2010
Sometimes, years just plain suck. An' twenty-ten is shaping up as such a year. First, Ron Asheton and now LX Chilton.
For me, these are the guys, and always have been. The guys who did the coolest shit: the makers of the best music what affected me most.
I'm serious.
And i'm saddened.
Vale, you cool fuckers.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
brothels and historians
Long-time readers have urged me: 'VCH, you write so often about gold-town, why do you never mention its fourth most famous feature?'
Waaaallllll. It's tricky; but it is also an excellent lesson in the vagaries of language vis a vis its historical context: people, stuff is subjective.
Gold-town's fourth most famous feature is its sex workers' residences: its hos [hoes?] homes. Now, were i a not a very competent historian i might call them 'houses of ill-repute' and be done with it. But, as a VCH, it is essential to my professional being that i know stuff is relative. And who am i to say what is their repute? Some might argue said houses have the finest repute available.
Of course, i will never be able to test this modest theory, because, while some of my Gen X colleagues tackle exciting subjects under the rubric of the history of sexuality, i am a prudish historian; best suited to drawing up tables of economic transactions and quoting Toynbee.
And these things are excitement enough.
Waaaallllll. It's tricky; but it is also an excellent lesson in the vagaries of language vis a vis its historical context: people, stuff is subjective.
Gold-town's fourth most famous feature is its sex workers' residences: its hos [hoes?] homes. Now, were i a not a very competent historian i might call them 'houses of ill-repute' and be done with it. But, as a VCH, it is essential to my professional being that i know stuff is relative. And who am i to say what is their repute? Some might argue said houses have the finest repute available.
Of course, i will never be able to test this modest theory, because, while some of my Gen X colleagues tackle exciting subjects under the rubric of the history of sexuality, i am a prudish historian; best suited to drawing up tables of economic transactions and quoting Toynbee.
And these things are excitement enough.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Swamp
Sacred Cowboys.
Remember them?
’80s band!
Rock writers getting all nostalgic for the late ’70s punk era like to relate some lead-singer usually named Joe Damage saying he was invited to become a member of the Sucky Toedogs even though he ‘couldn’t play his instrument.’ What is unmentioned is that all the other members of said band were former Prog musos, virtuosos who could play in 13/17 time but who were now hiding their abilities for the sake of appearing ‘orffentic.’
Bollocks to that (hey, situationist joke)!
If you want lack-of-musical-chops, go ’80s. There were fabulous bands then, none of whose members could play a lick.
The result? Massive reliance on the lumbering, dinosaur-slow thumps of the bass player (usually) or drummer (occasionally).
Cf. Scientists, Gun Club, (The Cure??? aw, crap), Tarantulas (Perth band fer yer interstate and foreign brains). Who else?
Dum dah, dum dah, dum dah…
They called it swamp music.
An’ it was good.
Remember them?
’80s band!
Rock writers getting all nostalgic for the late ’70s punk era like to relate some lead-singer usually named Joe Damage saying he was invited to become a member of the Sucky Toedogs even though he ‘couldn’t play his instrument.’ What is unmentioned is that all the other members of said band were former Prog musos, virtuosos who could play in 13/17 time but who were now hiding their abilities for the sake of appearing ‘orffentic.’
Bollocks to that (hey, situationist joke)!
If you want lack-of-musical-chops, go ’80s. There were fabulous bands then, none of whose members could play a lick.
The result? Massive reliance on the lumbering, dinosaur-slow thumps of the bass player (usually) or drummer (occasionally).
Cf. Scientists, Gun Club, (The Cure??? aw, crap), Tarantulas (Perth band fer yer interstate and foreign brains). Who else?
Dum dah, dum dah, dum dah…
They called it swamp music.
An’ it was good.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Cemeteries!
Regular readers will know how very fond i am of cemeteries (and that i'm not a goth) and of glorious Kal-town. A coming together of these favourites provided me with a moment worthy of sharing (i think); a moment when the joi i derive from both was heightened. I was jogging, as is my wont when i need an alcohol substitute, on a Kal-town evening last week when the weather turned, frankly, nasty. Though six thirty p.m., it was still about 33C (about 8 million Farenhiet for yer foreign readers) and as humid as fuck, and there was lightening, and thunder, and big fat fuckin raindrops, and - as only the desert can provide - a massive dust storm comin' up with the rain.
My eyes were filling with grit (grit! it's been soooo long) and i couldnt see more than five metres and i was hot, and cranky as a result. And it just so happened i was at that time running along one side of Kal-town's fine cemetery. In this state i was overjoied to have a crimson (maybe maroon - as i said, visibility was poor) huge four-wheel-drive pull up on the road next to the footpath and the female driver sing out 'do you need a lift home?'
Kindness to strangers. I felt quite humbled. This is the sort of thing i mean: why Kal-town isn't like yer nasty ol' cities with their i'm-just-out-for-me-Jack attitudes. Why the very air exudes hospitality and neighbourliness.
Naturally, i requested the lady Samaritan to leave at once. Without question a serial killer.
It was a lucky escape. Within seconds, as i continued along the leeward side of the cemetery in this howling gale, i saw one of the freakingest sights i've seen in many a long &c.
The metal fence was stacked up with artifical flower arrangements; tumble wreaths.
I returned the next day to take these photos, but they fall miserably short of doing justice to the sight in the storm and the gloaming light (i am not a goth).
Now, i've done my best to paint an Apocalyptic picture. The question is: could the Apocalypse be decorated with artificial flowers? What about the other signs? Artificial locusts? Fake toads? Rat figurines?
I want catering rights to the End-of-days. But where do you get millions upon millions of plastic rats? I'm not talking about joke shop quantities. Not pink flamingo numbers. I mean as many plastic rats as balloons at a rich kid's party; as many as WA has big holes in the ground; as many as red rose petals on a metrosexual's bed when he thinks he might get lucky.
That many.
My eyes were filling with grit (grit! it's been soooo long) and i couldnt see more than five metres and i was hot, and cranky as a result. And it just so happened i was at that time running along one side of Kal-town's fine cemetery. In this state i was overjoied to have a crimson (maybe maroon - as i said, visibility was poor) huge four-wheel-drive pull up on the road next to the footpath and the female driver sing out 'do you need a lift home?'
Kindness to strangers. I felt quite humbled. This is the sort of thing i mean: why Kal-town isn't like yer nasty ol' cities with their i'm-just-out-for-me-Jack attitudes. Why the very air exudes hospitality and neighbourliness.
Naturally, i requested the lady Samaritan to leave at once. Without question a serial killer.
It was a lucky escape. Within seconds, as i continued along the leeward side of the cemetery in this howling gale, i saw one of the freakingest sights i've seen in many a long &c.
The metal fence was stacked up with artifical flower arrangements; tumble wreaths.
I returned the next day to take these photos, but they fall miserably short of doing justice to the sight in the storm and the gloaming light (i am not a goth).
Now, i've done my best to paint an Apocalyptic picture. The question is: could the Apocalypse be decorated with artificial flowers? What about the other signs? Artificial locusts? Fake toads? Rat figurines?
I want catering rights to the End-of-days. But where do you get millions upon millions of plastic rats? I'm not talking about joke shop quantities. Not pink flamingo numbers. I mean as many plastic rats as balloons at a rich kid's party; as many as WA has big holes in the ground; as many as red rose petals on a metrosexual's bed when he thinks he might get lucky.
That many.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
gonzo ergo sum
Time for a little old-fashioned phrase-coining.
No doubt, you’re all familiar with the term ‘gonzo journalism.’ The idea that the writer inserts his- or herself into the mix. HST started it; Tom Wolfe championed it (was he afraid of an ass-whuppin’? Izzat the real reason?).
Latterly, I’m readin’ a lot of history where the writer follows in the footsteps of some historical figure, or figures, of greater or lesser fame, and writes not only about said figure/s but relates, too, the writer’s own feelings.
Ladies and gennelmens, this is BULLSHIT.
Invariably, when one has finished reading this sensitive ‘discovery of self’ (one author – my personal vote for most fucking annoying – put it thus: “I wanted to travel across the land that the people had walked over, measuring its distance with my eyes and soul”) one is massively under-whelmed. Who cares? The fact is that Thompson worked - was so very popular - mainly because he told a good, good story. All we get from being subjected to this latter-day hubris, these ‘journeys of discovery,’ is the discovery that the writer is, in fact, a boring twat.
I give you “non-gonzo journalism” and I consign it to the rubbish bin.
No doubt, you’re all familiar with the term ‘gonzo journalism.’ The idea that the writer inserts his- or herself into the mix. HST started it; Tom Wolfe championed it (was he afraid of an ass-whuppin’? Izzat the real reason?).
Latterly, I’m readin’ a lot of history where the writer follows in the footsteps of some historical figure, or figures, of greater or lesser fame, and writes not only about said figure/s but relates, too, the writer’s own feelings.
Ladies and gennelmens, this is BULLSHIT.
Invariably, when one has finished reading this sensitive ‘discovery of self’ (one author – my personal vote for most fucking annoying – put it thus: “I wanted to travel across the land that the people had walked over, measuring its distance with my eyes and soul”) one is massively under-whelmed. Who cares? The fact is that Thompson worked - was so very popular - mainly because he told a good, good story. All we get from being subjected to this latter-day hubris, these ‘journeys of discovery,’ is the discovery that the writer is, in fact, a boring twat.
I give you “non-gonzo journalism” and I consign it to the rubbish bin.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
TV vs Shakespeare: who will win?
Oh, oh, Oh. Speaking of television: I think my recall is right - Shakespeare stated there were only seven basic possible plots in story-telling, but he knew not of the stuck-in-a-lift episode.
Eight, Bill, eight.
Eight, Bill, eight.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Dead meat
So I’m just quietly watching television when an ad comes on for a cooker – a griller, if you will – that sizzles meat while a series of ridges in the pan below allow the fat to run off.
It's a generic brand product.
This makes me so very, very angry.
HOW DARE YOU! YOU CHEAP-SKATE COPYCATS! YOU CHEATING, LYING, RIP-OFF MERCHANTS! YOU MENDACIOUS CONNIVING TRADEMARK-DODGING TAIWANESE PLAGIARIST WANKERS!
GEORGE FOREMAN INVENTED THAT.
After a while the rage subsides, and I get thinking: What a fabulous career George is having. For thirty years he spent his days punching blokes in the head. Then he decided to take up inventing cookware. And I start to wonder. Surely footage of every World Heavyweight Championship boxing match survives: both those sanctioned by the Nevada Gaming Commission and the Don King dodgy ones.
So could one go back and watch these tapes very closely, until one catches the exact moment when the light comes on in George’s eyes, when he is busy teaching some hapless young pup how to box, when he is throwing yet another bone-crunching blow into the face of a callow, incapable, bloodied semi-combatant, causing great joy to baying crowds and local capillary surgeons. There: we can actually see the moment. One second George is thinking about how to tease out his easy win: “Boy, you’re too dumb and too weak to fight an old pro like me. And dammit boy, you’re too fat. Way too fat.”
And then: “OHMYGOD!!!”
And as the crowd is left hooting and hollering and demanding more blood, as ring-side confusion reigns, at the end of the seventh round, when later analysis would reveal George held a 42-0 lead, he turns to his seconds and says, “take my gloves off, boys. And get me a sketch pad.”
It's a generic brand product.
This makes me so very, very angry.
HOW DARE YOU! YOU CHEAP-SKATE COPYCATS! YOU CHEATING, LYING, RIP-OFF MERCHANTS! YOU MENDACIOUS CONNIVING TRADEMARK-DODGING TAIWANESE PLAGIARIST WANKERS!
GEORGE FOREMAN INVENTED THAT.
After a while the rage subsides, and I get thinking: What a fabulous career George is having. For thirty years he spent his days punching blokes in the head. Then he decided to take up inventing cookware. And I start to wonder. Surely footage of every World Heavyweight Championship boxing match survives: both those sanctioned by the Nevada Gaming Commission and the Don King dodgy ones.
So could one go back and watch these tapes very closely, until one catches the exact moment when the light comes on in George’s eyes, when he is busy teaching some hapless young pup how to box, when he is throwing yet another bone-crunching blow into the face of a callow, incapable, bloodied semi-combatant, causing great joy to baying crowds and local capillary surgeons. There: we can actually see the moment. One second George is thinking about how to tease out his easy win: “Boy, you’re too dumb and too weak to fight an old pro like me. And dammit boy, you’re too fat. Way too fat.”
And then: “OHMYGOD!!!”
And as the crowd is left hooting and hollering and demanding more blood, as ring-side confusion reigns, at the end of the seventh round, when later analysis would reveal George held a 42-0 lead, he turns to his seconds and says, “take my gloves off, boys. And get me a sketch pad.”
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