Part 67: Post-WA Buzz

I always feel a buzz of excitement after watching a film I find particularly well written, or well thought out, or that has a central character that I can whole-heartedly relate too.

I love central characters I can whole-heartedly relate too. Perhaps this is selfish, I don’t know. I know that I don’t have the same love for cinema of my younger self. I was a pretentious yet gluttonous viewer. These days however, I fuss needlessly, and sometimes tirelessly over my viewer choices, and I am rarely disappointed. But then I don’t really learn about anything new. The reason for this is my appreciation palate as changed – my singular gaze as shifted and re-focused.

Woody Allen always makes me want to write. He always has, and always will. It is the same feeling I have when I lazily re-do Hemmingway or Salinger, which are the only two novelists I have allowed to sneak through my modern regiment of websites, music, TV series, music and podcasts.

What is the point of this post? The excitement of art and creation and more importantly, words. Words I can do. Of course this is a selfish appraisal, but I can. I like words. I like sentences. I like having some control of the art form. I am but a voyeur with music. With film or soccer. I seek, I download, I buy, I watch and hear and discuss. But that’s it.

But words. Well, we can all do words. We all have words. We do and think and dance and run and sweat and say and laugh and feel and tire and then translate it into words which piece together into paragraphs and then tumble into narratives. Words.

Hence this post. The Post-Woody Allen buzz. I want to use words. To express something, or, as you can well see, anything.

My Jigga/Ye Rant Rant - Watch the Throne

There is not real need to add any further words to the whole thing with Kanye and Jay-Z releasing their album at Best Buys or on itunes exclusively for 10 days.

Sure, you can argue that somebody who really wanted to buy the album would have had only two options, but what if you weren't able to get to a Best Buys, or your don't buy mp3s because you are interesting in owning actual things, and not just files stored on your computer. And what if you don't live in America? Who gives a fuck about those people?

What really pissed me off though, was that the bonus tracks on the Deluxe Edition are actually really good. 3 of the 4 deserve to be on the album. How the fuck did H.A.M not make the album? How in the world did the Pete Rock track not make the album? It is easily one of the best songs on the Deluxe Edition, and yet doesn't make the cut on the original.

And why release a Deluxe version on the same day as the original? Don't these things come out a bit later to help generate further sales? To make hardcore fans buy two copies?

How much money do these two guys need? I am unhappy about this, and Kanye must take some blame, even though in my eyes, he is often blameless. He agreed to it, by agreeing to make an album with Jay-Z. Agreed to fucking his fans over. But maybe I would fuck my fan over for a extra couple of million bucks.

Word.

Part 60- Something something something something

Discovering Lana Del Rey feels like a small revelation. I know most of you understand this feeling, but hearing something as interesting, and though provoking as Video Games, is just wonderful.

The small thrill of excitment, knowing you have heard or experienced something wonderful. I am always caught in two places upon hearing, or seeing something this wonderful. Do I share it, or hold it forever, as my own?

If I hold it, then it is mine forever. My personal Video Game. Lana del Rey singing to me and only me. But then I don't get to share it with anyone. I don't get to discuss it and share int he excitment, which is another one of my favourite things, realising you and a friend, or stranger, or brother or mother, share the same tinge of excitment, over a song, or something you have experienced.

Part 63 – Jurassic Park vs Doom/Sludge

I think I have bitten off more than I can chew here. Adding a sludge/doom layer to the brilliant, one hour, slowed down version of the Jurassic Park theme is going to prove much harder to do than first anticipated.

Do I get Abelton so I can slow down the songs? There is a funny thought, slowing down doom songs. Imagine a Sunn O))) track that goes for an hour? Not that far from reality.

Fuck. I want to include some Om, but Corrupted too. And of course Boris. I think I have bitten off more than I can chew.

Part 60 – Fixies, Ironic clothing and a Creator

I know I can talk something up. That is one of my skills. I can also talk something down. Rip it into little tiny pieces and then devour those pieces just so I can rip it again. Of course, I often think I am being critical and biting, while most people just think I am being foolish and bitter. I think it swings both ways. And sometimes on the same subject matter.

Example: think about my passionate hate for the ridiculous TV Show “Scrubs”. I fucking that show. What makes me laugh, is every 3 or 4 months, someone will look at me, and saying something similar to,

“Hey, Steve, you like Scrubs yeah?”

“NO!” And I always spit out the same, ranty 50 second diatribe detailing exactly what I hate about it. For those of you who have never heard it, Zac Braff cops a particularly hateful hiding.

Anyway, it wasn’t that long ago that I really loved that show. How I used to go on and on about how much I loved it and why it was so good. I used to feel better after watching each episode.

Swings both ways see.

On Friday evening, I saw Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All at the Prince of Wales in St. Kilda, my favourite venue in Melbourne. I love that place, for gigs. Never been there on a Saturday night. Anyway, I was very excited about the show. Ever since Marianne first showed me their live performance on The Jimmy Fallon Show, I have been intrigued by this group. So young, so passionate and angry. So defiant and rebellious. Check it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlGWRPnp0ok

Damn. Just watched it again, and I still go “Fuck yeah!” watching it. “It’s the WOLF GANG!”. So good. So over the top and incredible. So young too. And such smartarses.

I am no Odd Future afficiando. I like some of their stuff. I have heard their mixtape and listened to some of the solo stuff (namely Tyler’s Mixtape and album, Hodgy’s album and Left Face’s). I don’t know their stuff intimately; in fact, I am quiet far away from. Odd Future make me think how amazing it would have been to see The Wu-Tang Clan back in 1993, when they were young and free.

It was the show I was looking forward too. Hopefully we would get some chaos, some crazy, yelling, swearing, middle fingers, fuck you’s, and some crowd surfing.

And that’s what we got. But we got plenty of slurring, sloppy bullshit too. But that is what you get with Odd Future I guess.

I am not a person who the pigeon hole. I hate when people try and pigeon hole me. You are a Generation Y or X, artsy, anti-mainstream, non ironic atheist who listens to extreme metal and jazz because while some people like extreme metal, or jazz, so very few like both.

And sure, I make fun, or pigeon hole. I can take one look at a person, and reel off a sentence that I think sums them up. I think my one sentence says all there is and ever will be. As good as I obviously think I am, as confident I am that I am 100 percent correct, nothing actually pleases me more than to be proven wrong.

I know you’re thinking that it’s easy to say that in hindsight (I figured she was a stuck up bitch, when infact she was really friendly and I was the bitch…) but I like being proven wrong. I have a tendency to dismiss people I don’t like by referring to them as one dimensional caricatures. That ain’t much respect there. Tell me I’m wrong. Show me you’re better than that.

But then that lends itself to further pretences. Who the fuck do I think I am that people need to prove themselves to me? I hate when people say that. Oh, you’re actually pretty cool. I thought you were a dick when I met you, and ugly too. Thanks buddy. But you’re not a dick. Thanks.

Part 58 - Health Wars

It was Friday afternoon, and the stabbing pain I was feeling forced me to my sad, but inevitable conclusion. I was going to hospital.

Awesome. Great. Excellent.

My doctor checked me out before hand, and her gentle manner made the examination she had to perform far less...intrusive. We found nothing and I headed for the bug, white building.

I checked in at the local private hospital, hoping to take advantage of the thousands of dollars that had been poured into my private health care fund over the last 5 years. What a wonderfully deep pool to take advantage of! I thought. I kept thinking of the pile of gold coins that Scrooge McDuck used to swim in.

The nurses where incredibly helpful, and the waiting room could be described as peaceful. Boring in my book, but probably calming for some.

The emergency room doctor was rough. That’s the best way to put it. I have noticed that foreign doctors, who are used to “tougher” patients, don’t quite have the bed side etiquette that a locally trained doctors have.

I once saw a doctor from South Africa. He was black. He needed to remove some crap from my neck. He asked me if I wanted some painkillers, to numb the pain. He told me that in Australia (specifically Berwick); women would come in and ask him for (serious) painkillers for headaches. He thought it was ridiculous. He said in South Africa, people had a much higher tolerance for pain, and would undergo basic procedures without any pain-numb-ers. “Numb me up,” I said.

So, the rough emergency room doctor was rough, and made me sore. There was no need to shove that missile shaped object so forcibly.

The rough doctor had no idea what was going on, and suggested I be attached to an IV drip, and stay the night in the hospital. I was ready for this disappointing news. But, before I could be settled in, I was advised, somewhat reluctantly by the nurses, that my private health care did not cover this type of hospital stay and that I would be out of pocket $900 for the bed for just one night.

My health care covers some very specific things; including accidental injury, dentistry, as well appendix related emergency. However, what it did not cover was everything “other”. So anything not specifically mentioned was not covered.

I couldn’t help but laugh. That pool of gold coins, I guess, would remain un-swam-ed.

The private hospital experience was a very interesting one that can be best described in the following 3 points:

- So (so very very) quiet

- Clean. Sterile, sure, but like a house that has been cleaned too many times that day. Like a place where the soul has been vacuumed away, the ambiance scrubbed out of the walls.

- Long waits, large fees

So off to public care we went. Clayton. I wasn’t happy about that. Going back to the fucking ‘burbs.

The public hospital was familiar to me thanks to recent runs to Royal Melbourne. The hustle, the bustle. The noise. The sheer noise. It was alive. It was pumping. It was great.

I felt so much more comfortable there. Even in the waiting room, even after I was checked in and had to wait some more. I sat quietly, with my book, and read and read and read.

I stayed in hospital until approximately 4 in the morning. The doctor, who was gentler than his private counter-part, was not able to find an issue with me. I was rather downtrodden by this response. I had spent some 8 hours now, sitting in two hospitals, and nobody knew what was wrong with me.

“Go home, take some Panadol and Nurofen.”

The public hospital experience was a very interesting one that can be best described in the following 3 points:

- Busy. You can hear lives being saved, people being taken care of.

- Clean, sure, but alive with energy.

- Long waits, no fees

So, finally home, Panadol and funnily enough, the pain subsided rather quickly. It’s funny how the hardcore (not a reference to American Punk scene circa 1981 to 1986) painkillers had had no affect on this specific pain, but regular old Panadol did the job.

The public/private hospital experience had one thing in common. Every time someone in a uniform approached you, you had to explain everything to this new person again. You go to triage, and give that nurse your info. They write it down, into a computer. I am not sure if they are saving the info, or just practising their dictation skills.

The reason I say this is because when I see the next person, I have to explain it all to them again. Okay, you’re busy. Fair enough.

But then the doctor comes along, and I have to explain it to that nigga too. And every time, everyone is writing everything down. For what? For records? Records people don’t check. After all my hours sitting on my arse, waiting. After the “fuck you!” from the private hospital. After the “we don’t know what’s wrong with you,” it was the constant “So, what is wrong with you?” question that really got me down.

Got love the fact that a leftie like me preferred the public experience.

Rebirth Brass Band vs A Reserve

Rebirth Brass Band, from New Orleans, are coming to Australia.

It bin only recent dat I done realized da genius (the gza) dat be pumpin', like blak angel musiq, outta dat citee. Big Up to HBO and Treme y’all. Great fukin’ show.

Wat be pissin’ me off, is da price of dem tixs. 135 clams for A Rerserve? Wat da fuk is A Reserve? Soundz like buoolshiit ta me.

Soundz like dey don’t wan da peeps dat reallee lurv da musiq seein’ Rebirth tcha’ no? Seemz ta me dat dey is cateren for an expeeeensive krowd, and I don’t wanna soundz racists, or like sum fukin' commie red, but a rich white krowd.

“ A Reserve”? Shiiiiiit. Wat man on da streetz gonna pay dat? Dey got bills and kidz and shit to spend dey cash on. But sum dum arse promotion mufafuckas don’t give no fuks ‘bout da man on da streetz.

Dey wan dey cash money greedy fukin’ pig fukers. Dey wannna be exploiten Rebirth to, probs ain’t payin’ does niggaz shiit, and makin’ big arse fukin’ profits.

Now ‘old up one mufafukin’ momnt yo. I ain’t sayin dem rich white folk won’t enjoy da show, or dat dey ain’t go no passionz fer the Rebirth, but what chu wan is real peeps in dey, real mens who lurv havin’ fun and gonn-get a bit fukin’ ruckas and shit, yelling and screamin’ and feelin’ da band.

I lurv money. I wish I ‘ad mo. I wish Santa done say “Mo Mo Mo” radda den “Ho H0”. But he don’t. And o'course ANYONE goin’ to see Rebirth is gonna be fans, cos they ain’t exactly radio material out here, but wadda about da man on da street,s dat just be lurvin tunes but got billz and kidz and shit to pae?

Wat about muthafukin’ me?

And WAT DA FUK IS A RESERVE?