What I did tonight instead of going to see Beaches play live, part 3

I hate the taste of water.

I hate the stench of rehearsal.

I think we’ve already established that I did indeed go to see Beaches play live last week. But last night (‘tonight’, in today’s parlance) I didn’t see them play live because they weren’t playing live in Brisbane.

This remains a great song:

So this is what I did.

I was at Real Bad Music at an undisclosed location, but it was near a lot of car showrooms. There again, most everywhere in Brisbane is near a lot of car showrooms so that doesn’t really give a lot away. There would have been drapes over the windows, but there didn’t appear to be many windows. Several floorboards were street signs. Fairy lights served as house lighting. Clothes were heaped on the floor, not as padding or adornment but because people live there. Pride of place was given to a rack of Real Bad Music vinyl and cassette releases, all limited edition. The microphone was gaffa-taped to a door jamb, and the other mic dumped on a portable amp. Half the patrons were stoned. The half that weren’t were drunk. God, I hate the taste of water. It still felt like home. All I really needed was someone to cuddle on a sofa and I would’a been as happy as a fish slice in an anchovy jar. When I was 19 I lived in this squat in New Cross Gate (London), on a street that I later discovered was nicknamed ‘muggers’ corner’. We had no electricity, no running water, for firewood we’d nick the wooden pallets from our local supermarket and about two weeks after I ‘moved in’ some guy OD’d in the room next to me. Several female students spent the night in my bed, clothed. No funny business… no fucking, either. For further fuel I would throw piles of wank-stained old clothes on the fire. It was fucking freezing.

Here’s what I sang with Rachael and Marisa and co.

First set: “I was listening to Flipper on the car stereo” over a white sheet of violin noise and arpeggio fuzzed electric guitar. I interspersed the repetition with a few hurried snapshots from other times, other places – and then realised that the only groove that matters is the groove you lock into, so fled back into the repetition. By the set’s end, I was down on my knees.

Then this happened…

…which pleased me greatly.

Second set: “There’s a man round here and he knows your name/And he’s coming to stay real soon” over a sheet made white with gypsy violin noise and distorted electric guitar and surprisingly sensitive drums. I interspersed the repetition with a few blurred snapshots from other places, other times – and then realised that the only groove that counts is the groove that hurts, and so I tried to make it hurt by lapsing back into TV Personalities. By the set’s end I was down on my knees.

First sample lyric:

My name is Tony Abbott/I have a dirty little habit.
I like to wank to pictures of Pauline Hason in the bath.
I won’t get an erection/Till after the election.
So if anyone asks, “I’m just having a laugh”.

Then Black Matt Kennedy happened, which pleased everyone greatly.

Third set: “I went to the animal fair/The birds and the beasts were there/The big baboon…” (you know the rest) over a disgraceful haze of noise and thunder and atonal noise, made even worse by my fucking disgraceful and off-key vocals. No one clapped this one, and frankly I’d have chucked beer if I’d been a drinking man and present. I interspersed the repetition with even more repetition and a dead-end sensibility. By the set’s end I was out on my ass.

Second sample lyric:

I want to be hurt/By a girl in a leather skirt
I want my insides turned to jelly/With a quick punch to the belly
I want to be pinned against the wall/So I feel nothing at all

After which, this happened…

…which pleased me just fine. I would write more but I’m still hoping to fuck someone is going to review this show for CB ‘properly’ and bring some radiance to the room, whiskey to the party.

by Everett True

My name is Everett True. I am a music critic. This is what I do. I criticise music. The clue is in my job description – music critic. I do not consider myself a journalist, as I do not research or report hard news. I do not consider myself a commentator as I believe that everyone should be a participant. I criticise people and in return I am not surprised if other people criticise me. It is part of the whole deal of being in the public arena. I am Everett True. Believe in me and I have power like a God. Quit believing in me and I no longer exist.