Sunday, February 17, 2008

Hubbeda Hubbeda

Hello Fans,

First of all I'd like to thank Dr Le Skip for his sterling work vis a vie this fancy shebang. My Stars!.
I remember when I first started out in this Music caper, we still had to carve set list out of bluestone.
If you wanted more fold back, you asked your girlfriend to move her table closer.
Back when amplifiers required a permit and flying goggles.
When you had to ask your Mum if you could empty the rest of the Milo into a tupperware container if you needed something to close mic the snare drum during your bagpipe solo.

Back when a young Herbert J Hardware was just a skinny young kid with nothing to lose exept his the keys to his hillman and his virginity (footage available at
When Len had just come back frome the now legendary "Never mind the Horlicks" tour, tired and phantomly pregnant for the third time.
Back when a young Vinnie Le Skip had just worked out if you plugged your Mr. Microphone into the toaster you could make the fridge sing "Fuck the Police" everytime someone went for a icypole.
My how times have changed.......

Yes, it has all changed.
Why, the other day I thought my neighbour was mowing away excess kittens, only to find the Australian music scene alive and well, with all these young hopefuls using their brand new DudeTools(Tm) software to play their enemas backwards.
Frankly, all I can say is I'm glad all of this "Learning to play an instrument" malarky has finally gone the way of other out-dated crap, like not videoing yourself rooting some slapper from the disco milk bar or going out speedless to collect the mail.

Yes, I'm all for this "getting to the point" style of music.
Lets face it, no matter how many Deep Floyd or Black Zappa albums you hoard in your mini van, you can only moan about your Wang Dang Doodle at various volumes for so long.
It's high time a bit of limelight was shone on these crazy teens who visionary perceptions about "My New Pants" and "No, You Shut up" are going to make all those tired, old, dead "Musical" fucksticks (cluttering up the so-called record stores) march back to their patchouli smelling graves where they bloody well belong.
Huzzah I say.

It's lovley now that instead of going to see some bunch of yowley bastards, shouting inflamitory rhetoric about freedom (an overrated topic if there ever was one) or cracking a "Joke" (a concept the smug French can keep to themselves, thank you very much) or, God Forbid, play music that couldn't immediatly be used to sell the new Corolla (Whats the point? We all drive. Music that doesn't move vehicles is hypocrital and frankly damaging to our industry).

I just feel lucky I've lived long enough to be able to download as much music as I like with the same ease I can order a load of scoria.
It's such a comfort not having to deal with all of this humanity cluttering up the joint.
So much nicer to be able to not really have to expend all that energy on caring what I listen to, a practice that was the bane of my younger years, inciting nothing but fripperous passions and some sort of misguided belief in a better world.
Yah boo sucks to that nonsense.

No more staying out with a bunch of naked characters dancing for pies at 6am.
No more driving up and down coastal towns to play for starry eyed hippettes, for whom spring had given a final teaty glow to their salty cleavage.
No more laughing like fools until you sank underneath your beer doona on some mate of a mate's couch, just as the Sun was coming up while the birds sang like feathered fuckwits.
No more dancing in a flithy arm pit, being getting splashed with the earnest sweat of the youthful damned.
No more clanging away at some cheap instrument in the misguided opinion you were having some sort of fun and being amazed when some ciggerette eating publican thrust $20 and a pot in your hand at the end of the night.

No. None of that foolishness. I'm very happy that I (and millions of others) can happily have some music when we want it, without having to leave the lounge room and risking getting dirt on my me.

I'll also be pleased when all of this "Band" nonsense finally goes the way of the Wooley Elephant.
I don't care who you are. I've been around and all of this "fun" just gets the kids hooked and detracts them from housing loans.
How are people going to live in quiet streets with this razzle dazzle racket keeping them awake?

Bring back Mr. Bjeke Peterson.
He had the right idea about people gathering to listen to this yee har music. Shooting is too good for 'em.
Surely we could open a salt mine somewhere and bulldoze these ne'er do wells into the ground. St.KIlda perhaps? I've head it's very respectable down there now.
Not like how it used to be.
Sometimes I shudder as how many nights I spent there feeling like I was doing something "cool".
Just makes me want reach for my new Ipod with built in Thermos. Ahhhhhh......lovley....nothing like breathy 20 somethings fingerpicking a song about cocoa to sooth the faint nigglings of rock from my teeth.

Once again my thanks to the whole team at "The Show with No Name".
Hopefully we can add to the non-threatening aspects of modern life with our easy listening play list and out carefully worded commentry on various dinner party faux pas!
It's been lovley!


Mick "MInd my comfortable pants!" Dog.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

man those early black zappa albums are the best. "Don't eat the yellow stairway to nanook" is a seminal inspiration for all mud encrusted shoe architects of any persuasion