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?

Part 56 - Sufjan Hangover (Take my wife, Take My kid)

On a hot Melbourne night, lots of people packed out Hamer Hall to bask in Sufjan Stevens’s angelic glory. The gig was pretty good. Sounded great - I enjoyed the visuals and just basked in Sufjan’s angelic glory. If believing in God made me like Sufjan (talented etc etc etc), I would be the first on my knees in front of Father Irish, or Pastor Protestant.

After the show finished, I walked down Swanston Street to find the nearest tram stop. The air smelt of Mary-Jane. I decided I wanted to listen to Sufjan and went through my highlights of Come Feel the Illinoise, Seven Swans and All the Delighted People. Highlights, hilarious. Sufjan tracks can last from between 2 minutes to 20.

Listening to the artist whose gig you just disappointedly walked out of ain’t the best of ideas. Much like checking your study notes after you think you did particularly bad on an exam, listening to the produced, meticulously crafted recording can ruin an already ordinary experience. You hear what they didn’t play, the little nuances live recordings forget about or gloss over.

(Of course, the live show can do things a studio album never can. It can make you fall (more) in love, it can make you passionate. It can exhaust you and thrill you and make you come over and over.)

Why mention this? I already said how good the show was? A third question to round it off?

His encore sucked. He came out and performed songs from Come Feel The Illinoise (see below). He played them after he said he wouldn’t be playing any old stuff. I respected that decision he made. Sure, I wanted so badly to hear, the solo from Sister, and to rock back and forth to the amazing Djohariah, but he said he wouldn’t be playing any old stuff.

But he did. He tacked them on. That’s how it felt. No visuals either, no lighting show, just music. Normally, this would be fucking awesome. But not that night. He confirmed his intention behind the encore in an interview on Pitchfork. Just to make so the audience wouldn’t feel ripped off.

That’s crap. An artist can play any song they like. Sure, you want to hear the stuff you know. I won’t deny that, I will never deny that. But don’t treat us like fucking morons. He played dispassionately, without passion. The encore was a bone he felt he had to throw. It lacked passion yo (threes, I love threes). The album versions of the encore tracks are so wonderful, so pretty. Dare I say it, they are beautiful. The live versions went through the motions with pretty girls and flouro sticky tape.

It’s hard writing this because I do love Sufjan so much. He can have my first baby girl. He can have her mum too. That’s how much I love Sufjan.

The tram ride home was fun. I love tram or train rides at night, especially if you have had a few or I get to hang with Mary-Jane. She’s great. The darkness, the music.

Encore: Concerning the UFO sighting near Highland, IL, John Wayne Gacy, Jr. and Chicago

Part 55 - Great Opening Lines

Woo hoo.

I am slightly obsessed with great opening lines. Tremendous opening lines. Grand statements, or subtle observations. The absurd, the incredible and sometimes, the fucking bizarre.The great opening film lies are obvious. Godfather Part 1 (“I believe in America...”), Manhattan (“Chapter One. He adored New York City. He idolized…”), Goodfellas (“I always wanted to be a gangster...”) and so on. The list is rather endless. Fight Club (“People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden.”).

In literature, my favourite opening lines include “Call me Ishmael” by Herman Melville in Moby Dick (even though I hated the book) and Salinger’s “If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like….” starts The Catcher In The Rye. I also love Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself” in Mrs. Dalloway and the opening line of the Prologue for The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer, “Whan that aprille, with hise shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.”

This list could also run forever. My favourite of all time is “I first met Dean Moriaty after my first wife and I split up” by Jack Kerouac (original publishing of On the Road, not re-released manuscript edition of 2006). I am not exaggerating, this line has held me in its intoxicating depth and scope since the very first time I read it.

It doesn’t work so well in music I think, the amazing opening line. Well, it does, but in a different way. If a film is a book and a book a film, then an album is a film is a book to a film is an album. You see?

Instead of opening lines, you have opening tracks.

I can’t be bothered giving you the ones you read in every rock magazine ever You know, Beatles, the Stones, Radiohead or SunnO))). Here are some not so obvious ones, and Guns N’ Roses.

From Sufjan Stevens (All the Delighted People) to the Wu-Tang Clan (Bring da Ruckus) to Cannonball Aderely (the fucking genius Autumn Leaves). Also love Welcome to the Jungle by Guns N’ Roses and Dragonaut by Sleep. Oh, and Prayer to God by Shellac is brilliant! These songs tell you what you are getting.

They say, Sit back little man/woman, and get ready for a ride. A brilliant opening track, can make or break an album in my book. Nico’s The Fairest of the Seaons! What a song! Slayer’s Angel of Death (Fuck yeah!).

All time favourite opening track is Neighborhood # 1 (Tunnels) by the Arcade Fire. Love it so much.

I think I can go deeper on this.

Maybe it’s due to a short attention span ( I blame the internet, and TV and schooling and the devil’s music) that I look for greatness in track Ones. In all honesty, if it hadn’t had been for Neighborhood # 1 (Tunnels) by the Arcade Fire, I may have never finished Funeral.

(Oh shit, maybe I actually DO take a great deal of stock in first impressions. Maybe first impressions mean a lot and everything!)

NO. I always thought I was better than that. Better than that.

Shallow.

My own words. My own argument and the conclusion is Shallow. Bested by my brilliant and supreme logic.

I’m shallow.

Shallow. Fuck.

If only “Shallow” was a cool Yiddish word for strangulation or “hey that girl with the glasses is really cute”. If only.

Crap Samples and Filtered R&B - Pink Friday my Nicki Minaj

I was really looking forward to this album. Having recently been re-bitten by the hip-hop bug (Kanye mixtapes, G.O.O.D downloads, KiD CuDi, Pharoahe Monch and Jean Grae), and I was hoping that Minaj’s album would continue that positive, ear-inspiring vibe.

It hasn’t. Pink Friday opens well, and then picks up a notch with Eminem ripping some wicked, very Slim Shady-esque rhymes and flow on Roman’s Revenge. The following Did It On’ em is also a very decent song before the album heads into the huge, vast and unmoving ocean of “run of the mill”. Tracks featuring Rhinna and Drake are awful, but not as awful as the ridiculous Check it Out featuring will.i.am. (They sample Video Killed the Radio Star on this, and it doesn’t work and sounds completely fucked).

Even Kanye’s steady hand on Blazin’ does little to improve the overall experience. Minaj’s raps on this track are more interesting, but the songs suffers from a pointless Simple Red sample which is just awkward.

At times, this album reminded me of early Missy Elliot albums, the one’s that were okay, before her and Timberland hit their creative peaks in 2002’s Under Construction (..”put my game down, flip it and reverse it”). Sure, Missy had time to develop her style etc blah blah blah, but the industry has changed since then (please refer to any previous articles you’ve read somewhere about My Space and mix tapes and being able to get your work out there even though you don’t have a label backing you blah blah blah).

Maybe my expectations were too high after hearing her OWN Kanye and Jay-Z on Monster. This is my fault really. But maybe she wanted to produce something that could be dubbed as mediocre? Because that’s what Minaj delivers. There are a few highs, but these are only highs because the lows are so low. Pink Friday actually finishes well, but by that stage I had stopped caring. In the end, this album is pussy. It’ safe. It is a safe, chart pleasing R&B album. But even worse than this, it is a boring chart pleasing R&B album.

Did you Have Fun Tonight Melbourne - Metallica 20/11/2010

“Did you have fun tonight Melbourne?”

Metallica, Rod Laver Arena (20/11/10)

As per Metallica tradition, Ecstasy of Gold by Ennio Morricone played through the loud speakers as Metallica ran onto the stage (flanked by their security guards) to a huge roar from the restless crowd (who participated in a seemingly never ending series of jovial Mexican waves not minutes before). Lasers, yes lasers lit up the opening track. There was a great energy buzzing around Rod Laver, and the band felt it too.

They sounded great, and really spot on. Sanitarium (Welcome Home) was the best received of the opening few songs. Track selection was surprisingly heavy from their 5^th studio album, Metallica, with the highlights being a killer version of Sad but True and of course the crowd favourite and brilliantly played, Enter Sandman (this was preceded by a passionate version of Nothing Else Matters)

More on track selections. There were quite of few tracks from Death Magnetic (a little to the crowd’s displeasure at some points, which is a shame because it’s a great album) played between the more obvious choices such as Master of Puppets, One and Ride the Lighting. My personal favourite was the bass heavy The Outlaw Torn, taken from the 1996’s Load, which I never intend to listen to for obvious reasons. Trujillo’s bass sounded ever so good during that song – which crescendo-ed into a very thrashy ending, differing from the original.

A little about the overall show. Metallica are professionals, first and foremost. They clearly put a huge amount of time and money into their stage show which included floating metal coffins (a la Death Magnetic cover), lights, lights and more lights. The stage was a large black rectangle, with 8 microphones placed at clear intervals (imagine the pockets in a pool table) so that Hetfield could sing to all of us. In fact, the entire band worked every corner and every space and every audience member, even Lars Ulrich’s drum kit sat atop of rotating platform so he could also get involved with the entire stadium. It was a treat to watch a band as huge as Metallic get everyone so involved with their fans. Hetfield claimed very early on that the band were in a very good mood that night and that was clearly evident in his performance and they way he worked the crowd.

A little more on tracks. They thrashed out a cover of Queen’s (yes, Queen!) Stone Cold Crazy for the encore, and of course, finished the show with anthem-esque Seek & Destroy.

It was truly a ridiculously fun spectacle. Hetfield apologised for smiling at one point – he was genuinely having a fucking ball. Even if you didn’t like thrash or metal, you would have enjoyed this show. It was actually refreshing. The guys on stage were so different to the ones you saw in the film Some Kind of Monster.

The houselights came on and all band members basically stood on stage for approximately 5 minutes and basked in the glory they had created. We were all thanked, again and again by each band member as they thew guitar pics into the stage and kicked black, Metallica beach balls back into the crowd.

A great night of good old fashioned heavy metal.

Props must also go to Metallica for bringing out Baroness with them. I would think this band is mostly unknown over here, and their sludgy approach to metal differs somewhat from Metallica’s. Good on Metallica for supporting smaller bands. Baroness were in Australia earlier this year with Isis, but suffered a little from a shit sounding P.A at the Corner Hotel (although Isis sounded amazing). Definitely check out Baroness if you can. Lamb of God also entertained the audience with their very loud set.

Notes

Restless audience, Mexican waves. Crowd eploeded when band finally appeared, but not in a bad way

“in a good mood” hetfield said. Opening track had lazers. Hetfleid said they played songs they don’t normally play.

Santituariam went off,

Crazy stuff, betrayal

Stage was awesome, mics everywhere like on a pool table, so whole crowd was worked and involed.

Hetfield in a great mood

Sad but true – opening bars so heavy, the bass solo was sic.

Only hardcore fans got into the Death Magnetic tracks.

“The outlaw tornw as amazing. Never heard the track before, and it really stood out from others. A slow, grindy metal track – not appreciated much by crowd. Band standing together, around lars. , like a jam session. Crescendoed in to a fast and frenetic finish.

The One. Which went off. Master followed up (everyone mouth the first solo, which sounded awesome)

Blond bitch

Enter sandman killed it. Absolutely went down like a treat

Encore

A cover of a queen track. James playing around with the crowd. Seek and destroy, as usual. After show, basked in the approval and praise of audience, bowing, waving and throwing out pics. They n

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The Ecstasy of Gold Play Video

(Ennio Morricone cover)

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That Was Just Your Life Play Video

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Cyanide Play Video

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Ride The Lightning Play Video

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Through The Never Play Video

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Welcome Home (Sanitarium) Play Video

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The God That Failed Play Video

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My Apocalypse Play Video

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Sad But True Play Video

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No Leaf Clover Play Video

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The Outlaw Torn Play Video

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One Play Video

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Master Of Puppets Play Video

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Dyers Eve Play Video

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Nothing Else Matters Play Video

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Enter Sandman Play Video

# Encore:

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Stone Cold Crazy Play Video

(Queen cover) (with snippet of Suicide & Redemption)

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Phantom Lord Play Video

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Seek & Destroy Play Video

Review: Kick Ass

I had not seen the trailer, now did I know anything at all about Matthew Vaughn’s latest flick. Needless to say, I enjoyed every single minute of it.

The film narrates the story of a young comic book fan who is sick of being weak and getting mugged and decides to make something of himself, to become a super hero. After a failed attempt, he tries again and becomes the hero: Kick Ass. Oh, then there is the sub plot of revenge seeking ex-cop and his killer 11 year old daughter who absolutely tear through, with exacting severity, the bad guys, one at a time.

Unlike the tale of most super heroes (even Batman), Kick-Ass’ predicament is closer to our realities (It reminds me of listening to Kanye West’s College Dropout, which reached such a large audience due to fact that most people could relate to him. He was not a gun toting, hip, gangster wannabe but a guy who dropped out of college and wanted to pursue a dream, and had to work so hard for it). What really got hooked me was the sad realisation you experience while watching this film. Kick Ass attempts to stop 3 men beating another senseless in one scene. After he receives a thorough arse kicking, one of the men ask him why he is protecting someone he doesn’t know.

He points to the store behind the men (you can see 5 or so people watching the violence and doing nothing about it. Some are filming it on their phones). He answers the man’s simple, logical question: I’m doing this because people are all to happy to let this happen to someone else, someone they don’t know.

(Maybe we are scared – we don’t want to intervene because we fear for our lives. Or maybe we are frozen on the spot, and don’t know what to do.)

I felt that there was a brilliant sadness and reality to this film. However, Vaughn manages to mix in, and rather superbly may I say, Tarantino-esque action (extreme, distorted violence). Each real moment, each heartfelt moment is countered with a bit of ultra-violence or jaw dropping action. This doesn’t take away from the film however. We are sitting there to be entertained, and that’s what happens.

The cast are all fantastic, and hilarious. A special hand goes to Chloe Moretz for being a tough, serious little actor. Some people have mentioned that it is awful to have such young girl saying some fairly serious swear words and killing people, but they need to grow up. It is art. Art pushes boundaries, and if that bothers you, then good.

There are worse things in the world then an 11 year old girl saying “cunt”.

Part 54 - Clash of the Titans

I had no expectations, so I had very little to be unhappy about during this film. Louis Leterrier’s film really couldn’t go wrong. The story was written before people wrote stories, and is so grand and complex, that even a superficial re-telling is adequate.

I experienced the 2D version of this and was thankful for it. A friend felt the 3D version was too chaotic, with things being bombarded at you all the time. As we have learned with Pixar’s Up and then James Cameron’s Avatar, 3D is a much better and richer experience if it’s not forced on you, not rammed down your throat. Surely the days of arrows and rocks hurtling at you are over.

But back to the film. The acting style employed was Over-the-Top, but it was fine. The film was fun and didn’t pretend to be too serious. Liam Neelson has demonstrated his complete and utter contempt for acting in a ridiculously flat, re-hashed performance. This was hilarious.

So, sure, it sucked, but for some cheaps laugh, okay special affects and popcorn, go see it. Or maybe just play God of War

Part 52 – Washington and Animals

It was warm night, an even before the band room at the Toff was full, the air was stuffy, and a little lethargic. Credit card, arm stamped, bar for beer.

Rat Vs. Possum. A terribly bad name. They opened with a (mostly) keyboard, drone/noise with drums intro to their first track. The build up was pretty good, and probably would have been a lot better if the sound techs had done a better job. After the indulgent 2 or 3 minutes, the track kicked in. It was fun. Really fun. Their songs sounded like Animal Collective/Octopus Project sounding, synth infused, poppy yet slightly inaccessible art-wank songs. Things heated up when the played a (more) melodic cover of My Disco’s You Came To Me Like A Cancer Lain Dormant Until It Blossomed Like A Rose, which I love.

The audience however, were not interested, and sat in a dormant like state until the very last song, when they decide to rise on their haunches in anticipation for the main act.

Washington emerged from the curtains with her band and very quickly leapt into her music. Her songs were mostly catchy, poppy and sweet, and were enjoyable. Most songs however were backed up my her band – their music was boring. It felt like they had to write in the ‘band music’ to add a more poppy, friendly feel to her music (possibly). It didn’t work. I am not critising the band, they were fine, but it didn’t work. It was dull and predictable.

The best part of her show was at the end of another guitar-boring song where she finished by slowly moving away from the microphone as she repeated the last line again and again and again. In this 20 seconds, we got to experience her wonderful vocal range without the encumbrance of a loud, boring band. I am not crapping on the members of the band either – the “band” music was just dull, boring and so predictable.

Washington did not have enough material for a whole show. So much of the second half’s songs were carbon copies of each other. Overall, her gig was disappointing. She seemed to be enjoying herself, which was nice, but the show was, at best, mostly dull.

The show changed at the half way point however. It seems that she doesn’t have enough good material to play a full gig. Most of the songs in the second half felt like fillers, and the band was not working in her favour.
Overall, Washington was disappointing.

Part 50 - Mike Patton looked me in the eyes

The opening was definitely unexpected. The band treated us to the favourite “uncle from Tasmania”, a philanderer of unimaginably bad jokes ripping through the bands or artists Faith No More clearly don’t like. They were testing us; see how long it would take for us to crack. It took about 7 minutes. After much jeering and booing, Faith No More emerged and played a song called Reunited.

Reunited! Fucking smart arses.

The pit exploded when the first notes of From Out of Nowhere burst through speakers and hit our expectant ears. A great throng of energy pulsed through us, and suddenly there were heads banging, bodies pushing and limps flaying everywhere.

The bass drove through us, pumping like a bass should but so often does not. At times, a funk bass line would emerge from a heavy rock song. Fucking crazy.

Be Aggressive was much more, yep, aggressive than I have ever thought it to be. The song slows in the middle, and then ruptures into a blazing solo, backed by the hard drumming. Sweat was flying everywhere: these Faith No More fans had gone nuts. I was going nuts. The tempo slowed right down for Evidence, which seemed to please the crowd and placate my sore knees. Last Cup of Sorrow, and then The Gentle Art of Making Enemies followed this, and we proudly roared “I’m ‘bout the best fuck you ever had!” Cuckoo for Caca went off wonderfully, and then we were treated to a fucking great rendition of Easy. I think at this point, I will stop listing every track played and describing in detail they way each track made me feel.

The set list was a wonderful surprise for me. There were some obvious choices, but then tracks like Be Aggressive, Cuckoo For Caca and Surprise! You’re Dead came out of nowhere. No pun intended. I thought they would stick to the singles and maybe jam a little. I did not expect the band to be enjoying the show so much. For Mike Patton to be enjoying the show so much. I was up close. He looked me in the eyes once, and it was amazing. If that man was not enjoying that particular performance, then he is a brilliant professional.

Epic came and went, and by this point I was in a cloudy haze of happiness. Pure happiness. And then Just A Man started. Arguably my second favourite track (I like the sentiment, the gospel aspect of it and the over whelming positiveness of that track). I lost my mind a little. In fact, I lost my mind. My brother and I exchanged glances of exhilarated astonishment. We turned to our choir leader, our Messiah and basked in his infinite wisdom. They left the stage, but returned to play two encores. This Guy’s In Love with You was dedicated to Burt Bachurach and they finished oh so appropriately with We Care a Lot. Thank you very much Faith No More.

I was very pleased to read the set list changed from show to show. Not massive changes, but it is always nice to know you got one particular track while another place at another time got another track and so on. Just a Man destroyed me, but This Guy’s in Love with You absolutely killed me. I don’t think I have managed to successfully recreate what an amazing two hours I had that night. If they had just gone through the standard routine, it would have been a great night, but they threw so much more at us. Faith No More threw in some Crowded House, they played Chariots of Fire. They took the piss out of themselves and out of the audience. The genuinely had a laugh, and we laughed right with them.

I emerged from the small mosh pit drench in sweat. Someone exclaimed that they had dry patch on their shirt. I laughed with him. I was thirsty and fucking sore and so tired, but I just saw one of my top 5 favourite bands and/or artists blow my fucking mind. I have still not come down from my high. It has been 5 days.

Part 48 - Raggamuffin and Lauryn Hill

There was heat but no sun. A Fugee but no Wyclef. Raggamuffin 2010 was a nice day in the park, but it cost a lot.

It was a shame, because there was a lovely feeling in the air. Was it the marijuana mixed with the cool breeze and occasionally spitters of rain? Or maybe the chilled out tunes that rolled gently up the hills, to be greeted by the dancing, the sitting, the shirtless and the cool?

Highlights. Sly & Robbie and Lauryn Hill aka L Boogie aka Miss Hill. Sly & Robbie played a fantastic one hour dub set. The beats bounced of the concrete and made your feet hop up and down, side to side. The horns flew mischievously over the guitar and bass, and the drummer (only 1!!!) was fantastic, sounding like a percussion guru and drummer all in one. I am not the biggest Sly and Robbie fan in the world. I didn’t recognise a single track (I first heard of them The Fugees’ 1996 album, The Score). But I know dub and we got some dub and some dub. I wished somebody has passed the joint over.

Lauryn was only for about 45 minutes. She didn’t sing Zion. She didn’t sing Do Woop (That thing). She didn’t bust out that amazing cover of Blame it on the Sun (Stevie Wonder) which was the last track on the single for the Fugees’ last single, No Women, No Cry. But she put on a show. Her band were incredibly tight, and the jam sessions were fun, crazy but controlled. She hopped about, threw out incredibly fast rhymes (I bet she can still battle) and lavished us with her beautiful voice. I did not expect to hear much Fugees’ work, and was VERY impressed by solo rendition of The Score’s How Many Mics. She sang the Delfonics classic Ready or Not before dropping the beat we all know. She gave so much in so little time.

But we all wanted more. Oh so much more, but “Miss Hill” did no encores. It was short but oh so sweet.

I have to admit, I had more fun at ReggaMuffin than I thought I would, but the festival is flawed. The ticket price is too high, that was too much free space. There should have been a shit load of people milling about, grooving and chillin’. The place wasn’t empty, but Melbourne likes reggae. We like dub. Market it better. Charge less. Don’t have Sean Kingston on the bill. And don’t fucking headline with fucking Shaggy.

Part 46 - Fantastic Mr. Fox

Wes Anderson’s wonderful adaptation of Roald Dahl’s wonderful novel is a rollicking fun film and should bring plenty of smiles and loud laughter to most viewers.

The story is very Dahlian: Fox steals food from evil, ugly farmers and then hosts big party for all the animals of the surrounding area. Anderson and co-writer Baumach use this base and add in a character here there, give it a post-modern edge and then chuck in heaps of British Invasion and folk french music. Anderson has a very specific film making style. Everything from his presentation to how his actor’s speak through the characters is charmingly Anderson-ian (Yes, I have made this up). The open sequence begins with a the Roald Dahl’s book held in front of the camera by an unseen animal. It is reminiscent of the opening sequence of the Royal Tenebaums and Rushmore.


The world Anderson creates is very set and defined. The attention to detail is magnificent, and makes repeated viewings more pleasurable than they normally should be (you always see pick up on new things, happening somewhere in the background). As usual, his actors produce a little something special, and their performances are all fantastic.

I should also add, an obvious point really, but Fantastic Mr. Fox is not a children’s film. Ignore the PG rating and non-film format. If this had been a regular, live action film, it would have been at least rated M for “adult content.’ Don’t take your young kids, their attentions will wain once the gloss of the ‘different’ animation wears off.

A must see film for “Anderson-ians’; they will love the unique and nerdy touches to a rather loved childhood novel.

Part 18 – Corrupted: El Mundo Frio

When it comes to doing things their own damn way, in their own damn time, it is hard to beat the Japanese.

Corrupted are yet another mind-bogglingly band from this little country. A dark, doom, sludge metal band. You think that would be enough. Extreme Metal is normally enough. But no, they feel the need to also sing in Spanish.

So, a Japanese doom band singing in Spanish. That’s enough, surely? Nope. 1 track. Just over 70 minutes long.

El Mundo Frio.

It’s more than a song, or an album. It’s an experience, a wonderful experience. It opens up with 10 minute introduction, a gentle build up. Guitars strumming, low, deep base. Some might say slow. But I say wonderfully gentle. You sink into a light, floaty space, and then the bass kicks in and the doom begins. Commences. Still relatively low key. You’re still floating, but the floaty space is now quite dark and a little choppy.

And then the vocals kick in. By this point, 25 minutes have passed, and you have lost total control. It’s all gone. The singer, whatever his name is, speaks, in his dark, heavy Japanese accent, reciting Spanish lyrics over the music.

After this, he starts to sing: guttural sounds, low, deep and fucking fantastic.

The song does all of this twice. TWICE. And that’s not enough. The first time I heard it, I thought I was in a trance.

A fucking great album.

Part 44 – Old Dogs

I was unfortunate enough to have to sit through this poorly directed, and poorly constructed film. Purchasing the ticket was embarrassing. But waiting at the front of the cinema with hordes of children, parents and old couples was almost too much to bear.

The film itself was terrible. Bad writing, bad acting (Robin Williams really out did himself – a caricature of an actor) and just a ridiculous sequence of events pasted together made it ludicrous film to watch. This was not even pop corn fodder – some scenes, particularly the camping scene, seemed tacked on. Terrible and loud.

A waste of time and money. I thoroughly recommend you tie up your ex-boyfriend of ex-girlfriend (assuming they broke your heart) and subject them to it.

Part 11 - The French Kissers (Les beaux gosses)

Not quiet a literal translation, but certainly one that works for this film, The French Kissers (Les beaux gosses) is Riad Sattouf first foray into the glistening world of cinema. A fun and seemingly honest take on French teenagers in modern, multi-ethnic France.

My poco amount of research into this film had located an interview with Sattouf in The Age. He came across as an ambitious writer (not fazed by any criticism of his literary work), but as a director, possibly thought he may not have had what it took to finish see project through. But he did, and a great job he did too.

Sattouf clearly adores his characters and the world he created for them. Sure, there are times when you laugh at them because of how they look, or the silly things they say, but this is part of their journey: looking awkward, feeling stupid and saying the wrong things all the time. One can see that a main priority of Sattouf’s was to depict ‘coming of age’ as closely, and awkwardly as he could. This is an average story about average people. The cast are all first timers and are rather exceptional, playing their roles superbly. The more senior characters are all rather delightfully portrayed, with Noemie Lvovsky as loving but playful mother stealing the show.

Stylistically, Sattouf seems to revel in his ‘first-timer’ status and has fun with the direction of the film. As can be seen with most modern films, we can see the affect of the music video generation, but there is an unique, playful freshness to his directorial style. The film itself employs, in my opinion, the successful ‘episodic’ style of story telling – it has no specific starting or ending, it is rather an episode in their characters’ lives. This style of story telling means the audience hits the ground running. There is no time wasted on building up the character in front of the audience: we learn about them as their adventures unfold. Good writing shows us, it doesn’t tell us.

Sattouf seems to approach the world of cinema much like the characters in his film; full of amazement and wonder, but with a strong sense of self. You will enjoy this film and laugh and cringe along with the characters. A great first effort and a wonderfully enjoyable film.