Monday, September 29, 2008
Man the interwebs! Gang the kank walk! Lenny's strapping on the virtual waders and preparing to assail the wide vistas of the webotron. We're polishing off the i-tuneophone for you children of the i-Cult so you can i-tune your devices in, but here's a quaint old mp3 player of this week's (meaning last) slices of the Show... as broadcast from the remains of Triple-B (now renamed in a friendly Christian community fashion as the Voice) from a loungeroom on Drummond Street, South Central...
And get your RSS podcasting code thingmy to put in your iPod here.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Firstly, Pig's Arse. They make the White Stripes look like Yngwie Malmsteen in complexity. Note that Ollie displays his skills in being able to knock back the entire pot of beer just in time for the lead break. Gold for Australia.
Secondly, irrepressible Adam Simmons. Only in Ballarat do you find one of Australia's greatest jazz musicians standing in a pub getting a room full of lagered-up rock and roll veterans to sing a drover's folk song they've never heard before...
Then, Earl Leonard. One man and a guitar knockin' it up while the band tastefully organise themselves behind him. Tasteful and elegant as the room gets slowly more liquored up on a quickly emptying bar fridge and the company who'd come to kick on...
Then, (after a beer, a snag, a chat) those delightful deliverers of the disturbed and droll drumbeats of dystopian doom, the beloved Brand X came on to give it a red-hot and kicked it well and truly in the guts...
It was grand. It was a kick-on. Below is a first taste of what it was like in the Stables on Grand Final night in B-town, when all of Ballarat's rock and roll survivors from the turbulent 90s gathered to kick on in honour of a true soldier of the Great Fight Against Boring...
Thankyou so much to everyone who organised it - first place getter Rockin' Ronnie - who got the bands togther (and off again) the whole day (while pausing to knock out a high voltage set with the 23rd of Elvis); Roddie Ramos, who made the stage look space-rock-a-go-go (and was nice enough to get up and beat the living bejesus into the Fat Thing's set), Suds McNulty who brewed a special slab of beer for the occasion, Big Beats Bad Boy Corey on the barbie and wryness, Shep "No Bullshit Bids" Huntley whipping the ker-lassic t-shirt auction into shape... and there was the bands.
The bands. We love you all. We forgive you, man of the broken lead on the Gibson for the Rye Catchers. That epic set-up time. That edgy drummer who kept nailing sweet little hardcore double bass/snare riffs. And then, the sonic horror. Those shallow Generation Whatevers know it in GuitarHero talk as the 'bit where the bottles start hitting you' - but here, in Ballarat, we love you for getting up and having a crack. It was rock, the crowd was loaded, and the night was magnificent. And I am so broken.
For now... A quiet Sunday arvo and some time with a cup of tea and a media encoder... Stay tuned for more... including these guys, featuring the man himself - Kan- ... er - Len, ripping the guts out and flaying them in sacrifice to the Gods of Rock themselves.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Brownlow night is a chance to step out of your everyday world into the make believe
Excitingly, this contest has been expanded to their wives and girlfriends, who realise there are a few brief years where they too can be famous for nothing more than getting their tits out at a paid-for pissup before years of slow decline, the inevitable slide from the social pages after their meal ticket does a knee/groin/shoulder, the lessened interest from Woman's Day in where they're getting their hair done, and then they find themselves as just another jaded, coked-out former glamour who gets glassed while waiting for the guy to turn up with the pills.
It's a grand tradition, only just begun.
Regardless - here in Ballarat there are other celebrations apart from the ones where massed groups of blokes stand around drinking bourbon, watching boxing on widescreen and asking where all the pussy is. We call it 'taking the piss'. It's been going on for years - and here you can listen to a couple of descriptions about the folk culture of B-Town. The Art. And the Footy Players. You may remember an incident with a rubber marital aid and Brendon Nissan-Fevola. Our dear Len has the insight to it - and MickDog has his own anecdote of what really happens inside Ballarat Football clubs at a pie night.
Meanwhile - news that someone was glassed at Black Hill has only further enhanced our basic political point that the kids are not being taught the proper amount of respect they should be showing in licensed venues. It used to be the tribal call of "You, me, carpark NOW"...
The Committee For Not Having Fun In Ballarat continues its deathless battle against creativity in this town (no, Roland, wiping your dick on the Southern Cross flag is not creative) - and my freakly newspaper the B-Town Times tells me the Sovereign Hill Music Festival has changed its lineup so ONLY tired, jaded hasbeens from Mushroom get work (hey Deb Conway! That's you!).
The Show With No Name - normally broadcasting live from a loungeroom hideout on Tuesday nights from 6 - is now pumpin' like the latest Crazy Frog ringtone in living mp3 colour. We're excited. Call the doctor.
There's a shiiteload more to come - due to popular demand the Equine Bong Art segment is currently being rolled in a herb and cheese crust for baking until perfection. Play your cards right and we might start posting the music as well... who could say?
Dirty Frank says "The Show With No Name puts a lump in my pants everytime I hear the sounds of dirty rock and roll and unshaven bums slapping on my radio."
And who are we to judge the man's taste?