I've just been stimulated by Dr. Le Skip's tremendous news that all you have to do in order to be famous in this country is to fall over at the tennis and show your undies (albeit 3000 times, if your undies are some electro pop ditty out on Kooyong Records) and the questionable closing of various venues about town,
Also let me make some musings on the whole idea of "Original music" (conditions apply- original is used here like one says "Original New Cornetto" , which makes it virtually the same as the Old Vanilla Drumstick which isn't too far from Ancient Ice Cream Scoops in a cone, which the Romans invented after they stole it from the Chinese.)
I put it to you (Mr, Speaker) that genuinely original music in original venues is still as frightening to the general populace as other such outlandish concepts like "getting along with brown people" or "putting on a condom".
If music were say, a form on combustion engine, Australia would still be standing around a pile of Redgum logs (or unsold albums) feeding then into the hotbox, until the pressure gauge allowed the single thumping cylinder of entertainment to drive some sort of hand carved flywheel, so we could all watch the wheels on the DJ go round and round.
I'm amazed that although the calendar, that was gleefully included in my last order of Cantonese take away, indicates that it's 2007 (although it is in Cantonese so it may by the Year of Half Past Grapefruit as I've been decoding important dates by cross referencing the symbols on electrical appliance warnings) that the following fundamental things still apply (as time goes by .....scooby doo...mellifluous croon etc) as if we were all still getting about on the Electric Trolley in Fedora hats.
1) Bands still exist.
Why? Really? Listen to some sort of listening device....every possible combination of guitar/drum/bass/keyboard/sousaphone has been done. No...this time I mean it....and that stuff about never drinking again..anyway...it's over. Finito. Done. The whole idea of getting anything you'd want to waste your limited goddamn time on Earth out of this wretched combo of strummable horror is up there with discovering alien life forms with four boobs and sexual organs that taste like caramel fudge.
It's over Goddammit. When you invent a fuckin time machine, go back and watch Dawn Fraser at Redding. But It's time to give this outdated crap the heave ho. (Thats not a rap reference either).
2) Bands Venues still exist
What? Huh? Why don't you just find a sympathetic Brazilian surgeon to turn your eyeballs around in your skull so you can look backwards forever? It would be a lot less loud and that way you'd be spared the scarring revelation that the only thing scary about Scary Spice these days is how much she looks like a heart broken, bisexual librarian.
Band venues, where a bunch a twitter-pated dingbats can parade around in tight trousers, while making Lion Nathan another billion dollars, getting unseemly pregnant amidst the Jager hurling chaos and chanting "Look at me! I'm part of a stupid idea in the first place!" really should be culled with the same emotionless duty that can only be matched with a Federal Cane Toad eradication virus.
Face it. The charming crocodiles of real expression are floating belly up our brains.
Close these filthy arm pits of poison and see if any body who isn't pilled out of their multiple skulls and who isn't stupid enough to descend into these crap holes, gives a flying fruit bat about your (conditions apply) music.
3) People still want to be in bands.
Come again? Really? Take your average band. Which is all of them really. Lets look at what actually goes on. First - Organise a group of organic photocopiers steal someone else's ideas under the guilt cleansing mantra that they stole it from someone else and that, in fact ,you can't steal from God, who invented it in the first place, in case he doesn't exist, in which case shut up and hand me my 67 Korean Telebucker that I bought on Ebay with the money Nan left me when she joined that cult in Port Moresby. (I'm sure we're all tired of hearing that old excuse).
Next- Lets pretend we are doing something useful and we matter. Okey dokey. I'm now going to write a song about how I had a girl, that met when she threw up on me, while my 15 yr. old cousin Ronaldo was trying to make a joint out of some leaf he stole from the neighbours stash mixed with pocket lint to make what He calls the Corduroy caboodle, (which as we all know is a scourge and a threat to clean pants everywhere. Not just your big cities. In the country as well.)
Now, with some sort of colored-in pencil case education in some disinterested state school, a masterpiece of modern literature will probably emerge (like a glistening ball of brain shit) like this-
Oooooh! My pants.
I wanna dance
Never agian (sic) ((fully sic))
I don't wanna
Are gunna eat that?
My head hurts.
Is there any beer left?
I hate you.
You hate me.
Hate hate hate...
Love love love
Mum said clean up your room
But I said I wanna rock.
(Oooooh and writhe nervously to chorus)
I hate being in love with you
I love being in hate with us
Being in love hate with someone
Was like sitting up the back of the bus (Cool!)
(Strum music thing wildly. Make face like you've swallowed your contact lenses. Look down at floor as if twiddling your digits for 45 minutes was more effort that completing the Paris to Dakar race on a flat tyred unicycle. Congratulate yourself on being a beam of social consciousness. See if there is anything left in the rider. Curse other band members.)
Now lets look at the outcome of such frippertronics.
Have cancer been cured? (No, but we made the bald kiddies smile. We are sonic pethadine)
Has the indignity suffered by elderly citizens been rectified? (Old? I'll never get old. I'll keep on Rockin! Where's my Ventolin?....)
Will anyone give a shit? (No. But why do you always need one during the second set?).
Will it take a small army of promoters, publicists, photographers, pregnant partners willing to go the celebrity scrape, Dutch fill in bassists, hack journo's, bald venue owners, star eyed she-mongoloids and cretinous drug fuelled punters to make anybody believe our cacophonic 120db clang fest is anything more than a bunch of deficient, deluded and desperate dickheads, having failed at every other pursuit that required the ability to walk and talk at the same time who are now joining the endless cue of bat brained deafmongers who huddle under the skirts of "Rawk", are IN FACT the new voice of a generation that is sick of talking about it anyway? (Short answer- Yes. Long answer- You betcha).
I'm glad that finally all of this nonsense is going the way of the Triple Necked Turkey.
Hopefully, something much more diverse and immediate will emerge. Maybe people will start playing music in Gardens, Hospitals, Schools, Bus shelters etc.
Maybe the chord will be thrown away. maybe people will start playing something odd, unpredictable and strangely refreshing.
Maybe punters will have to deal the same conflicting emotions that one gets when your new lover is giving you a reach around while poking ice up your arse and that will make then not only scream that the Emperor has no clothes, but his dress sense was always terrible.
Maybe new instruments with brave and exciting sounds in brave new exciting spaces will spring up and the notion of Twin Tower Rock God will be given a good old Taliban up the tailpipe.
Lets fuckn hope so. I'm bored shitless with all of this French polished turdige.
Til next time.
Mick (The Curmudgeon of Fudge) Dog.