Ween, Forum

Cigarette packets and fortune cookies sat atop their amps. Like Bananas and Blow it was a typical Ween incongruity that made perfect sense. Deaner riffed a lot and made faces like he’s pounding his girlfriend unhappily. The intensity with which he flailed his guitar, we too felt on the receiving end of those copulant thrusts, his expression contorting within an inch of a Nixon mask, sweat gleaming through a wash of coloured lights, droplets raining down from his not-insignificant nose and chin. It was a bit heavy in there. Not up his nostril, but inside the Forum

Exactly where I’m at was a corking fuse to light up with. HIV/AIDS was a dance celebration, a very grim one. Voodoo Lady’s guitar solo was so dredged in classic sounds it warped back to the 60s and gave birth to a psychedelic chicken that laid an egg that hatched Lobby Lloyd! Jokey tunes enacted by a louche Gene doing the sleaze lounge get-up ala the Ramada Inn at noon on a weekday were particularly unpleasant — Piss up a rope being a high water mark, no pun intended. Gene then lit a ciggie, picked something gross off his face (seriously what was that?) and threw it down on the ground with impunity. From there, the band lobbied a sax-less, yet sexy Your Party. Good times.

"See ol' Jimmy Wilson dance, give that boy a dime and you don't stand a chance, oh see ol' Jimmy Wilson dance," Ween sang during Waving my Dick in the Wind and my girlfriend yelled out that it reminded her of Charles Portis' Dog of the South. I looked at her strange. "You're in that hotel foyer", she said. “And you my cuteness are on Planet Jupiter”.

The Stallion was good, to which an encyclopaedic fan nearby noted pedantically over the din, “ITS PART 5, THE FINALE IN THE STALLION SERIES!!”

Someone said the ex-Blood, Sweat and Tears keyboardist was the ex-keyboardist from Earth, Wind and Fire, but I thought those dudes were all brothers and this dude was white — anyway he played a fantastic synthesiser solo at the tail end of Zoloft, or at least that was what my notes said, but those things were unbelievable, not unbelievable like wow, but unbelievable like they should not be trusted.

The sounds and the smoke machine made everybody light up doobs despite the no smoking policy; this swarthy dude beside me was toking crazily. The guy to the other side of him asked him for a drag, and Richard Smoker started whingeing about how if he gave him some then he would have to give some to everybody and then he wouldn’t have any left and then the guy told him he was going to blackmail him and he would probably end up in prison new best mates with a seven footer named Bubba.

In Praise of Royalchord’s Car

They’re more fun than an action park full of Frisbee and a laughter and a scream and will be missed even though we hardly ever saw them (Berlin and Belgium bound and that’s indefinite). They popped over at the tail end of an impromptu BBQ we had last Saturday cause they operate on their own clock and are anything but predictable. Bless ‘em. Tammy busts out a horselaugh if you do something funny and Eliza is game for living a life that’s full of surprises. I’d listen to their music if only I had it on my person (I actually had this thought while at work. I’m at home now and can easily access their LP Nights on the Town from the next room, so all's okay).

We got in their car and they took us to a rooftop show in Carlton attended by a exquisitely bored cross-section of Melbourne’s art-damaged denizens, who Panel of Judges are kind of like the flagship of, though it must be said, Panel are legends and their performance here was one of the best I have ever seen probably up there with the best of The Clean and I don’t think it was because of the excellent views of the city and housing estates from Rathdowne Street though they were something else too.

Getting back to what I was talking about, it wasn’t an extensive trip in the Royalchord car, no longer than five minutes duration, but those five were five good ones. The girl’s have great taste in music, so of course the jams were pumping. The second we got in we were treated to ‘Fiesta’, that partystarter off the sweet new Ween album*. Last year at a party in a St Kilda backyard (punctuated by a sizzling Jon Langford performance) we caught a lift with them back to town and it was a real magical moment (photo taken by Campee in the backyard prior to the lift). A cross between Pulp Fiction, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, American Graffiti, Easy Rider and Corvette Summer it was. Can’t remember what we were listening to at the time but whatever it was we toasted it with a champagne. If this were the 70s, Royalchord would be driving a van with carpeted interior and there would be no funny business just oodles and oodles of good vibrations. They’re the Frank Whaley of motor-hospitality in this town, and now they’re gone. When the night ended De Campee hugged Tammy so enthusiastically her two feet left the ground!

*Ween kicked a lot of ass and produced much flavour last night at the Forum

Spanking the Monkey

Done some good writing today. Man you're only as good as what you write next. That's a pretty tough way to live. I feel like Ratso Rizzo in Midnight Cowboy. Looking between the radiator pipes for a sandwich.

Oscars last night

Jon Stewart made me laugh as much as Ellen what’s-her-name did, so that was good. Best picture, whatever, the Coen Bros are such smarmy dills. I wanted to poke the little brother hard in the gums (and I’m non-violent) because he did the same gag twice. The taller brother I found to be quite handsome. The little brother showed a lot of gum when he opened his mouth (probably a good idea he didn’t speak).

Daniel-Day Lewis would come away a winner regardless. He kissed george Clooney on the way to the podium that will count against him. Every time they mentioned best actor I get disgusted because I missed seeing Viggo in that Russian mob movie.

I love Laura Linney almost as much as my sister. They are pretty much the same person (in so much as my brother is Mark Ruffalo, except my sis watch too much tv). Ellen Page = barf.

Jen Garner looks better to my eyes everyday, yet has she inflated her lips several pounds? Nicole’s surgeon meanwhile is turning her into a winter weasel.

Javier Bardem looked like he came straight from a bar fight. Actors today so physical. Remember when it was just Russell crowe and David Hyde-Pierce? As Fred willard’s Mike LaFontaine might spout: wha happened? Some neat actors in supporting men’s category. Hal Holbrook from Creepshow. Tilda’s acceptance speech bugged me for some reason. I think I need to watch The Deep End again just to cleanse myself of what I saw her do last night.

Amy Adams (pictured) sang and looked pretty. De Campo and I then talk about eating breakfast next to her at Cheebos on Sunset Boulevard back in 2007. Man, those were different times.

Deakins got two nods for cinematography but no dice. Never forget Dave Kehr saying that Deakins probably knows more about light than anyone else on the planet. Interesting!

Watching Atonement collect nominations like costume design made me want to puke. The whole look of the thing is execrable.

I swear there were more animation movies from this year than three. Ratotuille looks good, although I’m plenty sick of the way middle-age actors whinge like babies in these movies; their voices are excruciatingly painful! Peter & the wolf looks good. I once re-enacted that story for one of my classes in high school. Special voices for the animals (Stanislavski-influenced) leaving a positive impression.

What’s Sound Editing? That actually makes no sense. Do they mean sound dubbing? Bourne Ultimatum won it, well deserved, the movie's technically brilliant, anyone who argues over that is an idiot. Same goes for Transformers. God I would never see that crap. Anyone who says otherwise should be taken out and eradicated.

Owen Wilson didn’t make any jokes nor did he attempt any, admirable. Seth Rogen and his sleazy fat friend have become so greatly insufferable. It’s sad downfall time for those boys and I dare say it is their own bloody fault. Cormac McCArthy gave the Coen brothers a standing ovation because his books stand to make a million from all the publicity.

Mcguane

Thomas Mcguane’s Panama tells the story of Chet Pomeroy, a rock star burned out in the Florida Keys. He’s full of so much cocaine he can’t remember his dog’s name (it’s Dierdre) or the fact he married Catherine in Panama ten years ago. He still gets loaded and the addled moments in this story are like crossing a busy street blindfolded.

Panama is a darker read the second time through much like Miss Lonelyhearts, another book I found simply hilarious the first time. Or maybe the humour diminishes the second time and you are left with a sadness. Panama is genuinely sad though. Goofy Chet doesn’t want to face up to the fact his Dad is alive; he tells people he perished in the Boston fire. The final scene between father and son will tear your heart into little pieces. Miss Lonelyhearts on the other hand, has a sardonic streak running through it like a tremor in that Kevin bacon movie.

I couldn’t sleep Sunday night, so at 4am I picked up Panama and didn’t go to sleep until I finished it. Then I had a dream about Thomas McGuane. This is notable for the fact it don’t happen too often to people I don’t know too well. This makes McGuane the second artistic fixation to walk into my dreams (Malkmus being the first; the only difference is Malk and I are now good friends. Just kidding…or am I?).

I’ve been obsessing a lot about McGuane lately. Follow this link to read a pretty good piece. Ordered an expensive biography about him on the weekend. I listened to a radio show he gave in 1985 and I positively identified his answers as being identical to the ones I would have given to the questions even though he was 45 at the time with several books behind him, a family, a ranch in Montana and on a successful book tour of New York, a place I’ve never been.

In the dream we are on a mountain. McGuane gives a talk and then disappears. I begin scrambling around the premises trying to find him. I bump into someone who looks like him only much younger. ‘Hey, you’re that guy!’
‘No I am his son. I star in his movies.’ (McGuane made a couple of obscure films in the 70s in which he romanced the hell out of his co-stars, Elizabeth Ashley and Margot Kidder. Ashley wrote about it in a tell-all book that I have at home). In my dream I have seven copies of the aforementioned biography in my backpack for him to sign all in a variety of formats with different dust-jackets.

I finally find McGuane and say ‘I would have kicked myself if I didn’t take you aside and tell you how much you mean to me’ and he said something like ‘c’mon let’s go powwow’. ‘Your accent is wild,’ he says and I told him it’s Melbourne via Portland and then I looked down and saw that his writing hand was a stump and his wife walked up and her mouth was all deformed and I couldn’t understand her and I got really upset.

If anyone is capable of analysing this dream I would appreciate your insight.

Explosive combo

Seeing sonic youth tonight play daydream nation in its entirety. I’m going to all you can eat Indian beforehand

She crazy

A woman came up to me on Glenferrie Road around lunchtime and yelled: "They thievin' lie when they get caught up with...they do!"

Simply an Enormous

- January 23

To the Victorian countryside in a blue Toyota on loan from the odious Avis rental car company. They are jerks and screw you with hidden costs. Bollicking bastards. Not only that the CD in the car doesn’t pump out enough bass. On the plus side, we arrive at 4.59pm - one minute before they close.

We reach Guildford and the Divine Miss Lovely’s 40th birthday party at 8pm, six hours after party started. That’s okay there’s still nine hours of fun to go. Miranda looks exciting and muscular and she is speechless throughout.

The party is a bloody ripper. The microphone needs to put a restraining order on me.
At one point, G Roy has the weight of the world on his shoulders and his ankle gives out.

Wake up next morning covered in bites. After a splendid bbq breakfast, supplemented by a Martin Amis-like routine from G Roy involving his feet (two English brothers: one is an effete, intellectual; the other an uncultured thug) we’re feeling fine like it’s 1989. A group of us bids farewell to our darling hosts to take a dip in nearby Vaughn Springs, only to be forced out when a leech grabs KB and refuses to let go. Everybody shrieks out, except G Roy who stays in the murky drink until he is attacked; it takes awhile perhaps due to his toxicity levels, sadly the suction occurs out of reach on his backside, and its not until courageous daughter Sadie joins him in the muck, destroying the leech and dragging Dad out of infested Spring water to safety.

The entrepreneurial Hugh sees moneymaking potential in this and suggests we make a sea-devil out of G Roy and charge admission, using Vaughn Springs as a pilot before taking the show to Europe.

It makes sense.

Following this, a three-car caravan reconvenes for jugs at Guildford Pub in their great, big beer garden with sizable thrones to match. Fond memories of our time there being recalled just now.

Next stop Book Heaven resulting in the procurement of a veritable phalange of hot titles. Waugh, Portis, Nabokov, Paris Review from ’63 (cranky interviews with Waugh and perelman inside), De Campee snares an old German camera that sounds abominable when it clicks. This trip took place so long ago I have already finished Norwood, Charles Portis’ debut from ’66, though that’s not saying much, you can get through it in a couple of days. It is exactly the type of book I would love to write some day. The comedy hits that awkward pitch that I find endearing without ever drawing attention to itself or announcing its attentions: the literary deadpan. Brilliant.

We stay at Woodend and drink a paddle of beer at Holgate brewery, an ingenious way to consume seven shots of dark beer, prior to gorging on three courses.

Sanatorium Lake the next day for an up-close visit with a falcon and over to Dayleford’s Lake House for a decadent lunch during kookaburra feeding time. The mains are $38 and to be honest they aren’t that good.

Oops, I almost forgot our visit to Mt Macedon winery. Go there now, it’s lovely. Drink a bottle of their blush and eat cheese on the porch.

In Daylesford we find Double Nut Chalet, a marvel of splendid accommodation, look it up, it is a dream.

We drive home the next day.

Now I took down something I posted drunk Friday night at 3am because I wanted to make a few amendments to it and lift my work up to a standard of professionalism I deem acceptable. Instead of the German Shepherd taking a most extraordinary shit it is now simply an enormous crap. Revised entry reads thus: "I got off the tram the other day not feeling my best and on the footpath there was a German Shepherd taking an enormous crap and its owner, this bald prick in a pink shirt, forearm covered in tatts, snarled at me and then looked down at his dog, whose mouth he had tied up in his lead and shouted c’mon, dragging the dog away and leaving the pile in the middle of the footpath; meanwhile today I was in a cab driving by a parked car and there was a dude who opened the door and tossed two banana peels out on the street.”

I also wanted to add that all people are stupid and lazy and we need to collectively join together to remove all the scum off the streets.

Fetching combo

“Your lawyer is wearing sneakers,” said the last of the prisoners.

It was De Grazia. He was dressed in a corduroy jacket of moss green, pants of compatible lemon, a red shirt and a white collar. De Grazia’s eye for color had even worked an art for he wearing spotless white sneakers. In some triumph of the sartorial, they were suitable.

— Norman Mailer, The Armies of the Night

The Darjeeling Limited

It’s a good movie that I think is just great. It’s very charming and the boy’s faces are nice to look at. They feel sad, their Dad died, they haven’t talked for several long times, they see each other in India and it is colourful. Oldest boy Francis bumped his head in a motorbike accident, has his head all bandaged up. Actors 2 and 3 very good also: one a short story writer in greasy moustache and the tall one who wears his Dad’s vintage shades and learns that shaving while train is in motion is probably not a good idea, but he didn’t make any mistakes so who’s to know what these actors are thinking all the time?!! Francis’ brothers don’t like Francis telling them what to do. It’s funny when Francis orders cookies for tall brother and tall brother says I don’t like it when you order for me and after looking at the menu ends up ordering cookies anyways. They drink too much cough syrup, misplace a cobra, pray and lose their shoes

THE END

Lilliputian Queens

I love my Liliput 2CD so much. My fav song of theirs (it changes almost daily) is Ring-A-Ding-Dong. I heard it on my lunchbreak and punched the air, kicked up my feet and nearly pulled a muscle. There’s a swarm of sound going on in this tune but the parts never seem to interfere with each other. The sweetest moment is that funky little descending piano bit. I was hoping to link to one of their shows from Zurich, but the only clip I found on youtube was this odd one of a girl sitting at her computer picking her nose to the beat of one of their songs.

Fun fact: They were once called Kleenex until the toilet paper company said no— incidentally, Kleenex is the brand of toilet paper the Cannanes use and it’s one that has inspired many of their minions to use also, after one of the many pilgrimages up to the Wipplegong estate. Decampo uses it, practically relishing the ribbed texture, but doesn’t approve of what Kleenex does to the environment — a sad, final note to an otherwise lovely story.

Occasionally something brilliant will pop into my head – this was not one of those occasions

In a cab coming back from Brighton today, quite taken with the leafy, sun-dappled serenity of the surroundings, I quickly fetched a pen and pad from my backpack and wrote down the following: “your face belongs beside one of the more heinous masterworks of men…”

I Had a New York Boyfriend

Not me, but Julie Delphy, or at least she should have after her appalling display last night in Two Days in Paris. Adam Goldberg should have dumped her derriere in the Siene (I actually thought he might do this, why he didn’t we’ll never know, but I guess she is French, bohemian and the film's scriptwriter)

There was a lot of resistance going into this movie in the sense that I flatly had no desire to see it. But my girlfriend, plying me with local beer and shoestring French fries at Collins Quarter, persevered convincingly. Must say I’m a fan of Adam Goldberg, Delphy I find interesting, but still I’ve seen the lovely Linklater movies, so why would I bother with this?

I psyched myself up by using this movie as Julie and Adam’s chance to light up the screen and win me over as people, if they didn’t then they would not only come to be known as overrated actors but failures as human beings. So either way I would come away enlightened. Glad to report they succeeded. Still I’m not exactly sure what it is I like about Goldberg, okay I have a slight crush on him. But all those tattoos! They really run foul of his character.

Julie, I know would make a terrible Parisian girlfriend, she should have come from St Louie. However, she’s a seeker of truth in art and I admire that. The first part of the movie she wears Woody Allen’s glasses so there’s that too.

Feelings about fruit

I fucking love a good pear.

Year of The Hunter

TOP ALBUMS OF 2007

1. Deerhunter, Cryptograms
G-spot marksmen; tingly
2. Okkervil River, The Stage Names
It’s not a Greatest Hits compilation but it sure as hell sounds like one
3. Ween, La Cucaracha
My favourite since Chocolate and Cheese
4. Kes, Grey Goose Wing
Mad brilliance
5. Handhell, Phonography
Once bitten former Bites bite back at America, bar blues, f-f-fashion, et al
6. Bad Luck Charms, Rant & Drift
Again this Tassie band’s swan song sounds rather extraordinarily like a
Greatest Hits collection
7. Tranquilizers, Galaxy vs. Motion
Music to drive your rented convertible up the Pacific Coast Highway
to (which we did) and off the cliff (which luckily we didn’t)
8. Batrider, Pink Stars, Yellow Guitars
Great songs full of passion
8. Sir, The Brando Room
Real-life break-up led to this cool synthesis of Badlands, Bloodsport and
The Last Tango in Paris
9. New Estate, Is it real?
Perhaps not their best, but still totally essential
10. Actor/Model, My agent says
The slashies rule, okay?
11. Deerhoof, Friend Opportunity
Ravishing as venison; also creates nice bookend


TOP LIVE SHOWS

1. Deerhunter, Portland, Oregon, USA
Thought my back would disintegrate from monkeying around jig-wise
2. Aleks and the Ramps at E. Brunswick
Puts the arty back in party
3. Lighthouse Keepers at Wipplegong
Hell of a fine act at a party for a hell of a fine woman
4. David Kilgour and Panel of Judges at Cloud City
DK played Point that thing somewhere else. ‘Nuff said.
5. Jane Badler and Sir at Forum
Smooth music in classy venue, got given free wine
6. Applecore Festival
Just your average otherworldly Melbourne backyard rock and roll barbeque
7. Built to Spill at The Corner
Guitar pig mania especially the cover of Eno’s Third Uncle and an outtasite Carry that Zero that took me out of my mind
8. Vashti Bunyan & Guy Blackman at Prince of Wales
A tender bender of lovely music
9. Outward Obtooce, Coinflow $ debut at Evelyn
I've got a pumpkinhead full of books
10. Bob Scott, Batrider, Handhell at RobRoy
Probably the best Tuesday night of the year
11. Deerhoof at The Corner
Bill Harrison aka James Earthenware aka Cam Salad aka Steve Layout aka Red Engineer's favourite band. 'Nuff said.

Day 2: The Legend of Jojo Starfly, Meredith Music Festival

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.

Newlyweds under the arches


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 $











On the back of my red fleece, clockwise from far left: Stevie, Tammy, Gerry (or Gerald), Jojo, Terry, Paul and I forgot the other one. JoJo is a wheelchair bound fly who had his spine shot out at an Ice-T concert. This weekend is dedicated to Jo jo Starfly. All proceeds go to the Jo-Jo's Foundation




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.


Art Brut rocks. A quite civil mosh pit erupts with girls being hoisted by guys who didn't try to touch their bits. Thoughtful.













A serious moment



I believe the night ended shortly after this mad boogie to The Gossip

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.

Day 1: Get Involved! Meredith Music Festival

“Now that you’re Australian I think you’re supposed to call them sheep” — De Campo, questioning whether it was a llama I saw on the way to Meredith.

Friday, 1pm.
We pitch our tent in an even better spot than last year, snuggled amongst gum trees and on top of a bull ant farm who seem fine with it.



“How is this, I arrive at Meredith and I drink a f@#$ing apple juice?” De Campo (seen here drinking a beer) is not one-hundred percent. I compensate by knocking back six beers in quick succession.





“Shane you are so modest,” Suzie says because I chose to do my business down the hill while the girls went behind the first available tree. I confess to being a solitary man in respect to my business. I’m a very private person, I tell her.

There are few things Toby enjoys more than to inflate a neighbour's air mattress using the power of his car engine.

3pm.
Josh Town soldiers towards the food tents and orders a lamb wrap. The food here is generally excellent, but Josh Town has made a very poor choice. He chose the lamb wrap and it is very lame and considerably dry and it costs him $10 and he now feels hard done by the organisers of the festival. He goes to the info centre to complain, but the food doesn’t warrant a complaint because the organisers have bigger problems to deal with it. They dismiss him with a wave of the hand and he is standing there with bits of dry lamb on his mouth and it’s a sad moment in Joshy Town.

6pm.
The longhaired Melbournian Ned Collette is witnessed from a tree to the right of the stage and up close towards the end of his set for two of his more interesting numbers. One cut produces a tiny spark before bursting into a flaming guitar solo and the other jaunts along a country road with a smile before it too bursts into flames. "There's not many ideas here really," Josh Town says, but he just ate an unfulfilling lamb wrap, so what does he know. Sometime after midnight the Ned will be witnessed preparing to board the Ferris wheel all by himself clutching a solitary red rose and our will heart will go out to him, but in actual fact this story will be untrue, a made-up ruse between Alex and I who thought it would be a gas to spread a rumour about the Ned but when we told his girlfriend the following night, she didn’t think it was funny at all and perhaps it wasn’t.

8pm.
Another local act, The Galvatrons are sounding pretty good. They probably lean a little too hard on Eddie Van Halen's synthesiser, but are still pretty refreshing, at least from a distance. Up close you realise they are total clowns with annoying banter. We return to camp for some Frisbee action.

Josh returns separately and says he was standing by the toilets waiting for Matt when a wacky guy walks up and asked what he was doing, why he was just standing there. “I’m waiting for a friend, he’s using the toilet. I think he has diarrhea.”

“No man, c’mon it’s Meredith you got to get involved!” said the dude, and having established a new catchphrase, he disappeared into the night in rainbow coloured parachute pants.



11.30pm.
Eddy Current Suppression Ring are a feral, freak-show. I collapse in the moshpit and it’s like turning legless in a pigsty. The band are not at their best. I get the hell out of there.

Gimme that chip, I joke to an Indian chap boring into a revolting splatter of nacho chips, near the food tents after the show. “You got three seconds, he says, or you’re gonna wear it!” It’s funny to us, but the little guy is serious. I back off. We move on to the open air cinema to watch R. Crumb visually elucidate on the origins of asparagus.

Later on, Crystal Castles play and they are vague to me, yet good I dance to their music, the night-blue basslines, female vocals, a punchy spoken word and a shout. This is after a stiff nightcap at the Pink Flamingo bar and a Ferris ride.

I am told off numerous times for clearing my nose in an unspeakable fashion. In my defense, it’s an inevitable with the dust and all, Meredith a veritable pigsty at 3am.

Blitzen Trapper, Wild Mountain Nation

The Trappers are one of those groups that throw everything at the wall and most of it sticks in your mind and hardly none of it stinks! The name is cute until you realise these Portland hillbillies have trapped Rudolph’s best mate and it’s only you who can save them! By the third track (the Shins-aping Futures & Folly ) you forget about all that though. You might even give pause and reflect on how weird you felt when you wrote your Blitzen rescue plan, but rest assured everything is going to be alright. After some old-fashioned mountain pop honey, the group try their hand at power pop and it comes off like the nitwit stylings of the Dandy Warhols. They regain their cred towards the finish line, flexing Deerhoof art-rock muscle, lighting up the atonal guitar fireworks ala Pavement’s Wowee Zowee and chiming in with some sweet, pre-pubescent Alex Chilton ballads.

Lee Marvin made me do it

Half asleep in bed, I hear the faint rumblings of De Campo closing the front door. She comes into the bedroom. In her hands she holds a gigantic 1200ML sealed bottle of Bundaberg Rum that she found on the footpath in front of the house next to our recycling bin. She displays it proudly, label facing front.

“Lee Marvin.” I mutter. “Lee Marvin is behind this!”

(It's the morning of the first of three Lee Marvin nights that will take place over the next three Wednesdays at Cinemateque at the Australian Centre of the Moving Image (ACMI))

At breakfast Olivia mentions the Lee Marvin connection I brought up. I have no idea what she is talking about. “I never mentioned him,” I say. Yet on top of the cupboard, there it is, the mysterious bottle of rum.

After work, I order a burger deluxe from the joint in the courtyard at ACMI. Why I ordered this I do not know. The burger has two robust patties that the bun is unable to contain. It’s hot out here and the flies are buzzing around my head and trying to get into my food and I am making such a mess with this burger that I feel I need to take a shower immediately afterwards. I am 35 years old and lacking the metabolism (not to mention the good sense) to process such a beast and yet here I am eating this double-beef monstrosity. Why, I ask, why? Two words: Lee Marvin.

The Professionals, Dir. Richard Brooks (1966)

A hell of a fun movie with a hell of a cast: Lee Marvin, Burt Lancaster, Robert Ryan, Ralph Bellamy, Claudia Cardinale and Jack Palance. There’s horse-riding, dynamite, whiskey-guzzling, bodacious gunslinging babes, ample stunt-work, quality Mexican scenery, wicked salivating bandits and cool, badass dudes. What more do you want? Outstanding Hollywood product. The candied version of The Wild Bunch.

I stayed on for part of part two of the Marvin double, 'Hell in the Pacific', and was far less impressed with that, so I went home unencumbered by strange entity.

The Big Wedding

My speech at Toby and Suze's glorious wedding on Saturday (included below) was my third public speech ever. The first one, a short poem to my grandmother at her funeral in 1998, went down well. The second one, on my wedding day in 2000, didn't go down so well. Conspicuously lacking motor skills, I read half of it, before falling over, using the bride's veil to catch my fall. It ripped.

Toby Dutton came into my life at a time when I needed him most. Down on my luck at an unspeakable speakeasy I was crying out for some form of refreshment.

“I have a face that is a cross between two pounds of halibut and an explosion in an old clothes closet!” James Dutton was acting strange. I turned to him aghast. “It’s David Niven,” he said.

I had somehow managed to infiltrate an elite circle peopled by James and his sensible wife Miranda. The effort required vast reserves of raw power and as a result, I began to perspire freely. Beads of sweat leaped off my nose like excited little lemmings hurtling off the nose of a cliff. I imagined Tchaikovsky putting together a pretty nifty score based on this visual for a new episode of Disney’s Fantasia…but I digress.

Anyway, all this activity was making me a tad parched.

Prior to the Flaming Lips concert, James, once again as David Niven, addressed the circle, commanding their full attention. “I wonder why it is, that young men are always cautioned against bad girls. Anyone can handle a bad girl. It's the good girls men should be warned against.”

Rather peculiarly, Miranda erupted into sustained, uproarious laughter.

The Flaming Lips were now on stage doing whatever it was that they do, but I did not care. I gazed longingly at the bar. The path to it was populated by an impenetrable wall of ‘pardon the expression’ nimrods standing neck to neck. I recalled a history of people visiting the bar here and never returning. I did not like my chances. But, then…emerging from the shadows, a heroic apparition…not unlike a young Boris Karloff in a classic scene from 1919’s Omar the Tentmaker…emerging from his tent. “Shane, meet my brother Toby,” announced James. “He’s new here.”
“Nice to meet you Toby.”
“I would like to meet a good girl,” he said.
“Didn’t your brother warn you about those?”
“To hell with him and his delightful impersonations, I want a good girl, goddammit! Preferably one with my Mother’s name – Susan Mary.”
“Okay well first… I pointed up at the bar…would you kindly go up there and fetch me a refreshing, sparkling apple cider, they’re rather delicious. Besides you’re closer.” And technically he was, even though he was standing right behind me. Toby started on his way and instantly I regretted what I had just done. Throwing him to the wolves like that. We had only just met. What if he didn’t come back? Well he did go and obviously, he did come back and that’s just the kind of loyalty, generosity and self-sacrifice that Toby Dutton will bring to this great marriage! Though I did make him sound like a great big puppy there, and he is but he’s chiefly a saint.

I’ve worked real hard ever since to be the proverbial captain of Toby’s yacht, the Kenny Loggins to his Jim Messina maintaining smooth sailing, with or without Malibu Rum, best of friends to this exemplary dude, I sure don’t know what I’d do without him sometimes, he’s just the loveliest guy, adored by all, held in such high esteem, a multi-faceted artiste, sings a heck of a rock and roll. Toby Simon Charles. Here’s to you.

“It's the good girls men should be warned against,” David Niven said, as you might recall, via James Dutton. In this case, the golden life-force that is Susan Mary Luke.

Now Toby and Suze may have met at a bingo parlour, but Suzie chose not to yell “Bingo!” until their wedding night, which comes later when they are finally alone together.

Like Ballarat in the 1850s, Suzie has a heart full of gold. She is electric. I stand in awe as Suzie engages the most unlikely pub patrons, and in time they saunter off sloshed on her fresh perspectives, while Suzie buzzes rapt with the sheer joy of good conversation. Toby found her so engaging, they got engaged. I reckon she’s a cross between Susan Hayward, actress of determination, Suzie Quattro, tough spunk du jour, one of the Golden Girls and Mother Theresa.

Like the sun, people feed off Suzie’s amazing energy source. Sounds unpleasant, but it’s really quite extraordinary. She is valued as a rare thing in our lives, a necessity and an extravagance. Together they are a perfect pair.

Now I’ve hardly mentioned the art and music that Toby creates, it is much-loved and appreciated — so here’s to Toby and Suze creating beautiful music together.

1st December 2007