Saturday 11am
I just want to say how lovely it is to hear the Four Season re-interpreted by the Ballarat Brass Band first thing in the morning when you're sporting a colossal hangover.
Next come the Devastations. To say they are too loud is like saying the guy darting around camp with a watermelon on his head is a bit wacky. I didn't mind the arrogant Berlin-based Melbourne expats, I thought they had improved a lot since the last time I saw them when they were shit, but their gigolo din didn't wash so well with my comrades and these guys know their stuff. They rated their act just above Charlie Sheen's C-level oeuvre, so somewhere between Platoon and Two Guys, a Baby and a Funeral or whatever that show's called.
Apparently The Black Lips vomited, gobbed into the air and caught it, made out ("there was a little bit of tongue licking too," said De Campo) and one dude cut his hand on a beer bottle playing slide guitar and wiped the blood from his hand onto his cheeks and I missed that too. Somehow I missed everything worth mentioning outside of the music which I heard fine. Not that I'm complaining. The sounds were enough. Sounds were nice. Everything else was a bit yikes.
Our adjoining neighbours baked us some treats.
Winner of the most significant coverage of an apple in one bite is Coinflow $

Strangely the sun came out to Andrew WK. "This is actually awful," says Josh Town. I was indifferent, but I did admire his motivational gusto.
The ants seemed to appreciate the company of us as the weekend wore on because they never once tried to pick a fight with us or complain about being inconvenienced.
No comments:
Post a Comment