Well, here’s a thing: It’s 1899, London is swinging on account of the millions of pounds of Coolgardie gold flowing through the Bank of England, mining speculation is rife, while in Australia the political and social elite is abuzz with the impending federation of the disparate colonies. In many a busy antipodean market town, men parade down newly macadamised, bustling streets, money in their pockets and grand schemes in their minds. They check their fob watches against town hall clocks, adjust their pince-nez, and slap their right thighs with no little hubris. Their women companions wear the latest English fashions, twirl parasols resting on left shoulders, and meet everyone’s gaze in a manner that would have been deemed unseemly in the mother country.
In the Western Australian Legislative Assembly, it is waistcoats at twelve paces: Across the floor, Members A.P. Matheson and J.W. Hackett get into an argument. Matheson brandishes a recent government report: Acclimatisation Committee Paper №. 50.2 of 1899. Said paper, avers Matheson, discusses the establishment of a fertile race of hybrid animals: to wit, crossing sheep with goats. Is the Hon. Mr Hackett aware, in his official capacity, that the average period of gestation for sheep is 150 days, and that for goats it is 112 days and that for this, and no other reason, the idea is bunkum?
Now, Hackett is no fool: he runs the fine newspaper that today enjoys a monopoly in Skinny City, The West Australian. He will go on to champion the establishment of Western Australia’s first university, and have that university’s grand hall named in his honour. And he is not amused at Matheson’s malarkey. Or maybe he is. “I invite the House,” he thunders, “to bear witness that I have given every opportunity to the hon. gentleman to escape playing the fool. This branch of the business, however lucrative, the Committee do not propose to cultivate.”
And so this fine colony, this El Dorado, this haven for hole-diggers of every race and creed, escaped the ignominy of forever being branded a damn-fool place, in much the same way jurisdictions like Sudan are now deemed ‘failed states.’
Later, thanks to the Hon. A.G. Jenkins, the comments (both “undesirable and regrettable”) were officially expunged from Hansard, the record of the Assembly’s proceedings. And yet, of course, they weren’t.
Politicians are a funny lot, when you think about it.
(If’n y’all don’t believe me, and if you are lucky enough to have access, the source is, Hansard of the Western Australian Parliament, Vol XIV, 21st June to 28th September 1899 Perth, Australia, Government Printer, 1900, pp2977 and 2888)
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
LX an' Ron: Ron an' LX
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.
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.
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.
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