’ says Scott. ‘I figured there was a few of them there, so I had to say dogs instead of dog. I was just lucky to have worked it out so quickly.’

Later in the evening, Scott was given a warning by local police after he urinated in a council rubbish bin and flashed his testicles to punters outside the Enmore Theatre. (The ‘ball-surprise - as its known in the scene - was first performed by Elmore Glennard in Goulburn in the early 1960s. Glennard had spent some years attempting to invent an amusing use for the zippered fly attached to blue jeans, which were growing in popularity at the time. Glennard also went on to invent the ‘ball-explosion,’ a trick he performed only once due to his immediate death).

Andrew Stewart, 19 and unemployed, is also a proud drunken idiot. ‘I was there at Cronulla,’ he says. ‘You know that footage of that fat cop throwing his stick around at at everyone? I was part of that crowd. I wanted to hit him with a brick… but I couldn’t find one.’ Andrew is considered one of the most proficient drunk, angry young men in the Sutherland Shire. ‘I’m the only cunt who’s ever gotten banned from Sutherland Leagues three times in one night!’

Early February saw him perform what he calls his ‘vom-punch-implosion.’ After drinking fourteen neat bourbons at Mortdale RSL, and biting three female patrons, Andrew was forcibly evicted from the premises. ‘Then I tried to punch the bouncer, but he punched me… and I threw up at the exact moment he punched me.’

So do Scott and Andrew see a future for drunken idiots in Australia? Scott is optimistic: ‘As long as there’re beers on tap, there’ll be trouble. An Australia without drunken fuckwits isn’t an Australia worth living in.’ Andrew has his doubts. ‘I reckon once I get a job I’ll stop drinking as much. Anyway, it seems like a bit of a waste to try anything else after the vom-punch-implosion. But if I can’t get a job… I dunno’, I’ll probably just blame the Muslims and try to start some fights with them.’

(Originally published at Rouser).

Sport: In Defence Of American Football.

Early last year, Miami police were called to a building housing a gym, a jewellery store, and a nightclub. They’d received reports of a burglary taking place inside. Upon arriving, Detective Mike Muley confronted a man inside the building. The man was built like a tank, sporting a questionable goatee and apparently not averse to violence. After a vicious struggle, Detective Muley – who later claimed he feared for his life - shot the man, nearly killing him.

That same goateed juggernaut had scored infamy years earlier when he didn’t show up to play in the Super Bowl – the definitive celebration of American sports excess – because he’d stopped taking his medication and went nuts. That man, Barret Robbins, was the centre for the Oakland Raiders.

It’s a sad story of a difficult life, of a man who came close to achieving the American dream – raking in stacks of cash playing professional sports – and ended up lying in a hospital bed. But that’s not the point of the story. No, the point is to illustrate that the National Football League attracts some genuine fucking weirdos. It rewards jacked-up, violent thugs and madmen with little regard for the sanctity of human life. It pays good money for the kind of men most people would cross the street to avoid. It collects maniacs and puts them on a paddock together, united only by a pigskin ball.

And that’s a wonderful thing to watch. Where else but in American football could you ever hope to find a collection of bloodthirsty men wearing spandex suits and astronaut helmets beating the goddamned shit out of each other on behalf of a maths-crazy, tactic-obsessed coach? The concept itself is a marvellous thing, and in action it only gets better.

American football is chess with violence. The pawns are replaced by a hulking defensive line who are collectively employed only to physically injure the offence as often and as effectively as possible. The queen is the quarterback, who can rush or pass or spike the ball, all the while trying to avoid the spine-cracking tackles every member of the defence wants to lay on him. The ball is the king: it will be protected at all costs, even if that means someone loses an eyeball or breaks their groin.

But, you say, aren’t the players all total girly sissies who wear skirts and eat Iced Vo-vos compared to rugby and AFL players? I mean, the NFL guys sport so much protection, while the Australian equivalents happily bash each other with only a groin guard and a mouth guard to ease the pain!

And maybe you’d be right. When you spend almost an hour getting the absolutely almighty shit beaten out of you by guys who sport brains made out of nothing but muscle and fat, it might be a bit girly to wear a mask. But then, it might just be practical; if every NFL player decided to stop wearing so much protection, by the end of 2006, approximately nine out of ten of players would be dead. And dead people can’t play sports, as evidenced by the failure of the 1996 Zombie Wrestling League.

American football is a beautiful thing. At first glance it seems to make so little sense – what is happening? Why is that guy running straight into that other guy? Who are these people? Who is controlling their movements? But it’s this twisted logic and the maths-meets-murder aesthetic that makes the yank brand of footy such a testament to the majesty of sport, and the mysteries of the mind. It’s brain food for the genuinely weird, stupid or violent. And that’s something that should be celebrated in every corner of the world.

(Originally published at Rouser).

Travel: I've Been To Poor Countries, And That Means I'm A Better Person Than You.

Travelling to a poor country offers you a lot: the enriching of your cultural palette, a wealth of treasured memories, a stunning awareness of the diversity of human culture, heaps of photos of you looking awkward next to semi-famous monuments, and, in most of the truly poor countries, the opportunity to get brain-fucked on cheap booze and low-grade hash. Indeed, I can’t think of an easier way to truly expand your horizons than to subject yourself to the cruel realities of an economically undeveloped – that is, shit poor – country.

Which is all well and good, but you can get low-grade hash and an awareness of the diversity of human culture by hanging out near the male toilets at the Kings Cross Hotel. But what you can’t get there is Geography-Generated Self-Importance Enhancement.

Let me explain. The second you haul your rich, relatively prosperous arse off the plane and stumble blindly into a distant land, you’re a better person. The mere fact that you dedicated a few thousand dollars to travelling overseas - instead of buying expensive shoes, obscure Pitchfork-endorsed albums, a talking robot dog, or all of the above – means that you’re an interesting, exciting person with things to talk about and interesting points for dinner parties.

Yes, as soon as you smell the grotesque stink of Delhi airport, your self-importance rises. The first time you see the beautiful, sweet-smelling rice paddies of Vietnam, you become a better person. When a poorly-groomed man wearing short shorts and a stolen army shirt offers you drugs in Cambodia, you’re officially more interesting than everyone back home… those spoiled, insular, middle-class arseholes who have no idea what the real world is like.

Geography-Generated Self-Importance Enhancement is a funny thing. It’s difficult to admit, but there’s even something oddly ego-boosting about being followed around by a sickly, legless Punjabi man who walks around on his hands begging fatcat tourists for tiny amounts of cash in a language they’ll never understand. It’s a comfort that comes from knowing that, hey, you’ve got two legs and you’re relatively rich and you’ll have another fantastic story to tell your mates over beers when you get back home. It’s the comfort that comes from knowing that you’re not a faceless, nameless, spit upon, starving member of a country with a population of one billion. And so, your self-importance rises. Thanks, poor country!

(Such an experience is also indescribably humbling and sad, but the ego does not often waste time dealing with tragedy. That’s why religious folk who survive massive disasters so often think, secretly, late at night, that there must be a reason they were spared while so many died around them, and that reason is probably because they are incredibly awesome and way better than everyone else and God probably totally has a boner for them).

But I digress. The enhancement of self-importance through travel isn’t a new thing. If Marlow had access to e-mail while sailing up the Congo River, you can beat he’d be sending daily missives to his mates back home. Things are great. I’ve been looking for some creepy Belgian ivory dealer. Saw some pygmies engaged in their savage dancing. It was a sight to behold… absolutely unimaginable. You guys have got to come and check these negroes out. Alexander the Great would get in on it too, if he could have. Yesterday was interesting: I conquered Anatolia and Syria. The Anatolians had fantastic food. I’ve been eating nothing but mutton sandwiches. Got drunk on cheap Persian booze and threw one of my generals in the Nile - hilarious!

But neither Marlow nor Alexander’s mates would read the e-mails. Instead, they’d see these tales for what they are: the continual reaffirmation of one’s own sturdy magnificence and cultural understanding amidst overseas chaos. These e-mails that travellers send – and lord knows I’m guilty of doing it over and over again – offer a small glimpse of a different world, yes, but mostly they tell your friends one thing over and over: I’m doing more interesting things than you and you’re at work reading about the interesting things I’m doing so ha-fucking-ha.

Once you get back home, the self-importance rises every time you spin a yarn about the time you were almost kidnapped by Argentinean bandits or that day when you met the Dalai Lama while eating vegetarian snacks near the Himalayas (or ‘the Himalaya’ as you’d correctly call it if you’d actually been there, like I have, because I’m awesome). You’ll find yourself casually mentioning your amazing travels at every opportunity, no matter how irrelevant or inappropriate that may be; your friend will tell you that their mother has died, and you’ll tell them about the ‘absolutely amazing’ funeral ritual you saw while backpacking in Rwanda in which they cut up the body, burn it on a pyre and then smear the ashes all over their bodies.
So, when you can, go overseas. You’ll be a better person for it. Better than all those fucking unaware, uninteresting swine who’ve never even dreamt of seeing Kilimanjaro rise like Olympus above the Serengeti. Boost your ego. Hop on a plane.

(Originally published at Rouser).

Music Feature: Hell City Glamours: Should They Shag?

Being in a band is a lot like being in a relationship: you have to take phone calls even if you’re really drunk and just can’t be bothered talking, you spend a lot of time arguing about insignificant things, you have to discuss ‘where things are going’ all the time and if you break up you’ll probably be total dickheads to each other for years to come.

And just like relationships, it’s often hard to tell whether you’re truly compatible with those you’re in a band with. Thank the lord then that the Brag Love Match Band Compatibility Test is here to help. It will tell you, without a doubt, whether you should shag members of your band. Well, not really, but that sounds more exciting.

Oscar McBlack and Mo Mayhem from the Hell City Glamours - fresh from recording the Broken Glass And Beatless HeartscEP, and ready to headline a tour around Australia – took the Test. Were they destined to be together? Should they abandon their heterosexuality and give birth to manbabies together? The answer to both questions– especially the fairly creepy latter one - is ‘no,’ but read on anyway:

Question one: Which band member gets the most action off stage?

Mo: I used to be the biggest slut, but Oscar definitely gets the most female attention now. Why not – he’s a good lookin’ lad.

Oscar: I've never heard anyone complaining.

No compatibility points there. Question two: Describe the average Hell City Glamours groupie.

Mo: I don’t know about groupies. Groupies seem to be, like, ‘servicing the band’ or, like, the band dominating them. With us, it’s all about the mutual satisfaction!

Oscar: I don’t know how I feel about this question. If a girl pays attention to a band member after a gig she gets branded as a groupie, which really isn’t fair. It paints the picture that she is only interested in said person for shallow reasons. Sure, we pick up sometimes after shows but the word ‘groupie’ is a dated term in my eyes. If a girl wants to be with a guy because she became attracted to him while he was playing, she shouldn’t be called a groupie just for that. Most guys become sexually attracted to a woman within a second of seeing her across a crowded room – which one’s worse?

With that kind of political correctness, that’s a Band Love Match! Question three: Why do the Hell City Glamours play music?

Mo: Is there anything else? Love!

Oscar: Because we love it, pure and simple.

So compatible. Question four: Which band should never be compared to the Hell City Glamours?

Mo: Poison, Mötley Crüe, etc. I am sick to death of reading these pseudo-intellectual wankers writing a review or story about us, using four paragraphs to talk about Mötley Crüe, LA in the 1980s and our hair. Why bother sending a CD out to these people? They ain’t gonna’ listen – might as well just send a picture of us that emphasises our hairstyles.

Oscar: Mötley fucking Crüe, for the simple fact that we sound absolutely nothing fucking like them. The comparison is always to do with the way we look, not how we sound – and I don’t see any obvious connections there either. We’ve been called out as being shallow for our look in paragraphs that compare us to Mötley Crüe, which in my eyes is a shallow cop-out of a comparison. Is that irony, or should I read more?

Match points ahoy! Last question: What would the band be doing if they weren’t together?

Mo: Same thing we’re doing now: playing guitars, working stupid fucking 9 to 5s, drinking too much and getting paid less.

Oscar: What? No rock ‘n’ roll. Guess it’s just sex and drugs then…

I think that counts as a match.

With a score of 4/5 on the Brag Love Match Band Compatibility Test, it’s official: Mo Mayhem and Oscar McBlack are meant to be in a band together. They are almost totally in sync and they have an obviously synergistic relationship to rock ‘n’ fuckin’ roll.

(Originally printed in The Brag).

Live Gig Review: Expatriate, The Spark, The Valentinos.

Spectrum, 34 Oxford St., Darlinghurst, 16/07/05.

Let’s be honest, hipsters. You’re not like everybody else. And it’s not those homemade badges stuck on the collar of your blazer that set you apart. It’s your perverse sexual predilections. I’ve spoken to members of your ranks, and I’m now convinced that none of you get hot over conventional pornography. Oh no, it’s not tits and arse or well-hung black men for you. Cute Japanese girls do nothing for your libido. Who cares about the Suicide Girls? You get most excited about advertised line-ups like this: Expatriate, The Valentinos and The Spark.

And Christ, I can’t blame you. As far as bizarre sexual kinks go, getting a little too excited about indie rock extravaganzas is a pretty good one. I mean, the gigs are pretty cheap (tonight was $10), it’s fully legal and no one would ever suspect that your tight Valensi jeans are actually there to restrain a grossly inappropriate music boner.

Foreplay tonight came in the form of The Valentinos, an energetic amalgamation of on point Gang Of Four rhythms and slightly off point Ian Curtis vocals (minus that man’s beautiful moroseness). The band are at their best within the first 20 seconds of any given song, with tightly-wound, foot-stomping, bass-heavy intros that make you put down your beer so you can really enjoy dancing awkwardly. The audience are asked to Dance Or Die, and almost all of them gleefully choose the former.

The Dead Dead Girls popped up next, a surprise mini-set from this charmingly esoteric pop-electro-weirdness trio. Think Spod meets Chicks On Speed meets Play School and you’re just about there. (Journalistic integrity time: one member of The Dead Dead Girls edits this very paper).

Pre-gig, I asked a representative of the indie rock brigade what I should expect from The Spark. ‘They’re fucking incredible,’ he said, his cheeks flushing red. He then excused himself to the bathroom. And he was right: these guys are absolutely spectacularly fucking good. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had pride of place in the spank banks of hipsters everywhere. They have all the ingredients necessary to be the band du jour.

Awesome, melodic, surging music that sounds like so many other awesome bands, but in a good way? Check! Brilliant James-Mercer-meets-Isaac-Brock vocals? Check! Genuine stage presence? Check! A drummer who seems to be half-machine? Check! If you could find anyone in Spectrum who wasn’t going absolutely buckwild for The Spark, you probably found the only fun-hating fundamentalist Christian in the joint.

After another quick dance-a-thon led by the Dead Dead Girls, headliners Expatriate took to the stage, and don’t the kids go crazy for these guys? From woe to go, the men were bouncing their Albert Hammond, Jnr. bouffant hair, and the women were moving their Karen O arses. Another Saturday night at Spectrum, another night of indie rock hotness. Who needs well hung black men and Japanese schoolgirls?

(Originally published in The Brag).

(Image taken from the photographically endowed Daniel Boud's blog).