It began in Cambodia

The seven hours from Sydney to Singapore was nowhere near as bad as I expected. Singapore Airlines get my tick of approval, if only because they had not one but TWO new releases starring Zach Galifianakis available as movies on demand. I spent the rest of the flight trying to do my Global Politics assignment. The one due tomorrow. The one I should be doing now instead of starting a travel blog (thanks Sarah).

Singapore Airlines also get points for keeping my face stuffed for the entire trip. I'm fairly certain they just load everyone up with calories to keep them from going bat-shit crazy.

It's a good thing I was well fed on the plane, because the car trip from Phnom Penh to my first destination, the lovely riverside town of Kampot, took two hours more than it should have.

We were making great time and my driver, Paul, was particularly adept at driving directly into oncoming traffic without actually hitting anyone. But not everyone out there is up to his standard, and on one of the busiest roads on the busiest night of the year two locals managed to take each other out on narrow bridge.

We made the most of it - pumping Cambodian pop music, smoking cigarettes, and trying in earnest to provide each other with stimulating conversation while we waited for the commotion to clear.

Once it did, we were off like a rocket again, and after an hour or so Paul suggested we get some dinner and pulled of the main road. Then off that road and into a back alley. Then off the alley and onto a dirt track. I should probably point out that as soon as I got off the plane I was nervous and suss about everything and everyone. I was now certain that Paul was going to kill me.

He didn't, and instead we dined like kings. A delicious beef hot pot, full of fresh veggies, with a side of chilli sauce, local pepper and limes. The meal was huge, I stuffed myself and so did he, and we still couldn't finish it all. All that plus six Angkor beers (three each) cost eight bucks. I'm going to get fat.

Paul also came up with my favourite broken english phrase so far. As we sat there beneath the wooden canopy with our bellies full and our minds at ease, he turned to me and asked, "Would you like to make a toilet?" ... Well no mate but I really need to pee. The toilet was great too, a squat-job with a hose. Doesn't get more authentic than that!

Paul gunned it the rest of the way to Kampot while I zonked out. I gave him a little more than the price quoted, figuring it was probably just as tiring for him as it was for me. A quick shower and I hit the bar, briefly befriending some NGO peeps and the lovely bar girls. We kept the girls at the bar past their usual closing time but the guesthouse owner tells me they had a great night too.

That's all for now, I've spent today roaming Kampot and elsewhere but I have to get some dinner before crapping on about that.

The Fear of Falling

I've been asked to write an article for the Australian poetry journal Five Bells, about songwritign and poetry. This is the full version of the article that I have written, which I thought I would put up here because I'm fairly certain it will be cut down significantly for the publication. I also realised I can provide some links of interest in blog form :D

The Fear of Falling

Despite a shared history and common origins, poetry and songwriting can sometimes appear to exist in very different cultural spaces within the world of contemporary art and creativity. There is no doubt that the practices of writing a poem and writing a song can often be one and the same, and can occur in similar ways and serve similar purposes. Perhaps the clearest distinction between a poem and a song, or a poet and a songwriter, is what they have come to represent to those who engage with them.

Henry Rollins, who once fronted the seminal hardcore band Black Flag, makes a clear distinction between his own creative pursuits and poetry. For years now he has toured the world as a spoken word artist, but in a performance at Hollywood’s Luna Park nightclub, he had this to say about the world of poetry:

"Reading stuff on stage, to me, is oh so lame. That’s why poetry readings, for me, can just go die. Have you ever seen poets? What a miserable fucking bunch for the most part. I mean, there’s a few shining stars here and there, but there are a lot of substitute teachers who teach at, like, Harvard College and Longbeach, they dress in 800 year old corduroys and drive fucked up Toyota Corollas, and they write really shitty stuff.

They only write poems for the other asshole poets in the room. ‘This is for you Stuart, OK? This is a revenge poem, for your accusatory poem last week at the Longbeach Alcoholics Anonymous Slam Night!’"


I couldn't find the corresponding video, but this is a great excerpt from the same DVD

And yet, to his fans, Rollins is the ultimate punk poet. He takes a lifetime of lessons and experiences and spews them out on stage with a rawness and simplicity that audiences can relate and respond to. Clearly the distinctions between songwriter, spoken word artist, and poet exist in his mind, but not in the minds of those who appreciate what he has to say.

From as early as I was able to read, poetry was everywhere. The bookshelves of the family home were overflowing with anthologies, and my parents’ studies were littered with ideas, drafts and manuscripts. My own shelves included some of the most important poems one is ever likely to read, children’s nursery rhymes. It is through these poems that a child first develops an appreciation for the power of rhythm and rhyme in the written and spoken word.


Of course, many nursery rhymes have a melody, which helps to ingrain the words into our young minds, and adds to the enjoyment of reading and reciting them. It’s possible that on the page they are poems, but said out loud they are songs. For the child the division might not yet be so important, but what is important is the underlying lesson that words can be arranged in ways that go beyond simply conveying information, and can live on in our memory long after they have first been read or heard.

I spent a great deal of my childhood at poetry meetings, where groups of predominantly middle-aged women writers would gather to read, compare and critique each other’s latest work. While my mothers were baring their souls and making poignant observations on the ever-changing world around them, I was in the next room playing Game Boy and eyeing off the last of the olives and artichokes.

For a long time after, that is what ‘grown-up’ poetry meant to me. It was the parents’ trade, a slightly dull indoor get-together while the real fun was happening outside. I would listen in from time to time, but I couldn’t connect with what was being said, and at times had little to no understanding of what they were talking about. This was long before I learned that quintessential lesson of art appreciation: we are free to take almost anything we want away from the art we engage with. Besides, I had almost finished Super Mario Land 2, and that guacamole wasn’t going to eat itself.

Poetry still played its part in my early years of writing. With much encouragement from the family, I produced a few poems of my own, mostly cutesy little observations that were so overwhelmingly endearing it was hard not to award me the school poetry prize. I recall beaming with pride after beating a few adults to take out first place in a small on-the-spot spoken word competition at age six, which was judged by none other than Dorothy Porter. The poem went something like this:

The moon was full
The owl was out
I could not hear my mother shout
And as the clowds went drifting by
I thought I heard a baby cry

Like I said, cutesy little observations. Actually, it was more than that. The poem was written shortly after my little brother was born, and was a reflection on the time spent in the hospital waiting room on the very early morning of his birth. My mother’s agony was drowned out by the television, and it was only when the reception cut out that I heard the baby’s first cries and thought to go and check on the progress. If anything, this poem might have shown that I had the ability to condense a whole lot of narrative into a few memorable words.

For years after that I would continue to write poems, usually when instructed to, and continued to submit my work to various competitions. Poetry was a way in which one could become recognised, appreciated, and valued by parents, peers and teachers. To me writing was a means of establishing self-worth, more than engaging in self-expression, and truth be told, there was no one writer of poetry whom I truly admired, idolised, wanted to be like, or to write like.

Music would change all of that for me. As I underwent the transition from mild-mannered over-achieving child to inexplicably angry teenager, music presented me with a whole new way of exploring who I was, and how I felt. Music had always been there, much the same as poetry, but it wasn’t until age twelve that lyrics really began to speak to me, and for me. I discovered alternative rock, and discovered friends who liked alternative rock, and from that starting point we would delve into all sorts of exciting new genres to satisfy our hunger.

The lyrics of the Smashing Pumpkins, penned by Billy Corgan, had a huge effect on me. Here was a man who felt rage, sadness, joy, and love, and was able to express it all in ways that I had never heard before. His songs were deeply personal, but his lyrical prowess made it seem that he was singing about my own life. Like many before him, this is a power that Billy himself has sometimes shied away from acknowledging, perhaps weary of the fanatical devotion his songwriting has earned him over the years.

His better known songs often struck a chord with a dejected American youth whose delinquency had been exacerbated by their small-town and suburban upbringings, and these sentiments resounded with audiences around the world. No better example of this can be found than the Smashing Pumpkins’ hit song 1979, from their critically acclaimed concept double-album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness.



Listening to The Smashing Pumpkins also made me realise that musicians were at an advantage when it came to conveying the meaning and message of their lyrics. In poetry, words are your only instrument, and your only means to convey the moods, tones, story, and message to your audience. In a song, decent lyrics have the support of other voices, be they distorted guitars, quirky synthesizers, or thunderous drums. The lyrics are just one part of an experience in which a song is able to tap into our primal appreciation for all types of different sounds.

Maybe the best poets, then, are those who have an orchestra of words at their disposal, those who can conduct their literary symphony with such skill that no aural soundtrack is required. In saying that, I do not to wish to malign those writers who experiment with musical accompaniment, but I have to wonder if that is the point at which the poet perhaps unwittingly becomes a songwriter, especially when we consider the proliferation of musical genres such as rap, hardcore punk, and screamo, where the vocalist’s delivery style could hardly be described as ‘singing’.

One band using rap to get their message across was Rage Against the Machine, whose front man Zach de la Rocha utilised a hip-hop style to spit lyrics that attacked the government, the police, the church, and big corporations, while his band rocked out riffs that walked an aggressive line between funk, rock and heavy metal.

Here were some real reasons to be angry, a place to channel the post-pubescent rage that burned inside me. Songs like Guerilla Radio, from their 1999 album The Battle of Los Angeles, encouraged and embodied the idea of militant revolution through music, and idea that would be carried on by many heavier artists after them, such as System of a Down. Here too was a vocal style that seemed a little easier to master for an amateur with an untrained voice.



Hip-hop has had such a strong influence on the global community over the last few decades that it could hardly be said to be a sub-culture. Pioneering artists expressed themselves with a rhythmic style of expression known as rapping, that placed strong emphasis on the clever use of rhyming patterns, and also encouraged ‘freestyling’, in which rap performers improvise lyrics on the fly. This was an urbanised, ethnicised take on the beat poetry and spoken word styles that had been developing in America since the 1950s, and it’s not uncommon to hear the best rappers referred to as poets of the streets.

Following in the footsteps of RATM, many other bands emerged in the late 90s to push the fusion of hip-hop and metal almost to breaking point. Bands like the Deftones, Crazy Town, Head (P.E), Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park began to flood the airwaves, and before long these bands earned themselves a whole new category and label, that of ‘nu-metal’.

It was a commercial phenomenon that record labels exploited and squeezed every last dollar out of, and like many other disaffected teenage males I got completely swept up in it. A lot of my early songs were rants about systems of oppression that I barely understood, such as this one, which I wrote and performed with my old band Dropjive in my final year of high school.

Escapism

dreaming of freedom from an oppressive fate
then you’re struck and re-awakened to reality’s state
of affairs, and who knows and who cares where you are?
so you run to the edge of the dark but what’s there?

you seek avoidance of the situations
eradication of the complications in life
you create your own strife
and now you realise you’re never set free
taking our needles
we inject rejection
engineered infection
to escape

if you’ve been suffering then you ain’t trying
and what you thought was stepping out
was just complying
no solution, all you wanted was escape
from a life made so easy
it was too hard to take

taking our needles
we inject rejection
engineered infection
to escape

shout it out, shout it out loud

Songs like this became the staple for Dropjive. Fist-pumping anthems were our forté, and when you’re on to a winning formula you tend to stick with it to keep the crowds coming back for more. This would prove limiting for me, and as I continued to grow and learn about life through my experiences as a freshman university student, I returned to poetry once more as a means of expressing feelings and telling stories that I felt had no place in the Dropjive repertoire.

Songwriting and poetry were still very separate practices in my mind, but their roles in my life had been swapped. Music had become a medium in which I wrote more for the audience than for myself, hoping for an enthusiastic cheer or an encouraging slap on the back at the end of the show. Poetry now presented itself as a place to be private, personal, and artistic.

By posting my poems on the internet, I was able to assume an alter-ego, hiding my true identity behind a username and avatar as I submitted my experimental new work to the ever-expanding art community website deviantART.com. Long before the blogger-boom, devianART encouraged amateurs and professionals alike to contribute anything and everything to the World Wide Web so that it could be viewed and critiqued by fellow artists.

The poetry I wrote during my first attempt at university was inspired by the world of sex, drugs, romance and violence that had opened itself up to me in just one year of adulthood. I enjoyed the anonymity of online publishing because I felt there was nothing I couldn’t say. I wrote sincerely and honestly, without the fear that someone I know would access it and learn of my deepest feelings and darkest experiences. Reading poems like ‘Drama Queen’ below, it’s sometimes hard to remember the individual moments that inspired the words, but I look at this period of my life and creative output as being a major turning point.

Drama Queen

five miles up the coast
my body washed ashore
new friend to the local children
they dressed me in a seaweed sunday best
and called me father
children of ritual consumption
lost to fragile fantasies
the youngest wrote in the sand
i live for sunny days
i dream of sunny days
i died this sunny day
they kicked sand in my face and fled
my howls concealed their departure

i walked from the tide
spewing salt and blood
the tear was black as it fell
you caught it with your tongue
licked your lips and baked
i lay next you
always watching your eyes
that spied his interest
i live for sunny days
i kill for sunny days
i died this sunny day
your motion was swift and deep
my motionless body laid to rest
they made a raft and put us to sea
a hand on your neck for safe keeping

Bands come and go, and Dropjive would ultimately come to an end due to a lack of direction and a lack of interest, both internally and externally. Music was still extremely important to me and central to who I was, and it was hard to imagine a life without a band. Gathering up what was left of the old band and bringing on board some new musicians, I began a new project called Me vs. You. The hardcore and emo revival was only just beginning and we wanted in on the action. It was time to pull all those personal issues off the page and throw them into the music.



The band began with some very specific guidelines. We would write songs where melody was paramount, rather than resorting to screaming and growling to communicate our emotions. We would also write songs that dealt with negative experiences, but concluded with a positive outlook. In doing this we hoped to offer people a new alternative to the predominantly bleak and morbid outlook expressed by many hardcore, emo, and screamo bands that were beginning to command attention. I also hoped this would convey to our audiences my new-found belief that no bad experience could keep you down forever, and that no challenges in life were insurmountable.

The amusing side effect of this new approach was that many listeners assumed we were a Christian band. Bands like Underoath and Anberlin were leading a charge of surprisingly excellent Christian groups from the States who were not afraid to embrace genres once considered by middle America to be the devil’s music. For many of our listeners, it seemed like a good fit. We were asked to play churches and Christian music festivals, and we always said yes because, hey, a gig’s a gig, right? We were even invited to play Hillsong’s Big Exo Day, only to be uninvited due to our failure to provide a letter from a minister to verify our faith. Perhaps it was lyrics for songs like ‘Bueller’ that had people convinced we were spreading God’s word.

Bueller

this is my call to the world
this is my affirmation
in my mind I’m sure, not insecure
a new day’s clarity

did you hear that sound?
you’re writing this down
as I whisper in your ear

your eyes aren’t used to daylight
and the dawn has left you blind
though it burns your skin
let the light in
And learn to live again

did you hear that sound?
you’re writing this down
as I whisper in your ear
i heard you’re looking for a reason
i’ll do my best to make it clear

and if your new day’s clarity can’t be found
my advice to you is to write this down

The whole band was immediately dissatisfied with the first EP release, ‘A Novice with a Nailbomb’, and it took us around two years to come up with another lot of songs that we felt were worthy of recording. In fact, for as long as I’ve been writing songs, the journey from initial idea to completed song has always been a long one.

I’m not sure how or why it has worked out this way, but for me, music has always come before lyrics when writing a song. I will usually wait for the band to have an entire song completed before even attempting to add my melodies and words. Many songwriters might see this as a backwards way of doing things; after all, shouldn’t the music be complementing what is said in the lyrics?

Despite this, I’ve always found it easier to make my contribution to each song in response to what has been created by the musicians. I feel this allows me to explore the mood of the notes, chords, and rhythms being played, and write words that articulate what the music can not. If the music feels like an empowering tale of friendship and camaraderie, then that’s what I’ll write. If the music wants to yell at an unfaithful ex-girlfriend, then my lyrics will do just that.

As we approached our second studio recording, the band and I took on a more pop-orientated approach to our songwriting. We wanted catchy choruses that people could sing along to at shows. We wanted at least a couple of songs that were radio-friendly enough to make it on to the Triple J airwaves. We wanted this album to be our ticket to bigger tours, better venues, and lots of new fans. I wanted to retain the personality and honesty of my older lyrics, but give them just enough pop aesthetic to stick in people’s heads regardless of what they were about.

We called the second release ‘The Fear of Falling’, a phrase taken from the final song of the EP that I felt captured the essence of what we were trying to achieve. We were confronting our fears, individually and as a band, and offering our listeners a chance to do the same. To assist, we prescribed a good dose of friendship, self-confidence, and love, and approached the subject matter with a sense of understanding and empathy. The music retained our signature balance of heavy guitars and drumming with melodic vocals, right up until the last track, where we decided it was time for our first ballad.

Writing this ballad, I felt completely naked and exposed. Softer instrumentation meant a stronger focus on the vocal performance, and on the substance of my lyrics. Keeping in mind our slightly more commercial leaning in recent songs, I needed to write something that would set hearts a flutter, offer some real insight into my mindset, and include the kind of resonating one-liners that can be scrawled in school diaries or broadcast on Myspace and Facebook profiles by our predominantly Gen-Y fans. What I came up with was a duet, a conversation between a young man and woman who have never met, but are singing to the person they imagine each other might be.

6 Degrees of 98 Degrees

It’s been another year
And I still can’t escape the things that I fear
The years go faster now
There was a purpose but I lost it somehow

Through all the worst of times
I had the best intentions
Only to fall again
But through these friends of mine
I found the strength to bare it
So this is one for them

Well I’m still waiting here
Don’t know your face but I can tell you are near
And I am just like you
Sometimes this emptiness feels better with two

Through all the best of times
We had the best intentions
Oh and we fall again
And we don’t draw a line
We’d rather give it all than
Save the best for the end

So don’t you forget
Remember that the best is yet to come
We’ve made our promises
And there’s not telling who we might become

Through all the best of times
I had the best intentions
I won’t slow down
And oh dear friends of mine
The fear of falling is what keeps us on the ground

Oh and we fall again

Now, more than a year since the release of ‘The Fear of Falling’, I am stuck in the middle of my first major case of writers block. As a band we are writing more music, new songs that we hope to turn into our first full-length album. We are done with pop, and we are done with trying to create the type of music that is expected of bands within our scene. Personally, I want to blur the line between my songwriting and poetry that have become much clearer to me in recent times.

Songs have always been the medium through which I tackle a subject head on, saying exactly how I feel in an up-front, dressed down way that can be easily understood by an audience. Poetry has been the space for me to take an approach that is more artistic, for lack of a better word. Through poetry I have immersed myself in the beauty of words, and their ability to conceal and disguise meaning in a way that demands deeper engagement from the reader. This is exactly the approach I want to take with my lyrics now that the band aims to deliver a more progressive sound that will extend upon the foundations we have established in our previous recordings in unexpected ways.

Old habits are hard to break, however, and I find myself at a crossroads where I know what I want to write but find it difficult to move forward and commit to my ideas to paper. When writing songs, I’ve largely been a slave to rhythm and rhyme, always bringing a phrase, verse or chorus to its most basic and logical conclusion. Breaking rules that have been so firmly implanted in the musical portion of my brain isn’t just hard, it actually feels dangerous. There is also the worry that our usual audiences may not appreciate my attempts to progress lyrically. The fear of falling is still strong in me.

Thankfully, I have enjoyed a few small breakthroughs. I feel I’m getting closer to finding a balance between my love of rhythm and rhyme and my need to push my lyrics into new territory. One song in particular seems to be grabbing the attention of listeners old and new, and ridiculous title aside; I feel this could be indicative of the future of my songwriting pursuits.

When I Take of My Shirt, I Look Like a Cyborg

excuse me, boy
but you look a lot like London
and the stars in your eyes have become anchors
hey there girl
they say Paris is in your demeanor
but the way you do your hair is so Hollywood

it’s a crime to want to be this way
when hurry back is all that you can say
I’m starving and I can’t wait
and all these hours just exacerbate

say it hurts and mean it
suffer for your art
wrong your rights and mean it
be careless from the start

hollow trees hide the thieves
and hold them prisoner
while the birds rob the banks
and get all of the girls

a chemical cacophony of criminal minds
and what did you find?
you can suck the poison out and I’ll suck the lime
in greedier times

daggers fly at terminal velocity
still never getting anywhere
and we will see an end to the atrocity I swear

speak up, so we can hear you
get back, don’t you come near me
wake up, it’s another morning
shut up, the misery is boring

he’s got a jacket like a general
she’s got a dress like a jewel
stuffed with a mouthful of emeralds
nothing to losehollow trees hide the thieves

and hold them prisoner
while the birds rob the banks
and get all of the girls

Now I find myself listening back to the artists who have affected me most over the years. I’m starting to believe that the best songs are those whose lyrics can be read on the page and appreciated as poetry. Despite my current problem of putting pen to paper, I’m overflowing with ideas. I want to turn things upside down, and let the band create a musical response to my lyrical ideas. The distinctions that existed in my mind are beginning to disappear as I reflect on my journey as a writer of both poetry and lyrics, and the optimist in me continues to believe that the best is yet to come. I’m ready to overcome my fear.

ADTR Guit Player Breaks His Wrist - Euro Tour in Jeopardy

Jeremy Mckinnon, vocalist for A Day to Remember, confirmed the worst today, announcing that guitar player Tom has broken his wrist. This comes only a few days before the band is due to commence a European tour to promote their new album. At this stage they have asked a few friends but are uncertain as to who will be the replacement for the tour.

In much more positive ADTR news, fans of the bands notorious Kelly Clarkson tribute will be stoked to hear that they have completed another cover song for the next installment of the 'Punk Goes Pop' series. They have recorded The Fray's 'Over My Head', and Jeremy says listeners are in for a treat.

Remember, you read it here first!

Trainwreck

Gone Fishin' - New bands you need to know!

Here's a bunch of bands I stumbled across yesterday. Some unsigned, some on small independent labels, all of it very very good. A fair few of these artists are gonna end up in the first '8 Bands You've Never Heard Of' article for SP's magazine. One or two are broken up or on hiatus, but that's no reason not to check them out!

Spark is a Diamond














MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/sparkisadiamond
Label: Pluto Records
Lowdown: An absolutely edible mix of sounds make this band one of my hottest tips at the moment. They take the frantic dance punk and super fuzz of the now defunct Death From Above 1979, and give it a fresh treatment with the addition of female screamo vocals.
Music like this could teach hardcore fans how to dance properly. Or maybe the Indie kids will steal this one for themselves. Get into them before either of those two things happen!


The Wonder Years













MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/thewonderyearspa
Label: No Sleep Records
Lowdown: Let me be clear, I am not enjoying the pop punk renaissance. Mainly because so many bands are getting it wrong. I know a lot of you think my band is pop punk. It's not! I'm not here to talk about my band though, so let's get back to the point. These guys are taking a similar path to Boys Night Out, and that's one reason I really like them. It's so painstakingly sincere that you can't help but feel every word and want to sing a long, even on the first listen. It's not overly polished, there's plenty of grit and, thankfully, a lack of overly auto-tuned vocals. The hooks are poppy as shit without being too generic. Oh and did I forget to mention the Moog? Yep, they've got Moog :D

Balance and Composure















MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/balanceandcomposure
Label: None (which I can't believe)
Lowdown: Talk about aptly named. There really is a beautiful balance to the music these guys have put out thus far. Just listen to the first song on their MySpace 'Alone for Now', and you'll see what I'm talking about. A wonderfully light introduction with modest yet enticing lead parts builds to a warm crescendo to introduce the chorus riff. The verse simmers down, and Jon's vocals instantly remind me of Matchbook Romance.Yet once the chorus comes through, emotion takes hold and he yells with an impassioned college boy roughness not dissimilar to Max Bemis (Say Anything). Take a look at the influences they have listed, and you'll see a recipe for great contemporary "emo". And I mean that in the truest, non-commercial, thoroughly credible and enjoyable sense of the word. Someone, anyone, sign this band!

The Black Noise Party Boys











MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/blacknoisepartyboys
Label: Hold Fast Records
Lowdown: The terms 'party hardcore' and 'party metal' have been floating around for a while now, and it seems the movement has reached its logical conclusion. Southern as fuck, this sounds like someone took Every Time I Die, marinated them in tobasco, lathered on the smokey BBQ sauce and set the grill to extra hot. One bite will potentially cause cardiac arrest, but if you survive, you're in for a treat. True to their name, the whole EP is one big party, so much so that every song title has the word 'party' in it, and all the lyrics are about, yes good guess, partying! Extra credit for the most amusing and delicious MySpace profile layout I've seen in a while.

Anything on Fire















Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/anythingonfire
Label: Forsaken Recording Co.
Lowdown: Dirty and progressive, you'll dig it if you like Fear Before, These Arms Are Snakes and the Number 12 Looks like you. It's song writing on a level that many aspire to but few achieve. It's got balls but it's also got heart, and after listening to two tracks on their MySpace profile, I'm hungry for more! The most recent bit of news I have on these guys is that their drummer died mid-last year, and since then things have been quiet. My recommendation is to grab a copy of the Dead Eyes/Anything on Fire split, as this might be the last you ever hear of them.

I Am Alaska













MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/iamalaska
Label: Attic Records/No Sleep Records
Lowdown: Some excellent progressive song writing to be found here. Not too fond of anything that might resemble a verse or chorus, I Am Alaska will give hard-ons to those who are digging on Dance Gavin Dance, Circa Survive, and Emarosa. There's plenty more to it as well, and some other comparisons off the top of my head are Fall of Troy and the Mars Volta. It's worth mentioning their album was produced by Vince Ratti (from Zolof the Rock & Roll Destroyer) who is in fact responsible for the recordings of a few of the artists I've posted about today.

Annuals
















MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/annuals
Label: Canvasback/Ace Fu/Terpsikhore Inc.
Lowdown: I didn't discover these guys yesterday but I absolutely have to give them a mention. I've never heard such well crafted, innovative, and eclectic music come out of a group of musicians who are so young. I could list many different bands as reference points for what Annuals sound like and still not do them justice. It is a truly unique blend of post rock, pop, folk, country and so much more. Their latest album 'Such Fun' explores a variety of landscapes and atmospheres, and is best enjoyed with headphones on and lights off. Principle song writer Adam Baker has surrounded himself with young virtuosos, giving audiences something of an oil painting in a world of colour photocopies. Look at me, I'm gushing! Just check it out!

Destroy Nate Allen














MySpace: http://www.myspace.com/destroynateallen
Label: Quiver Society
Lowdown: Please don't hate me for mentioning this band. I'm not trying to make this guy out to be an amazing musical act, but I do think more people should know that this movement of music exists. You've got one ageing punk rocker with an acoustic guitar, who can't play or sing particularly well. What he can do is spin a good yarn and write amusing lyrics about a variety of topics, be it personal, social, political etc. This guy then plays pretty much wherever he can, mostly loungerooms and basements, and builds a cult following because he is just so damn good spirited and a pleasure to be around. It's heart-wrenchingly endearing in a pathetic but adorable way. In my experience it's a particularly American phenomenon, and for another example check out Atom and His Package.
Nate is now joined on stage by his wife, who takes on the role of enthusiasm director, encouraging sing a longs and dancing. This is below lo-fi. It's sub-fi!

Happy listening,
Trainwreck

Treasure Hunting

I went digging for new and interesting bands for the first time in ages yesterday, thanks to a nudge in the right direction courtesy of SP. Go look at her blog here, it contains all sorts of musical wonderfulness

The worst thing about my increasingly busy lifestyle is I have less and less time to do the things which are most fulfilling, especially seeking out up and coming talent from around the world. All my favourite little secrets have become semi-popular or broken up, and I'm in this situation where I'm terribly bored by my current music collection, but don't have the time, patience, money or bandwidth to seek out anything new.

Fear not, because a new era is on the horizon. I'm going back to study again (again)! To some it might appear that I'm glutton for punishment, but my biggest time of musical discovery was during my years at Uni and TAFE. When you're at Uni, not only are you interacting with people from all over the place who naturally are switched on to things you've never heard of, you've generally got a lot more time to spend kicking back and actually listening and discovering things for yourself. Heck, I'm doing Journalism, so it's essential that I immerse myself in the world I want to write about.

I also need to start building up a portfolio, getting printed and published in as many places as possible during my years of study so that when I hit the job market again (ideally when the whole GFC/recession/economic Armageddon is over) I've got buckets of experience to show. SP is really helping me out with this one, giving me a page to write in her soon to be released Punk/Hardcore magazine, all about new bands that most people won't have heard of. I've also got a few interviews to write up including Between the Buried and Me, Evergreen Terrace, and a Day to remember.

To summarise, I'M REALLY EXCITED!

This was actually supposed to be a blog about the new bands I've found but I've kind of gone of track, so that's up next.

The Thief: Part 1

This is the first of a series of short stories I am writing, all revolving around a simple theme of theft.

I. For flavour.

Waving goodbye to my friends at the school gates, I followed Mum down the sidewalk along Kissing Point road to where she had parked the car. The jingle-jangle of her heavy set of keys was loud and rhythmic as she walked. I thought to myself that if she ever went missing we’d have no trouble tracking her down. I started to tread as lightly as possible, closed my eyes and tried following her by sound alone. Listening out for her bell as if she were a lost kitten

After about five seconds I opened my eyes to find myself a half step away from a local dog’s moment of glory, and after recoiling in horror I jumped over the awful mess and ran to catch up with Mum. She was already getting into the car, a silvery-grey Honda Civic dating back to the Stone Age, when optional extras apparently were not an option.

As I opened the passenger side door, she slid the seat forward so that I could get into the back. At age 7, I knew I had little to no bargaining power when it came to that front passenger seat. It was reserved exclusively for schoolbags, groceries, textbooks, and other more easily disposed of individuals. I stretched out on the back seat, enjoying the slight searing sensation as my thighs connected with the vinyl upholstery. When it became too much I rearranged myself, licking my palms and rubbing the saliva on my thighs to cool the burn.

We drove up the road, passing the school gates once more. I listened out in case anyone called my name, ready to wave and screech and giggle if they did. I heard nothing, but saw Jennifer and Kristen chasing each other while their mothers talked about whatever you talk about when you’re a lower middle class suburban housewife. Cooking? Cleaning? Jesus? Swingers parties? What was a swingers party anyway?

“Louise, what’s a swingers party?”

The question seemed innocent enough to me. I felt I had a right to know what things meant, and if I couldn’t learn it at school then it was up to Mum to tell me. She paused a lot and fumbled with her words as she explained, “It’s when a group of adults get together and have fun.” That sounded deadly boring, given what I knew about the ideas of fun in the adult world. Poetry meetings, book launches, documentaries and ABC news all seemed pretty dull compared with mutant turtles trained in the art of the ninja by a giant rat.

We stopped outside the shops just up the street from our house.

“I’ve got to get some milk.”

I got out of the car, hoping there might be some edible compensation for the extra stop on the way home on this sweltering hot day.

The Chinese Restaurant had put up a sign in the front window, proudly informing customers they were now MSG free. We walked briskly past the video store, a no-go zone after the owner invited Louise to see the ‘special’ section out back. I stuck my head inside the milk bar as we passed, and the slack jawed cook pretended to busy himself by moving an empty basket from one deep fryer to the other. After saying a quick hello to our hairdresser we entered Jim’s Mixed Business.

This was no simple convenience store; this was a true corner shop, the kind of which has all but vanished as this city has grown up and out. They stocked a bit of everything, to save locals the extra drive to the other side of town, and to be sure they never missed a chance to make a buck. It was like a really whittled down, independently owned version of a Woolworths, with about an eight of the floor space and only one register. At that register stood the shop’s main attendant and owner, Jim. He bid us hello as we walked in, and I followed Mum past a long row of shelves featuring various colorful bottles, to the back where the fridge was.

As she pondered over expiry dates, I pressed my cheek up against the glass, giving a little shiver and listening intently to the various whirs and shudders that came from the big glass cabinet. I imagined Jim closing up shop in the middle of summer, stripping down to his undies and cooling off between the dairy and soft drinks. Once mum was satisfied with her selection, we headed back up the aisle to the register.

Louise and Jim started talking, and I recognised it instantly as adult talk that would go on for at least five minutes. After several attempts to intercept by drawing attention to myself and how cute I was, I gave up and wandered off towards the ice cream freezer. I cast my eyes over the vast selection, being careful not to miss an option as I considered which one might best satisfy. Every kind and combination of fruit, chocolate, and cream was presented for my consideration, and I knew my skill in selecting the perfect iced treat was of the utmost importance.

“Mum, can I have an ice block?”

“No, we’ve got some at home, you can have one then.”

Traitor! Bitch! I was gutted. I didn’t let it show though. I hadn’t quite outgrown tantrums, and I possibly never will, but I knew that day that she was too engrossed in conversation to pay any attention to a sooky face or a whiney ‘pleeeaasseee mummy’. I turned away from the freezer, and then I saw it.

Hundreds of varieties of sugar wrapped in plastic. All the colours of the rainbow and a few the rainbows hadn’t thought of yet. The lolly section was a giant wall of contraband. Ice creams were one thing, but Mum refused to buy me candies that she believed would rot my teeth and make me hyperactive. There were a few bland exceptions, mostly lollies that she liked herself, but by now I was in no mood to compromise.

I studied each packet carefully, and as I did their colours and words spoke to me in such magical ways that I could virtually taste each individual flavour. My mouth watered and my taste buds reacted as though I was eating them all, one at a time. But the virtual taste test was no longer enough.

There was no chance of her buying me what I wanted, and no chance of me leaving without it. I knew I wasn’t supposed to take things without paying, but I figured if I got away with it there was no harm done. Jim could afford to lose one little lolly, and I was such a darling kid, surely if I was caught it would be easy enough to forgive and forget.

I considered my options, taking into account size, shape, and of course, flavour. I steered clear of boxes that would rattle, and loose wrappers that might make crumpling noises as I pocketed them. Anything over a dollar in value was out of the question, because surely that would be unforgivable. I took a quick sideways glance, and saw that Jim and my mother were still talking as the milk carton sat sweating on the counter. I reached forward and grabbed a thin little orange chew with a paper wrapping, closed my fist around it, and buried that fist as deep into my pocket as my school shorts would allow.

Adult talk finished and I waved goodbye to Jim, careful to use my non-thieving hand as we made our way back to the car. Mum let me in first and I got into the back once more, feeling a bit awkward sitting down with my hand still burrowed into my pocket. I must have looked it too, because as she closed the door, Mum paused, and looked at me through the window. I smiled back, all teeth and rosy cheeks. My dimple, revered by Grandmas all over the world, dared her to challenge my integrity. Despite my inquisitive nature, it had never occurred to me to ask her what ‘poker face’ meant.

“What’s in your hand?”

I presented the innocent hand for inspection, and gave her my cutest, “Nothing Mummy.”

“The other one, in your pocket.”

And that was it. I could’ve prolonged the investigation by leaving the candy in my pocket and showing her another empty hand, but we both knew what the next question would be. Looking away from her, I held out the stolen property. She didn’t say much, just opened the door, took the lolly and walked back into Jim’s. That crappy Honda Civic became my paddy wagon, as I waited for the arresting officer to haul my arse down to the cells.

The lecture came once she got back in the car and drove us home. I’m sure I was listening but can’t remember a word of what she said. I was ashamed, but more than that, I was angry at myself. Not only had I been caught, I had confessed, and done a terrible job of hiding the evidence.

Drama Queen

This poem is quite old, and was originally called "The Dead are Easy to Kill". I think at the time I wrote it, I was just doing my best to create something really freaky and hint at some deeper truths. Now when I read this it's actually kind of fun in a very peculiar way. I've renamed this "drama queen" for the time being.

five miles up the coast
my body washed ashore
new friend to the local children
they dressed me in a seaweed sunday best
and called me father
children of ritual consumption
lost to fragile fantasies
the youngest wrote in the sand
i live for sunny days
i dream of sunny days
i died this sunny day
they kicked sand in my face and fled
my howls concealed their departure

i walked from the tide
spewing salt and blood
the tear was black as it fell
you caught it with your tongue
licked your lips and baked
i lay next you
always watching your eyes
that spied his interest
i live for sunny days
i kill for sunny days
i died this sunny day
your motion was swift and deep
my motionless body laid to rest

they made a raft and put us to sea
a hand on your neck for safe keeping