Chuckled at the email asking me if I wanted to join a ‘Brisbane All-Stars’ ensemble to record a version of ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’ for Support Act. Only if they give me Bono’s line.
Heard the sad news that the Troubadour is to close its doors for the final time on 21 November. It’s long been a secret pleasure of mine, at odds with the street it exists within: the cosy, intimate surroundings – the sofas at the side, the lamp on the stage, the idle chatter of punters near the bar at the back. Seen some fine shows there: The Gin Club, Jeremy Jay, Blank Realm, Howe Gelb, Velociraptor, The Bats… performed there a few times myself. A venue as good as any, anywhere. Shame. Still, one window closes and another opens up. Welcome, the most excellent Woodland venue just round the corner! Top sound, top space, top people. Oh yeah.
Chuckled at the news about the web editor who, when contacted by a cookery writer furious that her work had been reprinted for free without being told, wrote back, “… the web is considered ‘public domain’ and you should be happy we just didn’t ‘lift’ your whole article and put someone else’s name on it! … If you took offence and are unhappy, I am sorry, but you as a professional should know that the article we used written by you was in very bad need of editing, and is much better now than was originally. Now it will work well for your portfolio. For that reason, I have a bit of a difficult time with your requests for monetary gain, albeit for such a fine (and very wealthy!) institution. We put some time into rewrites, you should compensate me! I never charge young writers for advice or rewriting poorly written pieces, and have many who write for me… ALWAYS for free!” I could make a tidy living indeed, taking that attitude – why, the untapped revenue within the Brisbane street press alone would see my sons through college. The entire massed forces of the Internet went straight to the offending magazine’s Facebook page to complain, thereby increasing their advertising yield (based on page impressions) threefold.
Took the top layer of skin off my mouth while making hot cross buns, eating caramelised sugar straight from the pan.
Performed with The Deadnotes (minus Eugene) at the inaugural Deadshits festival. We rocked. Three new songs written on Tuesday, and two new songs written on the night. Everything based around the one bass-line from Stuart, a little bit Pylon and a little bit ESG. (In my dreams.) We kept the first song going for over 10 minutes, and really it should have been going for over 20. Great sax from Sandra. Very No Wave. Folk would’ve danced if we had kept the groove going just a fraction longer. Swear it. Finally got to see the awesome Bitch Prefect: maudlin yet killer three-part harmonies and an acidic pop guitar sound that was brutal in its abrasive melody. Something very Formica Tops about it all. (Go on, I challenge you! Someone nail that reference.) And Cured Pink did his whole one-man Suicide rhythm=noise=invigoration routine: repulsion as a tool of entertainment. Thoroughly entertaining.
Bearing in mind the story about the cookery writer above, gave the editor of Brisbane punk zine The Negative Guest List 50c after I discovered he’d reproduced one of my Nirvana articles without 1) asking or 2) telling me. Figured I better get in early. Price of cultural cache, and everything.
Had a conversation with Isaac along the lines of: (me) I’ll kill you. “You can’t do that dad, I’d be really unhappy.” You wouldn’t be unhappy, you’d be dead. “I wouldn’t be able to ride on the train. I wouldn’t be able to wake up in the morning. I wouldn’t see colours. I wouldn’t see light. I wouldn’t grow up to be an engine driver. I wouldn’t walk home from school. I wouldn’t see mummy or Daniel. I’d be unhappy.” Isaac is five years old.
Noted that a whole bunch of Facebook ‘friends’ really ‘like’ PiL’s ‘Death Disco’. So, for them. Once more…